"The Last Room"

"The Last Room"

by:

Virgilio F. De leon Jr.MD

By the time the emergency department quieted down, it was nearly two in the morning.

Not because there were fewer patients.

Only because there was finally enough space between the ambulances for everyone to breathe.

Dr. Kenji Aizawa leaned against the nurses' station, eyes closed for exactly four seconds before another resident handed him a chart.

"Last one."

He almost laughed.

"They always say that."

Seventeen hours.

Two cardiac arrests.

A child with appendicitis.

A construction worker with a shattered pelvis.

One elderly woman who had squeezed his hand after surviving surgery.

He hadn't eaten anything more substantial than convenience store bread since breakfast.

When he finally walked outside, Tokyo greeted him with humid summer air and streets that looked strangely peaceful.

As if none of the night's chaos had happened.

He checked the station timetable.

"...You've got to be kidding."

The last train had left twelve minutes ago.

Across town—

Umi Hoshino wanted nothing more than to erase every trace of makeup from her face.

Today's gravure shoot had begun before sunrise.

Three locations.

A swimsuit campaign.

An interview.

Two livestreams.

A magazine cover.

Smiling.

Laughing.

Looking energetic.

Looking glamorous.

Looking effortless.

By midnight, even lifting her camera bag felt like work.

Her manager had apologized at least ten times after the schedule overran.

"I'm so sorry, Umi..."

"It's fine."

"It isn't."

"It happens."

Now she stood in front of the empty station entrance.

The display blinked mercilessly.

Service Ended.

"...Ah."

She simply stared.

"...Right."

The last train.

Gone.

A taxi finally dropped both strangers in front of the same small business hotel.

The lobby was warm.

Comfortable.

Almost sleepy.

The elderly receptionist bowed repeatedly.

"I'm terribly sorry."

Kenji already knew what came next.

"We only have..."

The receptionist looked embarrassed.

"...one room remaining."

He sighed.

"That's fine."

Before the key appeared—

Another voice interrupted.

"...Excuse me."

Kenji turned.

A young woman wearing a baseball cap, oversized hoodie, sunglasses despite it being night, and carrying enough luggage for a small vacation.

The receptionist's smile became even more apologetic.

"I'm afraid..."

She looked between them.

"...there is only one room left."

Silence.

The receptionist swallowed.

"...One bed."

Five minutes later.

Both stood awkwardly in the elevator.

No one spoke.

Kenji looked exhausted enough to fall asleep standing.

Umi looked like she hadn't smiled sincerely in hours.

Finally—

She removed her sunglasses.

"...You won't recognize me, right?"

Kenji blinked.

"...Should I?"

She stared.

"..."

"..."

Then laughed.

It came out unexpectedly.

"...That's refreshing."

"I work too much to watch television."

"Oh."

Another pause.

"I'm Umi."

"Kenji."

"Nice to meet you."

Likewise.

The room really did only have one bed.

A queen-sized one.

Nothing fancy.

No sofa.

No spare futon.

Just enough floor space for luggage.

Kenji looked around.

"...I'll sleep on the floor."

Umi immediately shook her head.

"You'll wake up unable to move."

"I'm used to uncomfortable places."

"So am I."

Silence again.

Then—

"We're adults."

Kenji nodded.

"...True."

"We're both exhausted."

"...Very."

"I don't think either of us has enough energy to be awkward."

"...Probably not."

She smiled.

"...Let's just sleep."

Ten minutes later—

Both lay on opposite edges of the mattress.

Still fully clothed.

Blanket neatly divided.

A distance of nearly half the bed between them.

The room remained quiet.

Neither reached for their phones.

Neither had enough energy.

Eventually—

"...Doctor?"

Kenji opened one eye.

"...How did you know?"

"Your hospital ID is still around your neck."

"..."

He sighed.

"I forgot."

"You must be exhausted."

"...A little."

"You look worse than I do."

"I probably am."

She laughed softly.

