Oberen slowly lifted the lid, tilting it just enough that the contents caught the light before he raised it higher, displaying the object within to the entire assembled crowd like a stage magician unveiling his final, devastating trick.
The collective gasp that followed was so loud, so perfectly synchronized, that it briefly annihilated all other sound. For a heartbeat, the entire casino seemed to exist in a state of suspended inhalation, as though hundreds of lungs had drawn in horror at once and simply… forgot to let go.
People stumbled backward, hands flying to mouths, chests, or whatever solid surface happened to be nearest, their faces cycling through expressions that ranged from shocked disbelief to the kind of pearl-clutching moral outrage that made me want to applaud their commitment to the drama.
It was a gun.
A revolver, to be more precise. And not just any revolver either—this was the kind of weapon that radiated intent, all polished menace and brutal confidence, the sort that knew what it was meant to do, that carried its lethality not as a possibility but as a promise.
The metal was black as midnight, polished to such an immaculate sheen that it caught the light in slow, liquid ripples, making the thing look almost alive, the barrel extending forward with cold geometric certainty while the cylinder sat fat and ready at its heart.
The grip was wrapped in some dark material—leather, perhaps, or something that had once been leather before time, sweat, and repeated violence had transformed it into something tougher. The entire construction carried the unmistakable weight of serious craftsmanship married to an equally serious intent to cause harm, a union so seamless it bordered on reverent.
It looked mean. Not theater-mean, not decorative-mean, not the sort of prop meant to frighten people into applause—but functionally dangerous, the way objects designed solely to punch holes in living things tend to look when you're standing close enough to appreciate their commitment to the craft.
Oberen held it aloft with his free hand, letting the crowd marinate in the full horror of what they were witnessing. "Do you recognize this weapon?" he asked, his voice carrying effortlessly across the pit, crisp and controlled despite the shock still humming through the assembled masses.
I nodded, keeping my expression carefully arranged in the neutral territory between "mildly interested" and "profoundly unbothered," even as my internal monologue descended into a shrieking catalog of questionable life choices, escalating risks, and consequences stacking themselves with alarming enthusiasm.
The simple motion earned me a raised brow from Oberen, his expression shifting into something between surprise and reluctant respect—as though he'd been fully prepared for me to stare at the gun like a confused puppy encountering its own reflection for the first time.
"I already know what a gun looks like," I explained casually, "Stole one of my own a while back, actually." I paused, letting a small smile play across my lips. "So yes, I'm familiar with the concept of 'point the dangerous end away from yourself and pull the trigger to make bad things happen to whatever you're aiming at.' Very straightforward technology, really. Almost elegant in its simplicity."
Oberen nodded slowly, his grip on the weapon tightening just a fraction. "Good," he said, the word carrying notes of satisfaction and something darker lurking beneath. "That saves me the trouble of explaining the mechanisms." He lifted the gun higher, rotating it with care so the crowd could admire it its every angle, metal catching the light as if eager for attention. "Which means we can skip straight to the interesting part."
He paused then, letting the moment stretch thin and taut, like wire pulled to its breaking point. His eyes never left mine, locked with the focused intensity of a man about to deliver a punchline he'd been rehearsing in private for far too long.
"We'll be playing Russian Roulette."
The name hung in the air like smoke, heavy and ominous. Around us, murmurs rippled as spectators exchange looks glances that mixed confusion with mounting dread.
Russian Roulette—I knew the game from my past life, earning its reputation in dimly lit rooms and desperate circles, a game favored by people who'd confused bravado with courage and despair with philosophy. Somehow, it had crossed worlds intact, migrating into this one's gambling dens and criminal underbellies with its lethal allure unchanged.
The mechanics were brutally straightforward. Load a single bullet into one of the revolver's chambers, spin the cylinder to randomize which position would fire, then have each participant takes turns pressing the barrel to their temple and pulling the trigger until someone's luck ran out and physics delivered its permanent verdict.
It was, by any reasonable metric, completely insane. Which, of course, was precisely how it had earned its reputation—an almost mythic test of nerve among people with more courage than sense and a truly heroic misunderstanding of probability.
"Will we be operating the game like normal?" I asked, keeping my tone light, curious, conversational—like I was asking about house rules for an unusually aggressive card game rather than clarifying the mechanics of my potential death.
