Chapter Text
Put in earplugs.
Put on headphones.
Open the door.
Sprint through the most horrible place he's ever visited.
Get to the stairs.
Third floor.
Open the door.
“You again?”
To say that Dealer was surprised is to say nothing. Even if he tried his best to stay professional, the voice betrayed his utter confusion.
The player took off his gear and placed it in a spacious bag. He ran a hand through his dark hair, as he worked to steady his breath and racing heart.
“Sorry, I didn't hear,” he finally said, voice breathy and colored with a thick accent. Fortunately, Dealer understood him well.
Dealer stayed silent for a moment, looking at his unexpected visitor with his usual nonchalant expression. Yes, he was surprised, maybe even a little shocked, but more than anything, he was curious.
“You're one stubborn son of a gun, coming here again,” he noted, his deep voice betraying little emotion, save for a hint of intrigue. “Most players only come to one game. You are the first to come 3 times.”
“What can I say…” The man plopped down on a chair, rested his elbows on the table and waited for Dealer to start the game. “I really need that money.”
And he could see that. But in all his centuries-long life, he had hardly ever seen anyone as desperate as this guy.
Silence fell between the two, the only music was muted while the rave behind the walls continued, everyone being oblivious to what was currently happening on the 3rd floor.
Dealer let out a deep chuckle, the sound low, almost like a purr as leaned back in his own chair. He tilted his head to the side as he observed the human.
“Desperation is a powerful thing…” Dealer mused, his tone almost mocking. “And you look like you need more than just money.”
Claws clattered against the old pool table. The man's determination was both amusing and pitiful.
“Or is it just pure greed? I honestly wouldn't be surprised, I have seen a lot of things, especially in hell…”
The player looked away. “Well uhh…” His gaze fell on his dark clothes. Black shirt and jeans. It was quite warm outside, so he didn't dress up too much. But no, he didn't need the money for clothes anymore, the first win covered his basic needs. But if he tried to tell the demon why he was saving money, he'd probably laugh. If he even knew what it was…
He was well aware of how desperate he must have looked, how his very presence in this room exuded a sense of need and… weakness.
Dealer leaned forward, resting his big arms on the table, and gave him his signature venus flytrap smile… but something in it was now a bit different. What was it? Oh, the player couldn't tell. The demon's face barely ever changed.
“I can sense your desperation, you know. And I'm not just talking about the money.”
He was studying every little movement, every microexpression on the player's face. He was searching for some kind of vulnerability, something he could exploit.
But today the player decided to act a little smarter and not give in to the demon's provocations.
“Can we just start the game already? Or else it'll be too late and I'll have to stay after closing hours,” the player told him, trying to speak in a business-like tone.
It was so obvious that he was struggling.
“Oh, we're in a hurry now, are we?” Dealer taunted. “But alright, I suppose I'll humor you. Again.”
He slides the Release of Liability waiver to the human.
“I thought you already knew my name,” the player said, being cheeky.
“Formality, Misha, formality.”
***
Shot after shot, can after can, cig after cig.
The air crackled with tension.
The gunshots echoed throughout the whole room, ringing out like a forever thunderstorm, suffocating smoke and gunpowder filling it, with the occasional splashes of blood painting the table and surrounding objects in crimson red. All of it mixing with the faint sound of the music from the main part of the club—warped, half-dead, bleeding through the walls like a heartbeat heard underwater.
The only lighting in the dim room illuminated the table with items on it, including the old, rusty shotgun that barely shined itself, but adorned with rare sparkles of blood, making the scene look like a nightmarish abstract art painted with pure pain. Like the star of the act it was, it didn’t need to shine to demand reverence.
An aluminum can of not fully drunk beer hitting the floor, the occasional metallic clink of a shell casing falling on the table, a magnifying glass shattering into pieces, a rapid sawing of the gun with a subsequent loud slam of the barrel onto the floor… All of this was music and scene of their own making.
Choose. Aim. Click. Breathe.
Choose. Aim. Bang.
Pause.
Again.
The walls weren’t silent either. They groaned with bass and club life, as if the world outside this room still dared to be somewhat normal. But here, time slowed. There were no clocks. Just the rise and fall of breath, and the sobering weight of steel passed between hands. The shotgun loomed between them like an old judge. Rusty. Scarred. Unmoving. It didn’t care who bled, only that someone did.
