When we got back to the gym, I already knew two things.
First, George got what he went out on the terrace to get. Not air. Not a cigarette. Contact. He needed to remind us that he was in the game, that we were breathing the same air as him, even if we were sick.
Second, Victor doesn't do anything by accident. If his "best young partner" suddenly appears next to us at the very moment when we allow ourselves weakness — this is either a carefully calculated move, or he knows the nature of predators so well that they do not even need to give direct orders.
In both cases, it's bad.
The music grew louder. The dance floor filled up even more. The noise and laughter grew to the right level to hide conversations.
This is exactly what I've been waiting for.
"Back to the table," I said. - We pr