"I've spent all day pretending to look beautiful."

"I've spent all day trying to keep people alive."

"..."

"..."

"I think your day wins."

"I don't know."

He looked at the ceiling.

"People think doctors are stronger than they are."

She answered quietly.

"People think idols are happier than they are."

The words settled naturally.

Without drama.

Without pity.

Just honesty.

"What do you actually do?" Kenji asked.

She hesitated.

"I'm a gravure model."

"Oh."

"...That's it?"

"I said I don't watch television."

She smiled.

"I suppose."

"My grandmother probably knows you."

"...Your grandmother?"

"She buys every magazine."

Umi burst into genuine laughter.

The first real laugh she'd had all week.

"You know..."

She stared at the ceiling.

"It's strange."

"What is?"

"I should be uncomfortable."

"Because I'm a stranger?"

"Yes."

"And?"

"I'm not."

Kenji considered that.

"...Neither am I."

"Why?"

"I think..."

He searched for the words.

"...we're both too tired to pretend."

She thought about that.

He was right.

No polished smiles.

No carefully chosen words.

No flirting.

No expectations.

Just two people whose jobs demanded so much from them that tonight there was simply nothing left except honesty.

"Do people thank you?" she asked.

"Sometimes."

"Does it help?"

"...Yes."

"You deserve more."

He looked at her.

"You too."

She blinked.

"For smiling when you don't feel like it."

She stared quietly into the darkness.

"...Nobody says that."

Outside, rain began falling softly against the window.

Tokyo became quieter still.

Somewhere around four in the morning—

Neither remembered drifting closer.

Not intentionally.

Simply because sleeping humans moved.

When Kenji briefly woke, he realized one thing.

Umi's shoulder rested lightly against his arm.

She was sound asleep.

For the first time all day—

She looked younger.

Peaceful.

No cameras.

No lights.

No makeup.

Just someone who had finally stopped performing.

He smiled faintly.

Adjusted the blanket over her shoulder so she wouldn't get cold.

Then closed his eyes again.

Morning sunlight slipped through the curtains.

Umi woke first.

She blinked.

Looked down.

Realized she was using Kenji's shoulder as a pillow.

"..."

She froze.

Slowly looked upward.

He was still asleep.

Hair messy.

Dark circles beneath his eyes.

One hand still loosely holding the edge of the blanket he'd apparently pulled over both of them during the night.

She smiled.

Not embarrassed.

Not alarmed.

Just... strangely comfortable.

For someone she had met only hours ago.

Almost as though they had unknowingly spent years carrying similar burdens.

When Kenji finally stirred awake, he noticed her looking out the window.

"Morning."

She turned with a sleepy smile.

"Morning, Doctor."

He stretched carefully.

"I hope I wasn't a terrible roommate."

She laughed.

"I was about to say the same thing."

For a brief moment, neither of them rushed to leave.

Outside, the city was already hurrying into another busy day.

Inside that modest hotel room, two exhausted strangers shared one last quiet cup of instant coffee before stepping back into their separate worlds—both carrying the unexpected comfort of a night where nothing remarkable had happened, except finding someone who understood the weight of simply being tired.

"The Secret Lair Slot Machine"

 "The Secret Lair Slot Machine"

by:

Virgilio F. De leon Jr.MD

I love Magic cards, and I love playing the game of Magic: The Gathering.

But Wizards of the Coast has been milking the players of this game for a very long time.

They pioneered the direct-to-player release of cards through Secret Lair. These were curated selections of reprints, alternate-art cards, or occasionally a mechanically unique card that could only be found in a particular drop. It was all the rage. People wanted the unique-looking cards, the exclusives, and the feeling that they were getting something special.

At least in the early days of Secret Lair, your biggest problem was simply getting one.

You had to queue for a chance to buy the product, and sometimes you didn't get it. But if you did manage to get one, at least you knew exactly what you were paying for and what you were getting.

Well, except for the occasional bonus card that changed from drop to drop.