They were the only ones in this twisted, intimate dance that they seemed to barely notice, so familiar was it to both of them. A flirtation with fate. A love song of smoke and ruin. They moved like machines trained for centuries, gods of their own tiny theater of adrenaline, suffering and fun. But only one of them had played for a long time. The other was here for only the third.
Choose. Aim. Click. Breathe.
Choose. Aim. Bang.
Pause.
Again.
Pause.
…
Silence.
Silence..
Silence…
…
The demon's claws tapped against the table, breaking the hush each time Misha hesitated too long. The quiet, repetitive sound was so consistent, so rhythmic, felt like a rehearsed ritual, maybe even a countdown. He tried not to flinch, but each tap gnawed at his nerves, peeling them raw. He couldn't tell if the demon was getting bored or just savoring his indecision. He never managed to figure out which one it was. Either way, it was working.
It felt like Dealer was urging him on, but Misha knew perfectly well: there was no time limit. The demon had said so the first time he came.
But the claws.
As black as his eyes.
Forever clattering a single spot.
Misha adjusted his glasses. He didn't need to, but it was habit. He could definitely see the marks Dealer's claws had left on the table, even if they were small.
The silence returned. Not peaceful—too sharp for that. It stabbed through him in places words couldn’t reach. He could hear everything now: the thump of his pulse in his ears, the faint hum of the archaic electronics, the distorted bass from the club filtering through the floor like a second heartbeat.
His hand hovered over the shotgun.
He didn’t move.
He stared at it, breathing through his nose, trying not to hyperventilate. Trying not to feel how his skin itched with heat, how his tongue was dry…
Second round. Second out of 3. And right in the middle of it.
He didn’t want to stop.
He just wanted to… pause.
Not give up, no. Not walk away. Just… Just breathe.
But Dealer kept watching. Tapping. Waiting. Still and unblinking.
His hand slid sideways, grazing the saw blade at the left corner of the table. He placed his hand on the hand saw, not intending to use it. He squeezed, digging his thumb into the dull side of the blade, skin reddening but not cut. Anything to calm down. He should have brought something with him… anything that might have grounded him.
Misha blinked fast. His fingers flexed on the table, desperate to do something, anything other than touch the gun. His mouth opened without planning it. The words were meaningless, off-topic, a useless question clawing its way out just to fill the air.
“Why don't you have a lift here?” He suddenly blurted out. “Elevator, I mean… same thing.”
The tapping stopped.
Finally.
Dealer froze, claws mid-air, smirk faltered, not expecting Misha to ask anything, much less something like that. The 2 fingers that hadn’t touched the table hung suspended for a beat too long before they were slowly lowered.
He didn’t speak. Just tilted his head, pondering.
“The building is too old,” he said simply. “And the stairs work just fine.”
The words hung in the air for a moment, sterile and quiet. Nothing more followed. No sarcasm. No judgment. Just fact.
Misha slowly nodded.
“Right,” he murmured, as if the answer had meant anything. It hadn’t. Not really.
The silence returned, but this time it was different. But somehow it got worse.
“Afraid to go on?” Dealer asked with a hint of taunting, his usual smile returning. “Or just stalling for time in a desperate attempt to calm your nerves?”
They both knew what the answer was, yet, the demon still waited for a response.
Misha didn’t dare look up at Dealer again. He knew the demon would still be watching, eyes unreadable, face still. Or maybe he wasn’t. Maybe he had already looked away. It didn’t matter.
It was bad. It was so bad… He was either gonna have a meltdown or a shutdown. Both were horrible.
The moment stretched out, the silence growing thicker and heavier with each passing second. Dealer's gaze was still fixed on the player, watching his every move. He could tell the man was struggling. And damn, did it feel good. Watching the player squirm, struggle to keep his composure, all the while appearing so nonchalant himself.
He wanted to speak. Move. Blink.
He didn’t.
One breath.
Another.
Then none for a while.
The moment stretched out.
Longer.
Worse.
And Dealer watched.
And watched.
And watched.
And watched.
