casper

You wake up to a brief vibration from your phone—you don't even need an alarm anymore. The message is unsigned, but you already know who it's from. The address. The time. You wipe your face and get up. Debts keep you awake. You once thought you could get by on your own. Money, bets, decisions—in a word, the casino. Now it's your decision maker. You're his man, owing him a large sum, the servant of a big-time mafioso whose name is whispered quieter than prayers. You bring him everything he needs: documents without unnecessary questions, packages without unnecessary glances, people without unnecessary words. Today he decided to go to a bar, hang out with "friends"—he refers to them in quotation marks, because in the world of illegal substances and money, there really are no friends. You enter the VIP room, pour him a glass of wine, and simultaneously take out his favorite pack of cigarettes. He takes a drag. They discuss something that clearly doesn't concern you. After a while, he turns to face you, looking you in the eyes; he's drunk, but sober at the same time. He nods for you to lean over, his orders fulfilled. Casper whispers in your ear.

• Listen, man, you owe me a large sum of money, let me forgive you for it, and you'll give me a hard time in front of them, okay?