I took the gun the way you might accept a sleeping snake from someone who swears it's friendly—palm up, fingers splayed wide—cradling the thing as though it might bite if I gave it reason. I didn't grip it so much as allow it to rest there, balanced and deeply suspicious of my intentions.
Which, to be fair, was mutual.
Now, for those of you blissfully unfamiliar with how instruments of mortality tend to conduct themselves in polite society, allow me to enlighten you: they resent casual familiarity. They're like cats in that way—you have to earn their respect before they'll deign to cooperate, and even then they might decide to ruin your day purely for sport.
Its weight anchored itself into my hand with quiet authority—solid, unapologetic, unmistakably real—and for one fleeting, treacherous heartbeat I became painfully aware just how little margin for error existed between competence and catastrophe.
The answer, for those keeping score at home, was not nearly enough.
Sweat began its slow pilgrimage down my forehead, droplets forming at my hairline with the deliberate patience of monks on a very important journey. Some of it was genuine—my body's honest acknowledgment that the situation had escalated beyond its comfort zone and wanted to file a formal complaint.
The rest was theater, a calculated addition to the performance, moisture summoned through sheer force of will and years of learning to make my own biology cooperate with my schemes.
Each bead grew fat and heavy, threatening to roll down my face and trace embarrassing paths toward my chin. I could feel them gathering at my temples, congregating at the bridge of my nose, plotting their descent like tiny liquid conspirators waiting for the perfect moment to undermine whatever scraps of dignity I had left.
"Having second thoughts?" Oberen asked, his voice carrying that particular brand of mockery people deploy when they think they've already won and wanted to savor their opponent's suffering. "It's not too late to back out, admit defeat, crawl away with whatever scraps of pride you can salvage from this disaster."
He was practically purring now, completely drunk on the prospect of his impending victory. "Though of course, backing out means forfeiting everything anyway, so really you're choosing between certain loss and probable death. Quite the dilemma you've manufactured for yourself."
I said nothing, choosing instead to focus on the weapon resting in my palm, which existed in that peculiar territory between expectation and reality where it somehow managed to be both heavier and lighter than anticipated, as though the laws of physics and psychology had entered a heated debate over which mattered more while I stood there refusing to mediate.
My hands began to shake with mounting enthusiasm, the tremor escalating from "subtle vibration" to "visible from orbit" despite my increasingly stern internal memos requesting they knock it off immediately.
Then I nearly dropped it.
My fingers fumbled their grip for half a second—just long enough to be noticed, but not long enough to be suspicious—and the gun slipped, falling perhaps an inch before I caught it again with an undignified scramble that I thought really sold the whole "hapless fool in over his head" aesthetic I was cultivating.
Oberen's laughter exploded across the pit like thunder, loud, unrestrained, and absolutely delighted by my apparent incompetence. He doubled over slightly, one hand pressed to his stomach as though the sheer hilarity of watching me fumble with death were physically overwhelming, tears forming at the corners of his eyes from the effort of containing his mirth.
"Oh gods," he gasped between bouts of cackling. "This is perfect! Absolutely perfect! Look at him! He can barely hold the weapon steady!"
More laughter, rolling through him in waves now. I could hear the crowd's nervous titters joining in—that uncomfortable human reflex to laugh along with whoever seems to be in charge, even when the joke being told was written in someone else's blood.
I didn't respond. Couldn't have if I'd wanted to. My attention was entirely occupied by the gun now gripped properly in my hand, fingers wrapping around it with slow, deliberate pressure.
The metal was cold against my palm, carrying the kind of temperature that sinks into skin and reminds you that objects don't care about your survival any more than the weather cares about your picnic plans—they simply exist, waiting to be used, indifferent to the consequences that keep you up at night.
Very rude of them, honestly. You'd think after all we do for objects—polishing them, maintaining them, giving them purpose—they could at least pretend to care.
I raised it slowly, achingly slowly, the barrel lifting inch by inch as though gravity had suddenly developed a personal grudge against my ambitions. My arm trembled with theatrical effort, muscles shaking from tension rather than weight, and I watched my own hand climb higher through my peripheral vision until the muzzle sat level with my temple.
The second contact was made, the precise instant when steel met flesh and possibility became probability, a shout cut clean through the tension—desperate, raw, and cracking with emotion that couldn't be contained or controlled.