No. Misha couldn't do it. He just stared at the table, lowering his head. He just wanted to curl up into a little ball and never come back…!
He heard something was gently placed, close to him. Misha looked up to see… a bottle cap? With a shaky hand he picked it up, letting go of the knife. Smooth, cold and worn, probably from being flicked around the room countless times. Misha had seen it on the floor earlier. Misha curled his fingers around the frame and pressed the edge into his palm.
His breath started to even out, if only slightly. Still no words. Still no thoughts. But… slightly better.
Misha heard Dealer shift, then the only source of light dimmed a little. Misha lifted his head to the best of his ability. Dealer wasn't… no, he was here, just back there, obscured by the shadows. He couldn't focus yet, but Dealer definitely hadn't increased the distance between them just because he needed to dim the lights, he knew that.
Dealer also didn't say anything. Just let the room fall into a quieter atmosphere, even though the low thumping of the club's music continued.
A minute passed? More? Misha didn't know, but he felt his heart steadied a bit. The dimmed lights and the presence of Dealer, even if he couldn't quite see him, was oddly soothing. The demon didn't create any kind of safety, but for Misha… currently he was fine with anything.
He focused on the bottle cap again, running his thumb over the cold surface. His breathing was almost normal now, the wild beating of his heart slowed down. He couldn't bring himself to say anything just yet, and he didn't think that he had to.
They just sat quietly, one waiting very patiently for the other to come to his senses. Dealer had all the time in the world, after all.
Misha blinked once. Twice. He exhaled again, softer this time. His fingers flexed slightly, loosening their grip on the bottle cap. His hand didn’t leave the table, but he was back in it now, present, if still unsteady.
Misha didn't speak, still couldn’t. But someone else could.
“Feel better now?” The demon's voice was quieter than it had ever been, no rasp, no edge. Smooth, low, almost warm in a way that felt impossible coming from him.
Misha, frankly, was stunned. Such velvety voice coming from that creature?
Dealer was amused by the man's stunned expression. He could only imagine what thoughts were running through Misha's head. It wasn't often that he let his tone soften like that, and the effect it had on most people was... entertaining, to say the least.
Misha just stared, still a little bewildered by the change in Dealer's tone. It was so… gentle. It wasn't the usual gruff voice he was accustomed to, the one that always was taunting, mocking or had a hint of hiss.
He couldn't help but wonder if this was yet another trick, another layer to this game he had unknowingly gotten himself into. But then why would the demon go through the trouble of changing his whole demeanor just to mess with him? He never did that… before this very moment. There wasn't any mockery in his voice, no trace of the usual sharpness. It was like a rare glimpse of a side of him that he'd never shown before.
It felt wrong. Like something from a dream. A very surreal one.
He finally managed to croak out a word, voice barely above a whisper, “…Yeah.”
Dealer nodded. He wasn't surprised by the hesitance, even if Misha seemed less shaken now.
“Good,” he replied, his voice still holding that strange hint of gentle tone that was so out of character for him. “That's... progress.”
He paused for a moment, the silence hanging in the air between them like a tangible thing. Then, he leaned forward, emerging a little from the shadows into the dim light, and he replied in that same soft tone, “Just making sure. Can't have you collapsing on me now, can I?”
Misha still couldn't fully understand why the normally cold and cunning creature was showing such a considerate side. But there was a part of him that couldn't help but appreciate it, strange as it was.
He nodded slightly, still holding onto the bottle cap. “Thanks,” he murmured, his voice a little steadier this time.
“You're welcome,” Dealer replied simply. No mockery, no sarcasm, just a small act of kindness, strange as it was for a demonic being like him.
The silence settled between them again, but this time it was a little more comfortable. Misha relaxed his grip on the bottle cap, his fingers no longer trembling. His mind was still racing, still trying to make sense of why Dealer was being so uncharacteristically gentle. Although, most likely, it was because he had had similar things happen before and he knew how to deal with them, that's all. But maybe…? No, stop overthinking.
The player looked at Dealer. Oh, how he wished he could understand, or at least make a safe guess, as to how one was feeling. But he couldn't. He couldn't read faces, let alone someone as stoic as Dealer. He was absolutely unreadable.
