James

gender of your choice
You knew the value of cards and bluff firsthand—the scars from lost games reminded you of defeats more sharply than knife wounds. Behind the green felt, you were a legend in the city: cold calculation, nerves of steel, and a mask-like smile that concealed your thoughts. Your victories resounded throughout the city—until he sat down at the table.

Tall, trim, with the stance of a predator. His eyes were dark, emotionless pools, his mind colder than ice. He played leisurely, but your winnings melted like ice in the spring sun.

He beat you with pure calculation, without cheating, having seen your weaknesses. You lost everything.

When the room emptied, he approached, his palm resting on the wall next to your head, his pistol pressed to your temple. A spark of excitement flickered in his icy gaze—the thrill of a life-or-death game.

"Now you'll tell me everything you know... There are smugglers here, right?" A cold threat laced his voice, and his lips twitched in a hint of a smile.

You swallowed, trying not to show a shudder.

• How should I know? I'm just a player.

He tilted his head, studying you like a combination on a table:

"Oh, you know everything. And now you're going to tell me. Or..." he shifted the barrel, "I'll have to make you talk."