The children's hospital gleamed in the morning sun, its pristine walls a stark contrast to the run-down clinics of Ibeler's homeland. He stood before a sea of cameras, an oversized check in his hands, smile plastered on his face. To his left, Krauss beamed like a proud father. To his right, a young girl in a wheelchair, the poster child for the charity.
"Mr. Olowaili, how does it feel to give back?" a reporter called out.
Ibeler's grip on the check tightened imperceptibly. "It's an honor," he said, the lie bitter on his tongue. "Golf has given me so much. It's only right to share that blessing."
As the cameras flashed, Ibeler caught sight of a familiar face in the crowd. Sarah, disguised as a nurse, gave him a subtle nod. The game was afoot.
---
Hours earlier, in the pre-dawn darkness of the hotel room:
"Are you sure about this?" Sarah asked, her fingers flying over her laptop keyboard. "Once we start, there's no going back."
Ibeler nodded, his grandfather's amulet clutched tightly in his hand. "It's like reading a difficult green. Sometimes the safest path is through the hazards."
Sarah's screen flickered with financial records and company registrations. "Alright, I've initiated the audit request. It'll look like it's coming from the hospital's board of directors." Her eyes lit up. "And I've embedded a tracer in the request. If they try to delete it, we'll know exactly who accessed it and when."
Ibeler's eyebrows raised, impressed. "You never cease to amaze me, Sarah."
His phone buzzed. A text from an unknown number: "Smart move, wind boy. But remember, even the gentlest breeze can become a storm. Watch your step."
---
Back at the hospital, the ceremony concluded. As the crowd dispersed, Krauss approached Ibeler, clapping him on the shoulder. "Well done, my boy. You're a natural at this."
Ibeler forced a smile. "Thank you, sir. I'm just trying to do what's right."
Krauss's grip tightened, his smile never wavering. "Of course you are. Now, let's discuss your upcoming schedule. There's a pro-am event next week that would love to have our new champion."
As they walked, Ibeler's mind raced. Each step felt like sinking deeper into a sand trap. How long could he keep up this charade?
Suddenly, a commotion erupted nearby. A man in a janitor's uniform had knocked over a cart of medical supplies. As security rushed to intervene, Ibeler caught a glimpse of the man's face. It was Miguel.
Their eyes met for a brief moment. Miguel gave an almost imperceptible nod before being escorted away.
"Clumsy fool," Krauss muttered. "Now, about that pro-am..."
---
Later that afternoon, Ibeler found himself on the practice range of an exclusive country club. He stood before a particularly challenging shot: 180 yards to a narrow green, protected by bunkers on both sides and a water hazard in front.
As he addressed the ball, a memory surfaced. His grandfather's voice, soft yet clear: "Ibeler, when faced with a difficult shot, remember the way our ancestors navigated treacherous waters. They didn't fight the current; they used it. Find the path within the challenge."
Ibeler took a deep breath, feeling the subtle shift in the wind. He adjusted his stance slightly, visualizing the ball's trajectory. The club felt like an extension of his arms as he swung.
The ball soared, drawing slightly against the wind. For a heart-stopping moment, it seemed destined for the water. But at the last second, it caught the slope of the green, rolling to within feet of the pin.
"Impressive," a voice said behind him. "But can you pull off that shot when it really counts?"
Ibeler turned to find Ruiz, casually leaning on a golf cart. "What are you doing here?"
Ruiz shrugged. "Keeping an eye on my investment. You're making waves, wind boy. Dangerous ones."
Ibeler's grip on his club tightened. "I don't know what you're talking about."
"No?" Ruiz raised an eyebrow. "That little stunt with the audit request was clever. But did you really think they wouldn't notice?"
Ibeler's blood ran cold. "How did you—"
"I told you," Ruiz interrupted, his voice low. "I've been where you are. They own you now, just like they own me."
Before Ibeler could respond, his phone buzzed. A text from Sarah: "We have a problem. Meet me at the clubhouse. Now."
Ibeler looked up, but Ruiz was already walking away, whistling a carefree tune.
---
The clubhouse was a hive of activity, wealthy members mingling over cocktails. Ibeler found Sarah in a quiet corner, her face pale but her eyes blazing with determination.
"What's wrong?" he asked.
Sarah's hands were steady as she showed him her phone. "The audit request... they tried to delete it. But my tracer caught them." She swiped to another screen, showing a complex web of data. "I know exactly who accessed it and when. We've got them, Ibeler."
A flicker of hope ignited in Ibeler's chest, but it was quickly extinguished as he checked his own phone. "Sarah... look at this."
Where there should have been $1.5 million, his tournament winnings, there was now a big, fat zero.
"How..." he whispered, the room spinning around him.
"They're sending a message," Sarah said grimly. "Cross us, and we'll take everything."
The weight of his situation crashed down on Ibeler. He thought of his family's burned hut, the village school in desperate need of repairs, the medical clinic that would never be built. All his dreams, reduced to ashes.
In that moment, another memory surfaced. A Guna ceremony he'd witnessed as a child, where the village had faced a great crisis. The elders had gathered, not in panic, but in calm determination. "In the face of the storm," they had said, "we become the eye. Still, watchful, and unbreakable."
Ibeler straightened, a new resolve settling over him. "What do we do now?" he asked, his voice steady.
Sarah's eyes met his, recognizing the change in him. "We have the evidence. We can take this to the authorities."
"No," Ibeler said, his mind racing. "Not yet. We need more. We need to catch them in the act."
As he outlined his plan, Sarah's eyes widened. "That's insane. It's too risky."
Ibeler managed a grim smile. "In golf, the riskiest shots often have the biggest payoffs. And right now, we're playing for more than just a trophy."
Just then, Ibeler's phone buzzed again. Another text from the unknown number: "Time to pay your dues, champion. The pro-am awaits. Don't be late."
Ibeler looked at Sarah, his resolve hardening. "It's time to play the round of my life. And this time, the stakes are higher than any tournament."
As they left the clubhouse, neither noticed the figure watching from the shadows, a golf club twirling idly in his hands.
The game was far from over. And the next hole promised to be the most treacherous yet. But Ibeler was ready. Like the eye of the storm, he would remain calm, watchful, and unbreakable.