Misha took a slow breath, trying to gather his thoughts, and placed the bottle cap in the corner of the table.
“Can we… can we continue?” He finally asked, his voice still low but steady.
“Sure,” Dealer drawled lazily. He emerged from the shadows carefully, placing his clawed hands on the table and trying not to make a sound. “But don't push yourself. We have plenty of time.”
***
The gunshots resumed their echo, the room continued filling up with blood and smoke, and the lighting was kept dimmed, which created an even more intimate and creepy atmosphere. But even with the current setup, Misha couldn't help but feel a little less intimidated now, a little less vulnerable. Yes, he was close to finishing the hellish game, but he was finding comfort in this hellish dance. It was familiar, not oppressive.
And Misha, hunched just slightly less now, breathing a little more evenly, felt it too. He was still deep in the game, still dancing with death, but he no longer felt helpless in it.
He was close to the end.
Close to finishing this game that felt like it was created by hell itself.
But in some strange way he was beginning to find comfort in the inferno of it all. In the sharp sound of the shells, in the flicker of the barrel, in this hellish dance shared only between two beings and no one else.
…Comfort in the burning ritual of it all…
…Comfort in the chaos of it all…
Choose. Aim. Click. Breathe.
Choose. Aim. Bang.
Again.
Pause.
The gun still howled like it wanted more blood. The table creaked under the weight of each player. The smoke penetrated every crevice.
And no one spoke. There was no need.
Sure, there was pain, fear, and that same crawling tension under Misha's skin. But he knew what to do with it now. It was no longer in full control.
Even in the 3rd round.
Every movement was slower, even slower than before.
Misha's breathing stayed steady, but every cell in his body was bracing for the final round. The comfort he’d found earlier hadn’t vanished, but it had become thinner, like a taut thread.
This was it.
One last shot.
The last remaining charges on the screen were no longer flickering.
2 shells left in unknown order.
It was 50/50.
His hand hovered over the gun. The weight of it no longer surprised him. But his hands started shaking more visibility as he lifted it. He was tempted, briefly, to turn the barrel toward himself. End the suspense. Maybe even test his remaining luck.
But then he remembered the advice some anon said.
Never shoot yourself.
Well, that was about the game. They didn't say anything about real life.
The deadly duet was about to end, and Dealer could see that the final round was taking its toll on him. His breath was steady, but his heart was beating a little faster, a little louder. And he could hear all of it.
He didn’t need to guess the odds. He knew them. The math of the game was sacred, no one came back for a third time. No one went further.
Either Dealer wins or the player never returns. That's it. That was just how the pattern played out.
So he watched the player with calm certainty.
It would end here.
It always did.
Misha didn’t blink. Didn’t breathe.
Dealer leaned forward, just slightly, like a conductor savoring the final note.
One shell.
He knew that he had already won.
One breath.
There was no escape from the inevitable.
One trigger pull.
And he wins.
BAM!
Defying the odds.
The human defied fate itself.
The pattern was broken.
For a moment, nothing moved. Nothing dared. Silence fell heavy in the room. For the first time that night, Dealer looked genuinely stunned. He wasn't expecting that. He never expected the human to win.
He watched Misha in utter disbelief, as the room remained still with a heavy silence… He had lost.
Misha just sat there, his breathing ragged and labored, his body shaking with the adrenaline coursing through his veins. He had done it. He had beaten the game. He was still alive. He couldn't believe it… He had done the impossible! The shotgun rested useless in his hands, but he was shaking so hard it might as well have still been loaded.
Dealer stayed seated, watching Misha collect the money, his expression still stoic, yet… annoyed. He had lost like that for the first time in a long while. He was used to winning, to always being one step ahead. And here was this human, defying the odds and leaving with his winnings. It ticked the demon off.
His claw tapped the table once.
He had lost.
Like that.
As Misha silently headed for the door, the demon just stared after him, cold black eyes fixated on his back, watching the human stumble to his feet from adrenaline.
He wasn't angry. Not really. He was just annoyed. Definitely.
He would let him go. Of course. That was the rule.
He always honored the rules.
But he would remember this one.
***
Misha came home, still shaken and incredibly tired. But hey, now he's $70k richer!
