Chapter 3: The Billionaire's Gymnastics

The dread in Ellie's stomach was a cold, heavy stone. Threat Level: Extreme. The words from the Karma Engine’s pop-up window were burned into her retinas. She had poked a dragon. A multi-billion-dollar dragon in a Lamborghini.

Every sane instinct screamed at her to get back in The Comet and flee. She could be gone before he even appeared, leaving him to puzzle over the perfectly executed parking trap. He’d never know who did it. She’d be safe, anonymous, and could chalk the whole experience up to a stress-induced hallucination. It would be the smart thing to do. The logical thing.

But the smoldering ember of her earlier fury refused to be extinguished. The part of her that had accepted the mission, the part fueled by seven rejections and a lifetime of being overlooked, wouldn't let her go. She had set the stage. She had to stay for the performance.

Besides, he didn't know her. To him, she was just another face in the crowd, another cog in the machine of the city he practically owned. Hiding behind the concrete pillar, she was invisible. She clutched her phone, the photo she’d taken of her handiwork a small, glowing trophy of her defiance. She would watch, and then she would slip away.

Ten minutes later, he appeared.

He didn't just walk out of the mall; he commanded the space. Damien Blackwood was even more imposing in person than in the glossy magazine photos. He stood a full head taller than anyone around him, a monolith of tailored dark fabric and ruthless ambition. His stride was long and purposeful, his sharp, dark eyes sweeping over the parking lot as if appraising it for acquisition. People instinctively moved out of his path, a subtle parting of the waters before a force of nature.

He was talking on his phone, his voice a low, clipped murmur that carried an unmistakable edge of authority. “...No, liquidate the position. I don’t pay for sentiment, I pay for results. Handle it.” He ended the call, slipping the impossibly thin device into his pocket without breaking stride.

Then he saw it.

He stopped, his head tilting a fraction of a degree. It was the only outward sign of his surprise. He surveyed the scene: his multi-million dollar supercar, a pinnacle of Italian engineering, effectively neutered by a faded, dented Honda that looked like it had lost a fight with a lawnmower.

From her hiding spot, Ellie held her breath, her knuckles white as she gripped her phone.

Damien Blackwood’s face remained a cold, unreadable mask, but a muscle in his jaw twitched. That was all. No shouting, no cursing. Just a silent, controlled fury that was infinitely more terrifying. He approached the cars with the lethal grace of a shark circling its prey. He placed a hand on his driver's side door and pulled. It moved less than an inch before nudging against The Comet’s passenger door with a soft thump.

He let go, his gaze sweeping the area, those piercing eyes seeming to scan every car, every shadow. Ellie shrank further behind the pillar, her heart hammering against her ribs. He was looking for the culprit.

For a full minute, he just stood there, a statue of simmering rage. Ellie could almost see the calculations running behind his eyes. Call a tow truck? The humiliation of the delay and the inevitable spectacle was likely unacceptable. Try to brute-force the other car? The damage to his own vehicle would be an unthinkable offense.

His eyes landed on the passenger side door. It was his only way in.

Ellie had to physically bite her lip to keep from laughing out loud. The moment was even more glorious than she’d imagined.

Damien Blackwood, the titan of industry, the man who could buy and sell entire countries, loosened the button on his bespoke suit jacket. He placed one hand on the sleek roof of his car for balance. He then had to awkwardly bend, folding his towering 6'4" frame to peer into the passenger side window. He unlocked the door and swung it open.

The gymnastics began.

He had to swing one long, impeccably trousered leg over the high center console, a maneuver clearly not designed for a man of his stature wearing a suit that cost more than her rent for a year. For a moment, he was perched precariously, one foot in, one foot out, his perfect posture utterly destroyed. He grunted, a soft, guttural sound of pure frustration, as he finally managed to heave the rest of his body into the passenger seat.

The sight of Damien Blackwood, billionaire predator, crammed into the passenger side of his own Lamborghini, now having to clamber over the gearshift and into the driver’s seat, was the single most satisfying thing Ellie had ever witnessed. It was a masterpiece. A symphony of karmic justice.

The roar of the engine a moment later was pure, unrestrained anger. He was seething. She could see his hands gripping the steering wheel, his knuckles probably as white as hers.

This was her cue. She could leave now, her victory absolute.

But the audacious spark that started this whole mess flared into an inferno. Anonymity wasn't enough. He needed to see her. He needed to know that he hadn't been defeated by random chance, but by a person. A person he had wronged.

Adrenaline surged through her, washing away the last dregs of fear. She stepped out from behind the pillar.

With a confidence she absolutely did not feel, she sauntered towards her car, swinging her keys nonchalantly from her finger. She didn't look at him, not at first. She just approached The Comet as if she were returning from a completely normal shopping trip, completely oblivious to the fuming titan trapped inches away.

She could feel his eyes on her. It was like being targeted by a laser sight.

She reached her driver's side door and finally, slowly, turned her head to look at him through his windshield. Their eyes met. His were blazing with a cold, black fire. Hers were dancing with unconcealed mirth.

She gave him a smile. Not a small, apologetic one. A wide, bright, utterly infuriating smile, full of teeth.

Then, she raised her left hand.

She held it there for a beat, letting the gesture sink in. A single, elegantly extended middle finger. A salute to entitlement.

For a fraction of a second, Damien Blackwood’s mask of cold fury shattered, replaced by sheer, unadulterated shock. No one had ever, in his entire adult life, looked him in the eye and done that.

It was all the time she needed.

Ellie dropped her hand, hopped into The Comet, and turned the key. The engine coughed to life. She slammed it into reverse, backed out with a squeal of tires that was entirely for effect, and sped away without a single look back.

Her heart was trying to beat its way out of her chest, a wild drum of terror and exhilaration. She was laughing, a breathless, slightly hysterical sound that filled the small car.

Ping.

The blue screen flashed into existence in her peripheral vision, thankfully not obscuring the road.

[Mission Complete!] [Perpetrator has witnessed karmic retribution. Scales balanced.] [Rewards Granted: 100 Karma Points. Minor Boon Crate (Common) added to inventory.]

The notification glowed with cheerful finality. She had won. She had faced down the city’s most dangerous man and driven away with a smile and a middle finger.

But as she merged into traffic, the image of his shocked, furious face was seared into her memory. The Karma Engine had given her points, but she knew, with a certainty that chilled her to the bone, that she had also just earned herself a very, very powerful new enemy.