Day 3: Kailani (The Student Union Bar)

The student union bar smells like old wood, cheap vodka, and failed exams.

You weren’t planning on ending your day here, but after hours of wandering the computer labs like a ghost with poor Wi-Fi and zero leads, you gave up. Not forever, you tell yourself, just long enough to drown your sorrows in something brown and burning; to stop thinking about rugby, challenge cards, and your increasingly bad odds.

You find a seat in the corner, somewhere low-key, and start to lose yourself in the hum of background jukebox music and bar banter.

And then you see her.

Kailani.

She’s leaning on the bar, glass in hand, shoulders tight, jaw locked. Her hair’s pulled back. Her stance says I dare you, even though no one’s stepping close enough to try. The bartender turns to grab a bottle, and that’s when she slams her glass down on the counter.

“Another!”

Her voice is clear, clipped, and pissed. She doesn’t look drunk; she looks dangerous. And for the first time since you drew her card, she doesn’t seem like a myth or a rumor—she just looks real. Powerful. Hurt. Angry.

You hesitate, afraid to approach someone who looks like a storm brewing and probably packs more lightning than a tornado.

And then you walk up anyway.

“Hey.”

She turns her head slowly, eyes narrowing like she’s trying to figure out whether you’re a mistake, a pickup line, or just annoying.

“Do I know you?”

She's not rude—just blunt, like she’s not in the mood to guess. You shake your head, holding up your hands in harmless surrender.

“Nope. I’ve just… seen you play. Rugby. I was surprised you weren’t at practice today.”

A second passes in a silent glare as the next track loads. She exhales hard through her nose and tosses back the rest of her drink.

“They kicked me off the team.”

The bartender sets another glass in front of her. She doesn’t touch it yet.

“What? Why?”

“Because I punched a bitch who spat on my teammate and pretended it was sweat. Ref didn’t see it, blind bastard. Coach said I needed to control myself.”

She rolls her eyes. “I said she needed better dental insurance.”

“I’m not suspended or expelled or anything. Just—off the team. Banned from contact. No games. No scrums. No hitting. Just… benched.”

She taps the new drink, but doesn’t pick it up. Her tone is all edge—like she’s forcing calm out of muscle memory.

You nod, slowly. For a moment, your mind isn't on trying to pick her up, but to console her. To have something you love so dearly yanked from under you, especially just because someone who should do better didn't see what actually happened.

“That really sucks. I’m sorry. Is there anything I can do?”

She finally cracks a smile. Just a little one. But it’s sharp.

“Not unless you wanna be my punching bag.”

That shuts you up. For a second.

And then something clicks in your mind. One of the cards you’ve been avoiding. The one that felt like the longest shot of them all.

BDSM. ×7.

You swallow. It didn't actually say you had to be the dominant one.

“I mean… maybe not a punching bag. But if you’re into, you know—kink—I’d be down for a little stress relief. A spanking, maybe. Or… something.”

She blinks. Not in disgust. In surprise. Her eyebrow raises as she studies you. Then she laughs—loud and sudden, drawing eyes from nearby tables.

“Are you serious?”

You nod, slowly. Part of you wishes the world would open up and swallow you. The rest? Hell, you can complete the challenge and maybe give her a bit of fun to get her past the shit she's going through. Two birds with one, admittedly potentially deadly, stone.

“Sober, though. I’d want you sober first. I’m not dumb enough to let someone with your arms go full throttle while buzzed.”

She grins now, leaning one elbow on the bar, eyes glinting.

“Please. I hold my liquor—usually by the ears.”

You **** on a laugh, then recover.

“Still. Safety first. Spines are hard to replace.”

Another pause. Her gaze lingers on you longer this time. Less guarded.

“Tomorrow afternoon then. Meet me at the boathouse by the lake. I’ve got a key. It’s quiet. Private. If you show up—I’ll assume you mean it.”

Another moment as she seems to be assessing just how much you are willing to go through.

“But don’t come if you’re going to flake, cry, or second-guess halfway through. I don’t do warm-ups.”

You nod again. You don’t even trust your mouth to work right now.

She downs her new drink, sets the glass on the bar, and steps away without waiting for a reply.

You’re left standing there, heart pounding, brain fried, replaying every word she just said and wondering what the hell you just agreed to.

Tomorrow.

Boathouse.

Dominated. By an apparent sadist.

You finally exhale—and feel your legs again.

What could possibly go wrong?