That was Secret Lair.

It has been that way for years.

But apparently, Wizards of the Coast no longer wants you to gamble only with Play Boosters and Collector Boosters.

Now it wants you to gamble with Secret Lair as well.

Enter Secret Lair x MSCHF: The Zeta Set.

For the first time, Wizards isn't simply selling you a collection of Secret Lair cards.

It's selling you booster packs of Secret Lair cards.

Think about that for a moment.

The whole appeal of Secret Lair was that you knew what you were buying. You saw the cards. You knew the treatment. You knew what you were paying for.

Now we're taking that concept and putting it into a booster pack.

To be clear, these cards are inspired by the original Magic playtest cards. They are not the original playtest cards themselves.

Instead, we're being given a carefully constructed nostalgia package based on the materials, fonts, and general aesthetic supposedly associated with the playtest era of Magic back in 1992.

And honestly?

Such nostalgia baiting. Such bullshit.

Most players would never know what those original playtest cards actually looked like.

Most would never know what materials were used to make them, what fonts were used, or what happened to those cards afterward.

Many of them may not even exist anymore.

But that doesn't matter.

Because Wizards has figured out that it doesn't have to sell you the history.

It just has to sell you the idea of the history.

And targeting some of Magic's oldest players with a product built around that nostalgia feels particularly cynical.

These are the players who remember when Magic was new. The players who remember the game's early years. The players who have been around long enough to recognize the references.

And now that nostalgia is being packaged into a product where you don't even know exactly what you're going to get.

That is where this starts feeling less like Secret Lair and more like a slot machine.

And perhaps that's exactly what this is:

An experiment.

Wizards has increasingly been experimenting with how much the Magic collector base is willing to tolerate—and, more importantly, how much it is willing to pay for.

If people buy this, if people enjoy opening these Secret Lair booster packs, and if the product generates enough money, then Wizards has learned something.

It has learned that players will accept randomness in a product that was originally built around certainty.

And once that door is open, where does it stop?

Secret Lair Boosters.

Secret Lair Mystery Packs.

Secret Lair Collections where you have no idea which cards you're actually buying.

Suddenly, the thing that used to be a guaranteed purchase becomes another opportunity to roll the dice.

And of course, the house always wins.

Mark my words: if this works, I wouldn't be surprised if Wizards eventually finds a way to use the same model for products that never sold particularly well.

Those Secret Lairs sitting in warehouses?

Those cards that didn't move?

That "Wildcard" they are advertising as potentially being of any rarity?

Well, what do you think the odds are that you're going to open something amazing?

Maybe I'm being cynical.

But we've played this game before.

The wildcard could be something nobody wanted in the first place.

Or, in the case of a re-release, it could be something that already sucked—

and now sucks twice.

That's the part that bothers me most.

Not that Wizards wants to make money.

Of course they do. Magic is a business, and nobody expects Wizards to give away cards out of the goodness of its heart.

What bothers me is the constant search for another way to monetize the people who already love the game.

We buy the cards.

We buy the sets.

We buy the boosters.

We buy the Collector Boosters.

We buy the Secret Lairs.

And now we're apparently being asked to gamble on the Secret Lairs themselves.

Maybe the Zeta Set will be a huge success.

Maybe players will love it.

Maybe I'm completely wrong about where this is going.

But if this experiment succeeds, I fear it won't remain an experiment for very long.

And that is what makes this such a sad turn of events for a game that I genuinely love.

Magic has always had randomness built into it.

I just never thought the randomness would eventually extend to whether the product I'm buying is worth buying in the first place.

"Credentials, Google, and Yakult: Three Things Difficult Patients Have Taught Me."

 "Credentials, Google, and Yakult: Three Things Difficult Patients Have Taught Me."

by:

Virgilio F. De leon Jr.MD

Over the years, dealing with difficult patients has taught me many things. Some of them are about medicine. Others are about human nature.

But if I had to narrow it down, there are three lessons that come up again and again.

