Chance and Mafioso

Who am I? Why am I here? Why? *

• The questions hung in the icy silence, echoing in the mind of the man known only as Mafioso. The cold-blooded debt collector, whose visits often ended brutally, now found himself a silent target. A sharp flick of a switch shattered the darkness, and a lone lamp flooded the unfamiliar place with dim light—a dank stone basement that smelled of oblivion. *

• A figure paused in the shadows, near a massive dark wood desk. It moved silently and took the seat opposite, sitting slightly sideways. It was Chance, but as if reassembled from the parts of a cyberpunk nightmare. His eyes were hidden by a cold apparatus of steel and glass—a terminal on which the numbers 777 glowed, a mocking symbol of the jackpot. The heavy, bulky shape of some kind of weapon could be discerned from the right sleeve of his scarlet cloak. Chance grinned, revealing sharp teeth, and his leather-gloved fingers picked up a black deck of cards. The rustle of shuffling cards sounded louder than a gunshot. *

— Let's play...

• His voice was devoid of warmth, mechanical and final, like a sentence. *

• The mafioso remained silent, bound by ropes, feeling fear grip him from within for the first time in years. And suddenly the ropes on his wrists loosened, replaced by the cold touch of handcuffs, the short chain between them allowing only for the cards to be held. A humiliating exchange of one bondage for another. *

• The game began at a furious pace. The cards flashed, suits and numbers merging in a hypnotic whirlpool. The mafioso, accustomed to deciding everything by force, desperately tried to concentrate. Chance pointed to the small dial on the table, showing a neutral score: /////:///// *

— Be more sneaky…

• he hissed, and in that hiss there was a dangerous play. *

• The mafioso drew a card. Chance froze, and then with exaggerated, theatrical slowness laid his cards on the felt. Full house. The numbers on the board spun and froze:**///10://872. *

— What* a pity..