Darren suspected Gary was an addicted gambler and anticipated he would enter the casino. But Gary walked right past it. If not the casino, what could it be? Something even darker?

Darren saw Gary turn left and walk straight toward the all-you-can-eat buffet. He heard the cashier greet Gary: "Hello. You're right on time this week." Darren watched from behind a plant as the star scorer devoured plate after plate of food at alarming speed.

Weakness identified. Gary's Tuesday performance drops made perfect sense; he was addicted to the Monday night buffet. Back at the Foxes' headquarters, after hearing Darren's findings, the boss now had his secret plan: treat Gary to a buffet before the final.

On Monday night, thirty-six hours before the Wednesday Cup Final, Darren was sent to request another interview with Gary. After a brief moment, Darren bought Gary a disarming glass of wine at a quiet bar, softening his discipline. Then, Darren casually mentioned a special buffet at the Grand Horizon Hotel.

Gary hesitated. “Free buffet? Great… but Wednesday’s the Cup Final.”

“Relax, you'll win anyway,” Darren replied, feeding him a fake rumor that the Foxes’ best player was sick. “A buffet doesn’t mean you have to stuff yourself.”

Gary stood up so fast his chair nearly toppled. “We'll win anyway...Let’s go.”

What followed at the hotel was absolute carnage. As Gary attacked the food like a man possessed, Darren texted the Foxes’ coach: “It’s done. He’s eating like a man trying to win a buffet championship.” The coach replied: “Good, well done.”

On Wednesday, the day of the cup final, the Cats looked ready—all except Gary. He walked into the arena pale, glassy-eyed, and heavy-footed, his stomach waging a brutal rebellion. He blamed a bad night's sleep when Coach Santini asked why he looked off.

From the first possession, Gary was a shadow of himself. His explosiveness was gone, his footwork was sluggish, and he missed layups blindfolded, clutching his stomach after rebounds. The Foxes pounced relentlessly. By halftime, the Cats were down by twelve.

The second half was worse. Gary’s legs betrayed him, his vision blurred, and his passes sailed out of bounds. As cameras zoomed in on his pale face, unmistakably suffering from Monday night’s feast, the Foxes widened the lead. With two minutes left, the Cats were down by eighteen.

When the final buzzer sounded, Gary sat frozen on the bench. Coach Santini patted his shoulder. “Don't worry, Gary. We'll try again next year.” Gary could only nod.

The Foxes celebrated on the court as the Cats walked off in silence. Gary Smith, the league’s golden boy, had been defeated. He finally understood the truth: he hadn’t lost to the Foxes. He’d been defeated by himself, by forsaking self-control. (The end)