Chapter 2: Accusations and Threats Ignite

I snapped, "You think I’m joking about your mom? I’m telling you the truth. Your house is on fire and your mom’s on her way to the hospital. Why would I joke about that?"

My voice was sharp, cutting the silence. The desperation was obvious, panic leaking out. My hands shook, fists tight.

But he still insisted I was making fun of his family, just to get out of the bet.

He rolled his eyes, loud enough for everyone to hear. "Yeah, right, Mason. You’ll say anything to get out of buying dinner. Next time, just admit you lost. Don’t drag my family into it."

"Mason, what did you say? You’re talking about my mom now? You want to start something?"

His voice spiked, angry and raw. He lunged forward, fists balled. Fury blazed in his eyes. Two coworkers jumped up, grabbing his arms, holding him back before he could swing. The tension made my skin prickle, like a live wire.

He was ready to swing, but people jumped in to pull us apart.

The whole room tensed. People shifted, ready to jump in if things got ugly. It was like a bar fight about to break out, everyone else just hoping not to get caught in the middle.

Still, he kept shouting, cussing me out and dragging my family too.

He spat out the words, ugly and fast. "You think you’re funny? If you ever talk about my mom again, I swear—" He didn’t finish, but the threat was real. My patience snapped, anger flaring hot.

"Mason, if you can’t take losing, just say so. First you joke about my family, now you curse my mom? If you do it again, I’ll burn your whole family’s house down!"

His voice cracked with rage. The words were brutal, way over the line, but he was too wound up to care. The others gasped. Some looked at me in shock, some at him in disbelief. This was spiraling.

His words made me want to explode. I was trying to help, and he just threatened me.

My face burned. My hands shook. I wanted to shout, to let him know how wrong he was. The urge to lash out was almost overwhelming. I barely held it back.

I squared up, ready to swing, but people grabbed me too.

It was chaos—shouts, people grabbing us, holding us back. Suddenly, the room felt way too small. I could hear my own breath, ragged, and his, just as wild.

Just as it was about to blow up, Mr. Jacobs shouted, "Enough! Both of you, knock it off or I’m calling the cops!"

His voice cut through everything. That threat shut everyone up. The room went dead silent, just the hum of the HVAC left.

That shut us up, but we kept glaring. If we weren’t at work, we probably would’ve thrown punches.

My pulse pounded in my ears, adrenaline still buzzing. My coworker glared, breathing hard. We both knew it wasn’t over.

Mr. Jacobs saw we’d cooled off and marched over to my coworker, glaring—a silent warning: this is work, not your living room. Any more trouble and he’d call the cops, and he meant it.

He didn’t need words; his face said it all. My coworker slumped back, muttering. Everyone else stared at their notebooks, anywhere but at us.

Then he turned to me, looming over me, arms crossed, waiting.