"Stop!" Julius's voice rang out from the edge of the crowd, his face visible now as people parted to let him through. He looked wrecked—eyes red and beginning to water, face flushed with panic, hands reaching out toward me as though he could somehow grab the gun from this distance through sheer force of will. "Please, Loona, don't do this! Just walk away! It's not worth it! Nothing's worth this!"
I turned my head just enough to meet his eyes, keeping the gun pressed to my temple because commitment to the bit was important even when your heart was doing uncomfortable acrobatics in your chest.
"I made a vow," I said, letting my voice waver just slightly, threading it with enough uncertainty to sound convincing while maintaining the core of determination beneath. "I promised I'd take down Oberen completely, tear apart everything he's built, make him understand what it feels like to lose everything that matters."
The words came out rough, catching slightly on emotions that might've been real or might've been performance—honestly, at this point even I wasn't entirely sure where the act ended and genuine feeling began. "I can't back down now. Not when we're this close."
The casino fell into silence then, absolute and complete, the kind of hush that feels heavy enough to touch. Every eye was locked on me, hundreds of people holding their breath in synchronized anticipation as I stood there with a loaded gun pressed against my skull and probability whispering terrible mathematics in my ear.
My finger found the trigger. I felt the resistance there—the mechanical resistance of springs and levers waiting to be released, but also something heavier, more profound, the weight of choice and consequence condensed into a single point of contact.
And then I smiled.
It started small, just a slight upturn at the corners of my mouth, the kind of thing you might miss if you blinked at an inopportune moment. But then it grew, spreading across my face like rumors through a royal court, widening until it stretched my lips and showed teeth that gleamed with an enthusiasm that had no business existing in moments of potential death.
My eyes crinkled with it, curling up at the edges until they looked almost mad, reflecting the light in ways that made them seem to glow with their own internal illumination.
It was the smile of someone who knew something nobody else did, who held cards they hadn't shown yet, who'd orchestrated events so thoroughly that even death was just another move in a game they'd already won.
Oberen froze mid-breath, his smile dying like a candle snuffed by sudden wind. "Wait," he said, the word coming out sharp and urgent. "Wait, stop, don't pull that trigger yet!"
I paused, finger resting against the trigger without applying pressure, my smile never wavering as I turned to look at him with my eyebrows raised in polite inquiry.
"There's something wrong," Oberen continued, "Something about this whole situation feels... off."
His eyes darted between me, the gun, the overseer, the crowd, searching desperately for whatever detail he'd missed, whatever thread he'd failed to notice being woven into the noose now settling comfortably around his plans.
"Check it!" he snapped at the overseer, pointing at the weapon with trembling fingers. "Check the gun! Make sure it's loaded properly, make sure the bullets are real, make sure he hasn't tampered with it somehow!"
The overseer nodded without complaint, his movements as smooth and unbothered as ever, extending one gloved hand toward me in silent request.
I handed over the revolver without argument, watching as he turned his back to both of us—providing privacy, I suppose, or maybe just habit from years of dealing with paranoid gamblers who insisted on verification rituals.
He flicked open the cylinder with practiced ease, peering inside for several long seconds while Oberen practically vibrated with nervous energy beside me.
Then the overseer snapped it closed, turned back around, and handed the gun to me before giving Oberen a single, confirming nod.
Oberen breathed out hard, his shoulders sagging slightly as relief washed over features that had gone tight with suspicion. "Fine," he muttered, waving his hand dismissively. "Fine. Continue. Get on with it."
I accepted the weapon back, feeling its weight settle into my palm again, familiar now despite the brief separation. This time I didn't hesitate, didn't draw out the motion or milk the drama—I simply raised it straight to my temple with smooth, confident speed, pressing the muzzle firmly against my skin.
My heart began beating faster, harder, slamming against my ribs with enough force that I could feel the pulse in my throat, my wrists, my temples where the barrel rested. The crowd leaned in collectively, a unified movement of morbid fascination, hundreds of people desperate to witness what came next while simultaneously praying they wouldn't have to.
I took a breath. Held it. Let my finger settle more firmly against the trigger. The smile was still on my face, I could feel it there, stretched tight, manic, and absolutely unshakeable despite the circumstances.
And then, with everyone watching, with Julius shouting something I couldn't quite hear over the roaring in my ears, with Oberen frozen in horrified fascination and the crowd holding its collective breath—
I pulled the trigger.