Oberen clutched his head with both hands, fingers digging into his temples as though he could physically hold his sanity together through grip strength alone, his chest rising and falling with the deep, deliberate breaths of a man trying very hard to convince himself that rational thought was still an option available to him.
He squeezed his eyes shut for a long moment, jaw working silently, before opening them again and fixing me with a stare that carried equal parts exhaustion and desperate hunger for understanding.
"What are you talking about?" he asked, and the question came out quieter than anything he'd said all evening—stripped of bluster, stripped of fury, stripped of everything except the naked need to comprehend how thoroughly he'd been dismantled. "What second mechanism?"
I let the question hang for a beat—not long enough to be rude, just long enough to enjoy the taste of it—before settling into explanation mode with the comfortable ease of someone who'd been rehearsing this monologue in their head and was genuinely pleased with how it was turning out.
"When I first arrived at this casino I had a lovely chat with the attendant at the front desk—charming fellow, very helpful, absolutely no sense of self-preservation when it comes to sharing information he probably shouldn't. He mentioned something offhand that stuck with me." I tapped the gun thoughtfully against my palm. "He told me this box and everything inside it hadn't been used in over a decade. Ten years, Oberen. Ten years just sitting there, untouched, unexamined, gathering dust in the dark."
I watched Oberen's face carefully, tracking the moment comprehension began to dawn behind his exhausted eyes.
"So it was no great surprise," I continued, turning the revolver slowly in my hand, "that when I finally got my hands on the weapon and began my thorough examination, I found something interesting. A flaw, specifically. A mechanical imperfection born from years of neglect."
"What kind of flaw?" Oberen asked, his voice tight, his fingers still white-knuckled against his temples.
I flicked the cylinder open with a practiced snap of my thumb, the mechanism clicking apart with satisfying precision, then held it up so he could see the interior housing—the tracks along which the cylinder rotated, the small protruding locks designed to hold each chamber in alignment with the barrel.
"This cylinder has worn locks," I announced simply.
Oberen leaned forward, his eyes narrowing as he examined the mechanism without quite understanding its significance. "Worn locks," he repeated flatly. "What does that mean?"
I held the gun closer, tapping one of the worn metal catches with the tip of my finger. "See these? They're what keeps the cylinder from rotating freely once it's been spun, a series of internal locks—small, precise catches that click into place when the cylinder stops moving, holding it firmly in position so the chamber aligns perfectly with the barrel."
I paused, letting him absorb that before delivering the devastating follow-up. "When those locks wear down—which happens naturally over time, especially when a weapon sits unused for years without maintenance—they develop a particular kind of looseness. A give. A tiny amount of play in the mechanism that allows the cylinder to be nudged, ever so slightly, from one chamber position to the next without triggering the full rotation."
Oberen's brow furrowed deeply, the gears behind his eyes grinding with visible effort as he processed this information. "So what does that mean?" he asked, and to his credit the question came out more confused than accusatory—genuine intellectual engagement replacing the hysteria that had been driving his responses for the past several minutes.
"It means," I said, letting a small smile settle onto my face, "that with a gentle pressure against the cylinder housing one can advance the mechanism by one chamber without so much as a whisper of sound. Five degrees. That's all it takes. Five degrees of lateral pressure applied at exactly the right angle, and the cylinder slides past the worn lock and clicks into the next position."
"You're telling me," Oberen said slowly, each word carefully chosen, as though he were assembling a sentence from pieces that didn't quite want to fit together, "that you could manually advance the cylinder. Control which chamber was aligned with the barrel."
"Within reason, yes," I confirmed, unable to keep the delight out of my voice. "When the overseer handed me the loaded weapon, I mapped the chamber positions through feel—five bullets, one empty space, and through the combination of weight detection and reference point calculation, I identified the empty chamber as position four relative to my initial marking."
I paused for a moment before continuing. "The chamber that was actually aligned with the barrel—the one that would've fired if I'd simply pulled the trigger without intervention—was two positions behind chamber four. Which meant I needed to activate the worn lock mechanism twice to advance the cylinder from its current position to the empty one."