1. They will try to intimidate you.

“By the way, I’m a manager…”

“Meron akong nurse na kamag-anak sa States.”

“Kilala ko si Doctor So-and-So…”

“Alam mo ba ginagawa mo, Doc?”

“Hindi naman ’yan ang sabi ng endocrinologist ko.”

The funny thing is that, in many of these situations, the intimidation comes after they have already been caught in a lie.

You point out the discrepancy. You show them the evidence. You explain what actually happened.

And then, almost immediately, comes the next attempt at establishing authority.

“By the way, I’m a manager.”

“I have a relative who’s a nurse in the States.”

“I know Doctor So-and-So.”

Apparently, when the facts stop working, credentials—real, exaggerated, or completely irrelevant—must take over.

Funny indeed.

2. They know absolutely nothing, yet demand to school you on something you have literally spent your life studying.

“Doc, sabi ni ChatGPT…”

“Ang galing nung doctor sa TikTok, sabi niya…”

“Cancer daw ito, sabi ni Google, Doc.”

“Alam mo, Doc, depressed ako.”

The internet has done many wonderful things for medicine.

It has also convinced a remarkable number of people that reading three search results is equivalent to medical training.

There is nothing wrong with patients asking questions. In fact, I encourage it. Patients should understand their conditions and participate in decisions about their own health.

But there is a difference between asking questions and insisting that a TikTok video, a Google search, or an AI chatbot has somehow invalidated years of medical education and clinical experience.

Most of the time, I simply let people wallow in their own ignorance.

It is funnier that way.

3. They suffer the consequences of their actions—and then complain about them.

This one is perhaps the most frustrating.

“Hindi ko tinapos yung gamot, Doc. Masakit ulit umihi. Bumalik ba yung UTI ko, Doc?”

“Okay naman na BP ko eh, kaya tinigil ko na.”

“Mahal yung gamot, Doc. Tumira na lang ako ng Yakult.”

You explain why they need to finish the treatment.

You explain why maintenance medication is called maintenance.

You explain that feeling better does not necessarily mean that the underlying problem has disappeared.

And then they stop the medication anyway.

When the problem returns, they come back and ask why.

Medicine is sometimes like that. There are consequences to decisions, and unfortunately, the human body does not always care whether those decisions were made because someone was stubborn, misinformed, or simply trying to save money.

What makes it particularly difficult for doctors is that we are often expected to fix the consequences while simultaneously being blamed for them.

And that brings me to the uncomfortable part.

These interactions are not the reason doctors become doctors. We enter the profession because we want to help people.

But after years of dealing with intimidation, misinformation, self-diagnosis, noncompliance, and patients demanding that you undo the consequences of decisions they knowingly made, the frustration accumulates.

One difficult patient is manageable.

Another one is manageable.

And another.

But eventually, you begin to wonder why you are fighting so hard to help people who seem determined to fight you every step of the way.

And this is why more and more doctors are becoming tired of the profession.

Not because we stopped caring about patients.

Sometimes, it is because caring for patients has become the easiest part of the job.

"Garruk, Veiled Butcher: Free From the Curse, Trapped in a Bad Card"

 

"Garruk, Veiled Butcher: Free From the Curse, Trapped in a Bad Card"

by:

Virgilio F. De Leon Jr., MD

Garruk, Veiled Butcher will appear in Reality Fracture, and this seems to be the version of Garruk still suffering under the curse of the Chain Veil.

There is a lot going on with his abilities, and at first glance, he looks like he could find a home in quite a few decks. Mostly, though, those decks will probably be the ones that enjoy death, sacrifice, and making people discard cards.

So, you know.

Very Garruk.

Very... Black.

At five mana, Garruk, Veiled Butcher has a static ability that, at the very least, makes him feel like a more expensive Grave Pact or perhaps a better version of Dictate of Erebos. The difference is that his ability cares about your opponents' creatures dying, rather than just your own creatures being sacrificed.

And when those creatures die?

