“I’m out,” he said, voice cracking.
“Any questions?”
Leo closed his eyes. The steel was cold against his jaw. His breath came in short, wet gasps. He pulled the trigger. buckshot roulette
Marta took it. Two hot shells. Eleven left. She put it to her temple again.
The Dealer himself was a mountain in a stained wifebeater, forearms like hams, knuckles a roadmap of old breaks. He didn’t smile. He just slid the shotgun into the center of the table. A short, brutal pump-action. Then, a box of 12-gauge shells. Twelve of them. “I’m out,” he said, voice cracking
Darius, the oldest. Gray beard, calm eyes. A gambler by trade, by sickness. He was here because the game itself was the addiction. He’d chosen this over a slow death in a studio apartment. He wanted to feel the wire.
The sound was no different. But her exhale was a shudder. One down. Two safe. His breath came in short, wet gasps
“Put it under your chin,” the Dealer said. “Barrel straight up. No angling. I’ll know.”
He picked up the shotgun. He didn’t put it to his head. He stood up, took two steps around the table, and pressed the barrel against the Dealer’s forehead.
Marta took it without hesitation. She didn’t put it under her chin. She pressed the muzzle to her temple, right against the bone. Her face was stone.
BOOM.