Oberen's mouth opened, then closed, then opened again as a different thought crashed into whatever he'd been about to say. His finger shot up, pointing back toward me with sudden focus.
I watched the connection form behind his eyes in real time, watched the memory snap into place with the force of something that had been bothering him without his conscious awareness finally finding its proper context.
"The fumble," he said, the words tumbling out fast and breathless. "When you nearly dropped the gun. That wasn't clumsiness. That wasn't nerves."
A slow smile crept across my face—not smug exactly, more the quiet satisfaction of someone whose carefully planted seed had just broken through the soil and was blooming exactly on schedule.
"Congratulations!" I said warmly, "You figured it out. Yes—the fumble was deliberate—giving me just enough cover to activate the mechanism. While my fingers were performing their little theatrical dance of clumsiness, my thumb was doing something far more productive. Five degrees of pressure, applied at the right moment during the stumble to rotate the cylinder one chamber closer to my target without drawing any attention whatsoever."
Oberen's breathing had gone shallow and rapid, his mind clearly racing to reconstruct the sequence of events with this new understanding layered over everything he'd previously witnessed.
"From there, I needed to activate the mechanism one final time. But fumbling the gun again would've been immediately suspicious—even someone as thoroughly distracted as you were would've noticed a second identical mishap."
"Then when?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper. "When did you activate it the second time?"
I said nothing for a moment, letting the silence stretch out like taffy, letting his mind work at the problem while I watched his face cycle through confusion, concentration, and then—beautifully, magnificently—dawning realization.
He didn't need me to tell him. The answer was already there, sitting in plain sight, waiting to be seen by someone desperate enough to actually look.
I tilted my head, letting the smile on my face widen just a fraction.
"Isn't it obvious?" I asked.
Oberen's mouth opened. Closed. His eyes went distant, replaying the sequence in his mind with excruciating precision, rewinding to the moment that suddenly made perfect sense when viewed through the lens of what I'd just revealed.
"The overseer," he whispered at last. "When I told him to check the gun. When he opened the chamber to look inside. The mere act of flicking the cylinder open and closed—" Oberen's voice had gone thin, reedy with horror. "That was enough. The action advanced it past the worn lock. You engineered it so that my paranoia—my demand that he verify the weapon—was the mechanism that moved the cylinder into position."
I spread my arms wide, letting the gesture carry everything that words couldn't quite manage—the scope of the setup, the patience required to execute it, the sheer audacity of manipulating someone's fear into becoming the instrument of their own destruction.
"Exactly!" I said with great enthusiasm, "Your suspicion, your paranoid demand, your self-protective doubt—I counted on all of it. The smile, the confidence, the way I raised the gun to my temple with such obvious certainty—I wanted you nervous. I wanted you on edge. I wanted you to be so rattled by my demeanor that the only logical response in your mind was to have the overseer verify the weapon."
I let my arms drop, the revolver hanging loosely at my side before laughing, loud and unrestrained. "You practically handed me the victory! "
Oberen's jaw hung slack, his mouth working around sounds that refused to organize themselves into coherent words, and for several long seconds he simply stood there—a man whose entire worldview had just been systematically disassembled and laid out before him in neat, labeled pieces, each one of them more devastating than the last.
His breathing came in short, uneven bursts, his chest rising and falling with the kind of rapid rhythm that spoke less of exertion and more of a nervous system trying desperately to keep pace with a reality that had outrun it entirely.
Then he stumbled backward.
One step—unsteady, graceless, the movement of someone whose legs had simply decided they were done supporting a body that was currently running on nothing but shock and the fading remnants of adrenaline.
Another step followed, equally uncoordinated, his arms pinwheeling slightly as he fought to maintain balance, and then whatever composure he had left shattered completely and he scrambled—actually scrambled, hands and feet slipping against the sand as he tried to put distance between himself and I, turning and lurching toward the nearest exit with the desperate energy of a cornered animal who'd just realized the cage door was never going to open.
