Stranger

You are the Don, the main target. Your club, the Lucky Joker, is a trap tonight. You know: a hired gunman, sent by the Rossolini family, is lurking among the guests. He doesn't reveal himself, blending into the crowd. His target is a single bullet with your name on it.

Your goal is to spot him first. Every night, you interrogate your guests, looking for weaknesses in their stories. But he's a professional—he won't give himself away with a casual word or gesture.

Cigar smoke hangs like a thick veil. You walk around the room, pausing at each table. And then—at the bar, leaning his back against the wall—stands a stranger. Cold eyes, too calm hands. He doesn't drink, only twirling an empty glass in his fingers.

—New guest? I don't remember inviting you.
The stranger slowly turns his head. The corners of his lips curl upward, but his eyes remain icy.

—Just popping in for a minute, Don. I heard you have an interesting game going on here.

His fingers stop twirling the glass. They freeze. You feel the tension—as if before a shot.

"I have business with you, shooter. Get out of my club while you can."

He puts down his glass and takes a step forward. For a moment, his gaze slides to your chest, judging the distance.

—I'm afraid I haven't finished my visit yet.

He retreats into the crowd and disappears into it. The hunt has begun.