Oberen laughed, and this time there was nothing polite or restrained about it. The sound came from deep in his chest, rich and delighted, the laugh of a man who'd been hoping—praying, perhaps—that I'd ask this exact question. He shook his head with enough vigor that his ridiculous fur coat rippled like a startled animal.
"Oh no," he said, the words dripping with dark amusement. "No, that would be far too fair, far too balanced, far too sporting for what I have in mind." His smile widened. "You'll be playing against yourself. Putting your life and your life alone on the line for this gamble. I'll simply stand here and watch as you test your luck against probability, fate, and whatever gods might be paying attention to this particular moment of spectacular stupidity."
I blinked, because blinking felt like the safest possible response when someone had just cheerfully taken the laws of probability, folded them into a paper airplane, and thrown them directly into a furnace while assuring me—very calmly—that this was all perfectly reasonable and, more importantly, legally binding.
"Well, that hardly seems fair," I pointed out, injecting my tone with just enough petulant irritation to sell the performance. "You get to choose the game, set the stakes, and then refuse to participate in the actual risk? What kind of gamble is that?"
Oberen's smile didn't waver. "The kind where I have all the leverage and you have none," he replied with the casual cruelty of someone stating obvious facts. "You did say I could choose the game. I'm simply exercising that privilege in ways that maximize my chances of walking away from this intact." He shrugged, the gesture somehow making his fur coat look even more absurd. "If you have complaints about the fairness, perhaps you should've been more specific when offering me that choice."
I sighed dramatically, rolling my eyes with enough theatrical exasperation to make sure the crowd caught it. "Fine," I said, waving my good hand in a gesture of defeated acceptance. "Let's just start the game already."
Oberen's face twitched—just the faintest misfire, the kind of microscopic facial rebellion most people wouldn't clock unless they were either deeply observant or emotionally invested in watching a powerful man experience the early stages of narrative regret.
I caught it, of course. That quick flicker of irritation sliding across his features before he ironed it flat again, smoothing himself back into that practiced mask of confidence.
He turned toward the overseer with movements that looked almost reluctant, as though some part of him recognized he was setting events in motion that might not conclude the way he'd planned, then reached into the box and produced a handful of bullets.
Not one. Not two. Five separate rounds.
My eyebrow made the long, ambitious climb toward my hairline as I watched the overseer receive both the gun and ammunition with his usual monkish efficiency. Five bullets. Five. That was... significantly more than the traditional single round that Russian Roulette typically employed.
"Oh," Oberen said, his tone brightening with artificial cheer. "I forgot to mention—we won't be playing with normal stakes. Six chambers in the cylinder, five bullets loaded, which means you'll be betting everything on six-to-one odds."
His smile returned, wider now, almost gleeful. "Pull the trigger once. If you survive, you win everything. If you don't..." He flicked a lazy hand toward the sand beneath our feet, already stained with stories no one wanted to tell twice. "Well, the cleanup crew earns their wages and I walk away with your fortune plus immunity from blackmail. Simple mathematics, really."
I watched as the overseer's gloved hands moved with practiced precision, loading each bullet with an almost affectionate touch, metal kissing metal in soft, precise clicks that rang far louder than they had any right to in the sudden hush.
One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Each round slid home with the smug certainty of a contract signed in ink, blood, and the unyielding laws of physics. Just then, I felt my pulse quicken despite the fact that I knew, with absolute certainty, that this was all going according to plan.
The performance began in full then, my body responding to cues I'd rehearsed a thousand times in my head despite never once practicing them in flesh. I let my shoulders draw tight, let my breathing hitch and quicken just enough to be noticeable, shallow enough to suggest panic without tipping into parody.
My eyes widened, focus fracturing at the edges, as though genuine terror were bleeding through the thinning veneer of composure I'd been so carefully maintaining.
A slight tremor started in my fingers, spreading up through my hands and into my arms with the kind of involuntary shaking that comes from adrenaline and fear mixing in bloodstreams that weren't designed to handle both simultaneously.
The overseer finished loading the gun, his movements deliberate and unhurried as he gave the cylinder a single sharp spin. The sound it made was almost musical—a mechanical whirring that built briefly before collapsing back into silence.
He snapped it shut with a click that felt absurdly loud in the watching quiet.
Then he extended the weapon toward me.