He placed the briefcase down with a dull thud. He didn’t even bother turning on the lights. His hands were shaking again, but now it was from the aftershock.
The floor looked good enough to collapse on… but he was covered in dried blood and sweat. Ugh. He needed a shower… no, a bath. A cold, quiet bath.
He shuffled into the bathroom, and on autopilot flicked the light switch on, then immediately turned it back off. He can do it without the blinding light…
As the tub filled, he stared blankly at the slow swirl of water, leaning against the cold tile wall.
The sound of shell casings.
The tapping claws.
The click.
The bang.
His fingers curled slightly, nails pressing into his palms.
He’d survived.
He won.
He giggled as he got into the tub and allowed himself to soak in one of the few things he was most familiar with even after moving—water.
Didn't know why he giggled. Just nerves. Or maybe it was the absurdity of it all. Or both.
The chilly water cooled his heated body, including his head. It didn’t fix anything, but it dulled the edges, loosened the tight coil behind his ribs. He sank deeper until just his face and knees stayed above the surface, staring at nothing in particular while the rest of him floated in the very slowly warming water and moonlight.
Yes, he left the bathroom door open. He lived alone anyway.
…
Well… he had expected to die: the odds were trash, the pressure was unbearable, the room was a furnace, that shotgun had loomed like some final god waiting to take him out with a coin flip. But he was still here. Breathing, soaking in an unlit bathroom, wrapped in silence and coldness.
His fingers dragged gently through the water. A slow repetitive movement. Back and forth… Back and forth… Calming, grounding, safe…
***
“Pathetic…” Dealer hissed, slowly and with fury pronouncing each letter.
The odds had been defied, and Dealer wasn't used to being the one on the losing end, especially not like this.
HATE.
He let out a low, guttural growl, the sound a deep rumble that echoed through the empty room. He clenched his jaw, claws hit the table, hard, digging in, dragging down, leaving deep, ragged grooves in the already-scarred wood. The tail swished left and right, threatening to knock over poorly standing things. He was fuming, his frustration and anger boiling over. He hated losing. Especially not like that, to some random, ordinary man.
No one was ever supposed to make it this far. The feeling was foreign, even repulsive to him.
That fragile little human, all twitchy nerves and stammered breath, had walked out with his prize. And Dealer had just let it happen. Bound by the very rules he created.
He wanted to grab the mortal and scalp him from head to toe, to sink his teeth into the neck and shake his head like a hunting dog does to its pray, to swing his corpse until the spine snaps, to take him to the deepest pits of hell, to break his legs so he wouldn't dare to run away, to dip one hand in lava and stick the other in a meat grinder, to make him eat his own insides, grab him by the head and repeatedly slam him against the wall until nothing remains of his face except blood and pieces of flesh pitifully hanging on what's left of him, to sink claws into his throat and rip out his trachea while he's still breathing.
In the corner he saw a bottle cap that Misha hadn't taken with him. He grabbed it, wanting to crumple it, snap it between two fingers like a weak bone, grind it under his heel, hurl it into the fire, take it to hell and throw it into the lava!
But he didn’t.
He stared.
And stared.
He stood motionless now. His fingers closed around it slowly, too slowly for his usual fluidity.
He tilted his head toward the dim ceiling, silent, unreadable, thumb grazing the edge of the cap as his tail slowly stilled and he wondered… Why?
His initial fury started to die down as he examined the object. It was just a bottle cap, but it had a connection to Misha. He could still feel the remnants of anger coursing through his veins, but he couldn't bring himself to destroy the object.
Why did he hesitate? Why did he hold onto this insignificant object? Why did the memory of Misha refuse to fade from his mind?
Dealer's expression remained stoic, almost emotionless, but his grip on the bottle cap remained tight. He couldn't understand why this man, this 1 particular man, had gotten beneath his skin so deeply.
Why did he hesitate?
Why this object?
Why him?
The memory refused to fade. Misha—defiant, trembling, clever, alive—lingered in his mind like a metallic smell. Dealer’s face remained unreadable, sculpted in its usual stillness, but his grip on the cap tightened ever so slightly.
He didn’t understand why this one had gotten beneath his skin. Why this one mattered.
And that?
That was worse than losing.