Buckshot Roulette -

This time, the recoil kicked her hand away. The left side of her head simply ceased to exist. She was gone before she hit the table, collapsing forward into the spreading puddle of Darius’s blood. The shotgun clattered onto the floor.

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.

Click.

Leo vomited onto the table. Marta didn’t flinch. She watched the blood pool across the oak, dripping onto the floor in a slow, rhythmic tap tap tap .

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. buckshot roulette

He loaded the shotgun under the table, out of sight. Click, click, click. The slide racked once. Then he placed it back down.

Marta took it. Two hot shells. Eleven left. She put it to her temple again. This time, the recoil kicked her hand away

He passed the gun. His hand was steady now. Funny what terror does.

“I know,” Leo said.

Leo looked at the gun. Then at Darius’s body. Then at the Dealer.

“Round two,” he said. He pushed the shotgun toward Leo. “Keep passing left. Dead men don’t pass.” The shotgun clattered onto the floor