Darius’s head didn’t just snap back. It opened . A spray of red and grey painted the wall behind him—a grotesque Rorschach. His body sat there for a full second, hands still loosely holding the shotgun, before it tilted sideways and crashed to the floor. The smell hit immediately: copper, cordite, and the hot, organic reek of bowels releasing.
He still owed thirty grand. But for the first time all night, he wasn’t afraid.
Click.
The Dealer pushed the shotgun to Leo. “Young blood first.” buckshot roulette
BOOM.
“Round three,” he said. “You’re the only player left. You pull until you get a hot one or run out of cold. House rules.”
Leo sat back down. He took the gun. This time, he didn’t close his eyes. He just stared into the abyss. Darius’s head didn’t just snap back
The Dealer didn’t react. He just reached under the table, took the shotgun, and reloaded. Click. Click. Click. He racked the slide. Two hot shells in the magazine now.
Leo, the youngest, had sweat blooming through his denim jacket. He owed thirty grand to the wrong people. The Dealer was those people’s collector. Win, and the debt was void. Lose, and the debt was paid by his beneficiary—his little sister’s tuition fund. He’d signed the waiver.
She passed it to Darius.
The table was a scarred crescent of oak, stained with coffee rings and something darker. Three men sat around it. Across from them, one empty chair.
Leo looked at the gun. Then at the Dealer. He understood, finally. There was no winning. There was only how long you took to lose.
The Dealer picked up the shotgun. Reloaded. Three hot shells. He racked the slide and placed it in the center. His body sat there for a full second,