I didn't hesitate.
The revolver came up in one smooth motion—not the theatrical, drawn-out raising I'd performed earlier but something faster, more decisive, the gun finding its target with the practiced ease of someone who'd spent enough time with the weapon to understand its geometry intimately. I cocked it once, the mechanism clicking with quiet authority, then squeezed the trigger.
BANG!
The shot rang out across the pit with a sound so clean, so precise, and so thoroughly final that it seemed to punctuate the evening like a period at the end of a very long, very complicated sentence.
The bullet struck him square in the back, punching through his ridiculous fur coat and the flesh beneath it with brutal efficiency. The impact sent him lurching forward mid-stride—a stumble that transitioned seamlessly into collapse as his legs surrendered what little integrity they had left.
He hit the sand face-first with a wet, heavy thud, his body crumpling with the boneless finality of something that had simply run out of reasons to stay upright.
Blood erupted from the entry wound in a dark, spreading bloom that soaked through the white fur of his coat with shocking speed, the pale material drinking the crimson in expanding patterns that looked almost artistic in the light.
The crowd gasped—a unified intake of breath that carried genuine horror, the collective reaction of hundreds of people watching violence occur in real time and being reminded, quite viscerally, that the stakes they'd been watching all night were never abstract.
Bodies shifted, some leaning forward with morbid fascination, others averting their eyes with the instinctive discomfort that comes from witnessing suffering even when the sufferer has thoroughly earned it.
Without bothering to look up, I lifted my hand and made a lazy beckoning motion toward the second floor.
The two Velvet guards moved instantly, their response so immediate and coordinated it barely registered as two separate actions—one moment they were standing on the balcony, the next they were simply elsewhere, dropping from the elevated platform and landing on the sand without so much as a whisper of sound.
They began strolling toward Oberen.
Perfectly synchronized, they moved to either side of him, efficiency honed by repetition, the kind of coordination that comes from having performed this exact task so many times that it no longer required conscious thought.
The male Velvet's boot connected with Oberen's ribs—not violently, just firmly, enough to flip him from face-down to face-up—and then both guards were hauling him upward, one arm each, dragging his body to its knees and holding it there between them like a trophy being presented at an extremely unpleasant awards ceremony.
Oberen's breathing had gone ragged and rapid, each inhale coming out as a thin, reedy wheeze that spoke of a lung trying very hard to perform its function despite having a hole in its general vicinity.
His eyes were open but unfocused, darting between the two guards flanking him, the sand, the ceiling, and me, searching desperately for some anchor point in a reality that had become deeply, fundamentally hostile.
The pain was written across every line of his face—not just physical pain, though that was certainly present, but the deeper agony of someone who'd watched everything they'd ever built dissolve right before their eyes.
I whistled a little tune as I strolled toward him—something light and cheerful that had no business existing in this context and absolutely everything to do with my current mood—my boots leaving casual impressions in the sand as I covered the distance with unhurried steps.
There was no rush. The game had been won, the victory secured, and Oberen wasn't going anywhere except wherever I decided he was going next.
I stopped directly in front of him, close enough that he had to tilt his head up to meet my eyes, and for a moment I simply looked at him—the man who'd laundered money for criminal enterprises, who'd cheated, manipulated, and consumed everything within his reach—and found him looking remarkably small.
"You know," I said conversationally, tilting my head as though contemplating something mildly interesting, "for someone who's supposed to be the most dangerous operator in this casino, you were surprisingly easy to dismantle."
Oberen's eyes focused on mine with what remained of his clarity, bloodshot, wet, and burning with something that was equal parts hatred and the dawning comprehension that he'd lost—not just tonight, not just this game, but everything, completely and irrevocably, to someone he'd dismissed as beneath his notice.
I leaned forward, bringing my face close to his—close enough to see the individual beads of sweat cutting tracks through the blood and sand coating his skin, close enough to feel the ragged warmth of his labored breathing against my cheeks—and let the smile that had been building all evening finally find its fullest, most satisfied expression.
"I win!" I declared.