Chapter 113
Raven
Mrs. Johnson had barely started her lecture when I felt a tap on my shoulder.
"I can't help it," Miles whispered from behind me. "I need to talk to you about the apprentice thing."
I glanced at the board—Mrs. Johnson was drawing some timeline that looked like a drunk toddler's artwork. Riveting stuff. I flipped a page in my textbook without bothering to read it.
"Fine. Talk."
Miles leaned forward eagerly. "Okay, so—Tyler told me about the time you flipped a guy twice your size at SaveMart. Just—boom—and he was down. Is that true? Because that's insane."
My pen paused mid-doodle. "Tyler talks too much."
"And the underground racing thing!" Miles continued, undeterred. "He said you won against Velocity Kings driving your brother's car like it was a toy. That you didn't even break a sweat."
"Tyler exaggerates."
"And the thing at the training camp with the rifle—"
"Miles." I finally turned to face him. "Do you have a point, or are you just going to recite Tyler Anderson's greatest hits all morning?"
He leaned forward, voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "I just want to understand who I'm learning from. Tyler said you're basically untouchable. That people are terrified of you."
A laugh escaped before I could stop it. "Tyler said that? The same Tyler who's currently my number one target for elimination?"
Miles's expression shifted instantly—from awe to something resembling panic. "Wait, elimination? Like... permanently?"
"Metaphorically speaking." I paused. "Mostly."
The silence stretched for three seconds before Miles straightened in his seat, his face taking on an expression of solemn determination. "Well, then starting now, I'm officially cutting ties with Tyler Anderson."
I raised an eyebrow. "You're what?"
"Cutting ties. Done. Finished." He made a slashing gesture across his throat. "You should know, he was only ever a party acquaintance anyway. Someone to drink with when I'm bored. But I can't learn anything real from him—he's all surface, no substance. I need to learn from someone with actual skills." He paused, eyes gleaming. "I need a master."
Despite myself, I felt a flicker of amusement. This kid was either completely insane or dangerously naive. Possibly both.
"I haven't agreed to take you on as a student," I pointed out.
"But you will," Miles said with absolute confidence. "I know you will. I can feel it."
"Can you now."
"Yes." He nodded vigorously. "Because you see potential in me. I know you do."
I leaned back in my chair, studying him. His enthusiasm was almost painful to watch. "Miles, I don't waste my time teaching party tricks. That card game at Jake's house? That was amateur hour. Kindergarten level. I'm not interested in teaching you how to guess which card someone's holding."
His face fell slightly, but he rallied quickly. "Then what would you teach me? If I became your apprentice—hypothetically—what would the training look like?"
The question hung in the air between us. Around us, the classroom filled with the usual pre-class chaos—people texting, gossiping, cramming for tests they'd forgotten about. But in our little bubble, there was only Miles's eager face and my own calculating assessment.
"If—and this is a massive if—I decided to teach you something real," I said slowly, "we wouldn't be playing parlor games."
"Then what?" Miles was practically vibrating with anticipation.
A smile tugged at my lips. "I'd teach you card counting systems that casinos haven't even identified yet. Cold reading techniques that would let you read a poker player's tells before they know they have them. Mathematical probability calculations you can run in real-time without breaking a sweat." I paused, letting each word sink in. "I'd teach you how to manipulate not just the cards, but the entire psychology of the table. How to make people think they're winning right up until the moment they've lost everything."
Miles's mouth had fallen open slightly. "That's... that's actual professional gambling technique."
"That's the difference between a master and a party clown," I said coolly. "But it requires discipline. Control. And most importantly..." I leaned forward, my voice dropping. "The ability to risk everything without flinching."
"I can do that," Miles said immediately. "Whatever it takes. Just tell me—what do I need to do to prove I'm worthy?"
Before I could answer, the bell rang, sharp and final. Mrs. Johnson's voice cut through the classroom chatter, announcing the start of class. But Miles's eyes never left my face, waiting for my response with an intensity that was almost unsettling.
I stood, gathering my books with deliberate slowness. This kid—this overeager, wealthy, slightly ridiculous kid—actually thought he could handle my world. The thought was hilarious. But there was something about his persistence that made me want to test him. Just a little.
"You really want to prove yourself?" I asked, my voice casual.
"Yes." No hesitation. No doubt.
I looked at him—really looked at him. Expensive clothes, perfectly styled hair, the kind of confidence that came from never having truly struggled for anything. He had no idea what he was asking for. Which made this infinitely more entertaining.
"Come with me after class," I said finally. "There's something we need to discuss about the first requirement of becoming a gambler."
His face lit up like I'd just handed him winning lottery numbers. "Really? You're serious?"
"Dead serious." I turned toward the door, then glanced back. "But Miles? If you can't handle what I'm about to ask you to do, we're done before we start. Understood?"
He nodded frantically. "Understood. Whatever it takes."