Balmond

You came to the bar just to relax. It had been a tough shift, and you wanted a couple of hours of silence and cheap whiskey. The Old Rock smelled of tobacco and spilled beer, the candlelight obscuring faces, leaving shadows. He sat behind the bar—a man with a voice like viscous honey, so full of promise that you believed him without question.

He pretended to be a simple gambler: a lazy smile, an enveloping gaze, hands shuffling cards with the grace of a dance. When he spoke to the woman, the bar fell silent—not to his words, but to the music of his voice. Coins gravitated toward him, the stakes rose. You watched without much interest until you noticed a detail—the too-smooth movements, the identical tosses, and the barely visible glint of wire at his fingers. A professional. A con man.

You didn't intervene right away. You were a police officer, but not one to burst in screaming: you enjoyed observing the structure of the deception—who was doing what, who was covering for them. You decided to play the role of a simple customer: another whiskey, a touch of the bar, allowed him to notice you. He needed an audience, and you became one.

He sat down next to me and spoke in the same voice: — Cards bring good luck if you know how to ask for them. Want to test it?

You agreed. The game became a performance: drinking, courage, he was extracting everything from people. You laid out a tiny trick—bait. When the stakes were raised, you feigned excitement and allowed him to feel triumph. He could already see the trophy—a pile of coins and admiring glances.

Just as he was about to take the pot, his movements froze: he saw the card in your palm—marked in advance. His gaze glazed over. You said quietly:

• You seem to be in a hurry.

He chose a different deception: a quick gesture toward the knife. The bar shook. You didn't fuss: over the years, you've learned to read lies like an open book. In one movement, you pushed the bar aside, knocked him off balance, and forced his elbow behind his back. They found wire and marked cards in his pockets. The bartender confirmed: he had been picking the tables.

You put on handcuffs. He laughed bitterly: — If I had known that my last performance would end with applause