They get exiled.

Goodbye, combo piece.

Goodbye, important creature.

Goodbye, whatever annoying thing your opponent was planning to bring back from the graveyard.

Exiled for good. At least until the next game.

That part, I actually like.

Garruk's +2 ability also reflects the corruption that has affected him. It weakens creatures, and can eventually kill those with only one toughness. A mana dork, perhaps? A small token innocently standing around and minding its own business?

Garruk does not care.

It dies.

It gets exiled.

Simple.

His -2 ability is where things start becoming less impressive. Each player sacrifices a creature of their choice. If you sacrifice a creature this way, you create a 4/4 green Beast creature token with trample.

This feels like a weaker Innocent Blood to me because you're giving your opponents the choice of what they sacrifice. Naturally, they are going to wave goodbye to Mr. 1/1 Token rather than sacrifice their commander or best creature.

Meanwhile, the bonus 4/4 Beast on your side is dependent on you sacrificing a creature as well.

All this talk of sacrifice.

So much negativity.

So Black.

And then we get to his final ability: -3.

See?

More negativity.

Apparently, Liliana's influence on Garruk has become so strong that he can now force all your opponents to discard two cards. Maybe he intimidates them out of their minds. Maybe he smells terrible and simply makes everyone angry. Who knows?

But wait, there's more.

For each opponent who doesn't discard two nonland cards, you draw a card. So, potentially, you could draw up to three cards in a four-player Commander game.

The problem is that it all depends on what your opponents choose to discard.

And that seems to be the issue I have with Garruk, Veiled Butcher.

There are just too many loopholes and too many conditions before you really get to enjoy what he is supposed to do. He feels like a watered-down version of a card concept Wizards may have been working toward for some time, but somehow ended up with a planeswalker that asks you to jump through several hoops before rewarding you with anything worthwhile.

For five mana, I would honestly rather cast the original Liliana Vess.

Sorry, Garruk.

I'm glad you eventually escaped that curse.

Because this version of you?

This version sucks.

"Doctors Laugh Because Sometimes That's All We Can Do"

 "Doctors Laugh Because Sometimes That's All We Can Do"

by:

Virgilio F. De Leon Jr., MD

After facing some serious family troubles recently, I found myself cracking a joke and laughing.

My wife looked at me and asked, “How can you laugh at a time like this?”

My answer was simple.

“I’m a doctor.”

Our humor can be dark. It has to be. The things we encounter don't always allow us the luxury of being intimidated by fear, uncertainty, or even the gravity of what is happening around us.

We often face death. We also meet people who have survived it, but now have to live with the consequences of what happened or the choices they made. We learn to take these things in stride because, sometimes, if you can't laugh at the absurdity of it all, you might just lose your mind.

Doctors are built differently. Or perhaps more accurately, we are trained differently.

When faced with overwhelming odds, we learn to compartmentalize. We push aside the things that don't need our attention right now and focus on the things we can—and need to—do.

We put our worries into little boxes and shove those boxes somewhere deep inside ourselves.

We'll deal with them later.

Sometimes, there simply isn't a later.

In some fields of medicine, there is no time to grieve. There is no time to process what you have just witnessed or even what is still happening right in front of you. You go into automatic mode.

Diagnose.

Repair.

Anticipate.

Think three or four steps ahead, preparing for consequences that may or may not ever happen.

You keep moving because someone needs you to keep moving.

And so doctors still smile.

We still laugh.

Sometimes because the situation is genuinely funny. Sometimes because the absurdity of it all is overwhelming. And sometimes because laughter is simply the only thing you have left to give yourself in a terrible situation.

You take a breath.

You look at the life you have chosen.

And you laugh.

Not because you don't care.

Not because you don't understand the seriousness of what is happening.

But because sometimes the joke is hidden somewhere in the choices we made, the situations we find ourselves in, and the strange road that brought us here.

And sometimes, after everything we've seen, all you can really do is laugh...

take another breath...

and get back to work.

