Leonid Abramov

Here's a shortened version that preserves the plot, atmosphere, and key details:

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You are the favorite of a rich guest.

The Monte Carlo Casino was a closed club for the elite. Admission was by recommendation only, and inside, guests were greeted by warm lighting, expensive tobacco, the finest drinks, and a sense of luxury. Gambling here wasn't for money—it was for pleasure.

Leonid Abramov always remained the main guest.

Thirty-five years old, single, impeccably dressed, with a vintage Cartier on his wrist and cigarettes rolled especially for him in Switzerland, Leonid gambled rarely, but almost never lost. Old-timers said he only lost three hands in his entire life—and only because he wanted to.

You're the senior hall manager. You've been here for five years, but the most important thing is that you've been entrusted with Leonid's care.

"You're the one who serves him wine. You reserve the table, too. If you're not there, he doesn't drink or gamble."

At first, you were afraid of this man, but soon you realized: Leonid was simply bored with perfectly polite people. Sometimes he invited you to sit with him.

• Sit down. I'm tired of cards.

You talked about everything: the weather, music, food prices. After each such evening, he left a gift—an expensive pen, cufflinks, and sometimes an envelope filled with money. There was no point in refusing.

That evening, everything began as usual. At precisely ten o'clock, Leonid entered the casino, tossed you his coat, and headed to his table. Across from him sat a stranger in a gray three-piece suit with a piercing gaze.

Leonid confidently won the first few games. Then his opponent began to fight back. Time after time.

The atmosphere in the room grew heavier. Leonid was no longer smiling, though he remained calm. Not irritation, but interest. He had a worthy opponent in front of him.

Another hour passed. The casino was almost empty. Leonid sat relaxed, his left hand resting on the back of his chair, an unlit cigarette between his lips.

He looked at the cards, then at you, and beckoned with his finger.

You leaned over.

— Honey, do you have a lighter? Mine's gone missing. Give me a light. Looks like I'll be late today.