“That’s the part you’re stuck on?” I ask after a moment, pushing off the wall again. “That he was ahead of you?”
“It matters,” Verr says, his voice tightening just slightly.
“Yeah,” I agree. “It does. But not the way you think.”
That pulls his attention back.
“How?”
“Because you’re treating it like the game’s over,” I say, stepping in front of him now, forcing him to look at me instead of through me. “Like he won, so that’s it.”
“And you don’t think he did?” he asks.
I shake my head.
“I think he thinks he did,” I say.
There’s a difference.
I watch it land, slow but steady, the idea catching somewhere behind the frustration.
“He’s still in control,” Verr says.
“Of the board,” I reply. “Not the outcome.”
“That’s the same thing.”
“No,” I say, sharper now, shaking my head once. “It’s not. It’s just the part he understands best.”
I step closer, dropping my voice again, not soft, just focused.
“He built a system where control equals victory,” I continue. “Where if everything moves the way he expects, he wins before anything even happens.”
“That’s exactly what just happened,” Verr says.
“Yeah,” I agree. “Because you played it his way.”
That one lands harder.
He goes still again, but this time it’s different—not empty, not broken. Tense. Engaged.
“I didn’t have a choice,” he says.
“You always have a choice,” I reply.
“That’s easy for you to say,” he snaps, a flash of something sharper cutting through for the first time.
“Is it?” I shoot back, stepping closer instead of backing off, meeting that edge head-on. “Because from where I’m standing, you had two options. Play his game, or change it.”
“And attacking him changes it?” he asks, the frustration back now, but grounded this time instead of drifting.
“No,” I say. “That’s still his game. You just played it badly.”
He exhales sharply, dragging a hand down his face.
“Then what would you have done?” he asks.
I don’t answer immediately.