"The Language of Forever"

"The Language of Forever"

by:

Virgilio F. De leon Jr.MD

Jeong Mina knew exactly what V's handwriting looked like.

She had seen it on contracts, revisions, notes to editors, and the increasingly ridiculous manuscripts he insisted on submitting at the last possible moment.

So when a thick manuscript appeared on her desk, she immediately assumed it was Volume Three of History Was Never This Serious.

She smiled.

"Finally."

She opened the first page.

Then stopped.

There was no history.

No jokes.

No footnotes.

No sarcastic observations about kings.

Instead, there was a poem.

Mina turned the page.

Another.

Then another.

She slowly sat down.

"What have you done, V?"

The manuscript was enormous.

It was a collection of poetry unlike anything she had encountered in her decades in publishing.

The poems began in ancient forms.

Some used archaic language and structures that would have been familiar to scholars but nearly incomprehensible to younger readers.

Then, gradually, the language changed.

The imagery remained.

The story remained.

But the poetry became simpler.

More conversational.

More modern.

Until, toward the end, the poems read almost like the thoughts of someone sitting alone at three in the morning, trying to understand why loving someone could hurt so much.

Mina kept reading.

There was an immortal dragon.

There was a woman.

And there were countless lives.

The woman returned again and again.

Each time younger.

Each time with less time to live.

And each time, the dragon found her.

Loved her.

Lost her.

Waited.

Then found her again.

Until finally, the dragon made the decision that broke Mina's heart.

He would stop searching.

He would let her live.

Not because he loved her less.

Because he loved her enough to let her choose a life without him.

Mina put the manuscript down.

She wiped her eyes.

"You're an idiot."

She knew immediately that it had to be published.

The book was released quietly.

There was no elaborate campaign.

V didn't appear on television.

He refused a major launch event.

The title was simple:

The Language of Forever

The publisher expected respectable sales.

Perhaps a strong showing among older readers.

Maybe some university interest.

What happened instead stunned everyone.

The book became a cultural phenomenon.

Older scholars recognized the early poems immediately.

They began discussing the classical structures.

Young readers became fascinated by the later poems.

They highlighted passages.

Posted photographs.

Discussed meanings online.

And then something strange happened.

The generations began needing each other.

Young people went to language institutes where elderly scholars taught classical Korean.

Students arrived with copies of the book and asked questions.

"What does this expression mean?"

"Why is the poem structured like this?"

"Why does the language change here?"

The older scholars, in turn, encountered expressions from the final poems that they didn't understand.

They began asking younger people.

"What does this phrase mean?"

"Why would someone write it this way?"

The young explained.

The old listened.

And then the conversations continued.

Soon, university students were sitting in cafés with retired professors.

Grandparents were discussing poetry with teenagers.

Young people began taking an interest in old forms of Korean poetry.

Older readers began learning contemporary expressions.

The boundaries between generations softened.

One newspaper called it:

The Book That Made Korea Talk to Itself.

Another called it:

A Bridge Between Centuries.

Mina thought both descriptions were inadequate.

Because the strange thing about the book wasn't that it was old-fashioned or modern.

It was both.

It began in the distant past and slowly walked toward the present.

Just like its protagonist.

An immortal being watching the world change around him.

Learning new languages.

New customs.

New ways of expressing love.

But always carrying the same feeling.

Le-Ann read it alone.

She had hidden the copy beneath a pile of clothes in her room.

She didn't want the other members asking questions.

She didn't want Jiwoo looking over her shoulder.

She certainly didn't want anyone knowing how deeply the book affected her.

At first, she smiled.

The earliest poems were difficult.

She recognized the rhythm.

The imagery.

The ancient language.

Some of it felt strangely familiar.

Then she reached the middle.

The language became easier.

The poems began describing a woman returning to the world.

Again.

And again.

And again.

She knew.

She knew before she reached the end.

The dragon wasn't fictional.

Not really.

The woman wasn't fictional either.

It was them.

Their lives.

Their memories.

Their centuries together.

Their separations.

Their reunions.

Their ridiculous little moments.

The temple.

The mountains.

The gardens.

The food.

The laughter.

And finally, the decision.

The dragon would stop searching.

He would let her go.

Le-Ann's eyes blurred.

She turned the page.

Another poem.

The language was completely modern now.

No ancient metaphors.

No elaborate structures.

Just a person admitting that sometimes loving someone meant allowing them to walk away.

Le-Ann covered her mouth.

Tears fell onto the page.

"V..."

She kept reading.

The final poem was almost painfully simple.

The dragon didn't ask her to return.

He didn't ask her to remember.

He didn't ask her to love him.

He simply wished her a long life.

A happy life.

A life in which she could become whoever she wanted to be.

Even if he wasn't part of it.

Le-Ann closed the book.

She pressed it against her chest.

For a long time, she cried silently.

Not because she was unhappy.

Because she finally understood.

V had never truly stopped loving her.

He had simply changed what his love meant.

He had spent centuries searching for her.

And now he was asking for nothing.

Not even another lifetime.

Le-Ann looked down at the book.

"You're such an idiot."

She laughed through her tears.

Then she opened it again.

She read the first poem.

Then the last.

Then the ones in between.

And somewhere between the oldest words and the newest ones, Le-Ann realized what V had given her.

Not a farewell.

Not exactly.

A record.

Proof that they had existed.

That they had loved.

That their lives had mattered.

A bridge between everything they had been and everything she might become.

Outside her room, the other members were laughing.

Life continued.

Le-Ann wiped her eyes.

She knew she should put the book away.

Instead, she turned back to the beginning.

She wanted to read it again.

And for the first time, she wondered if perhaps V had misunderstood the final lesson of their story.

He had spent centuries finding her.

Perhaps this time, he needed to learn that she was capable of finding him too.

"Miss Highwater: Sign Here, Die Later"

 "Miss Highwater: Sign Here, Die Later"

by:

Virgilio F. De Leon Jr., MD

Black is getting some really great toys next year, and Miss Highwater will be among them.

She is a four-mana creature with a 5/3 body and Menace. But it's her text box that really caught my attention. At first glance, her ability seems fair. The more you think about it, though, the more you realize just how unfair it can become.

Miss Highwater is, appropriately enough, a Demon Lawyer/Advisor. And like any good lawyer, she gives your opponents something that looks attractive in the short term while quietly setting up the long game in your favor.

Here's how it works.

When Miss Highwater deals combat damage to a player who doesn't already have a contract counter, that player may discard their hand and draw seven cards. At face value, that sounds like a pretty good deal. You are essentially giving an opponent a fresh hand of seven cards.

Of course, there is a catch.

That player then gets a contract counter.

And that's when things get interesting.

The Contract gives you a very strong incentive to make sure that player eventually leaves the game. If a player with your contract loses the game, the artifacts and creatures they controlled are copied and end up under your control.

All their mana rocks?

Yours.

All their big, beefy creatures?

Yours.

All the other toys they spent the entire game building?

Congratulations. They're now part of your collection.

Meanwhile, your opponent is sitting there waiting for the next game while you continue playing with a significantly stronger board position.

And Miss Highwater has Menace.

That means she has a pretty good chance of connecting with multiple opponents throughout the game, potentially putting contracts all around the table.

Which brings us to the really fun—or really evil—part of the strategy.

You don't necessarily have to be the one who takes out the player with the contract.

You just have to convince everyone else that they should.

Politics suddenly becomes a very important part of the deck. Give someone seven fresh cards, put a contract on them, and then quietly encourage the rest of the table to deal with the problem you just created.

The trick, of course, is making sure that you aren't the problem they decide to deal with.

Miss Highwater isn't just offering contracts.

She's creating incentives.

And in Commander, there may be nothing more dangerous than an incentive that makes everyone else do the dirty work for you.