There’s a very specific kind of silence that follows the pulling of a trigger on a loaded revolver—not the tense, expectant hush of a crowd holding its breath, not the dramatic pause of theater demanding its audience lean forward, but something far more ancient and fundamental, a silence born when the universe itself squints at the situation, rubs its cosmic temples, and quietly takes a moment to decide which version of reality it wanted to commit to.
It lasted maybe half a second. A fraction of a heartbeat, really. Long enough to feel infinite if you were the one holding the gun, and laughably brief if you were the one holding betting slips and a drink you fully intended to finish before dessert.
I, as it happens, fell into the former category.
The click echoed through the pit like a tiny, metallic laugh—dry, brief, and absolutely delighted with itself—and then the gun simply... sat there.
In my hand, unremarkably quiet, having done absolutely nothing except exist in the moment and prove that probability, when properly managed, was less of a gamble and more of a well-rehearsed magic trick performed by someone who’d spent far too many hours practicing in the dark with a stolen weapon and an unhealthy amount of determination.
Nothing happened.
The gun didn’t fire. The chamber cycled, the mechanism completed its little mechanical ballet, and then the instrument sat there in my palm with all the dramatic energy of a well-crafted paperweight.
For one frozen heartbeat, the casino seemed genuinely unsure of how to react, as though the collective consciousness required a moment to process the fact that I was still standing, still breathing, still grinning like an absolute menace with a revolver pressed against a temple that was very much intact and attached to a skull that was very much undamaged.
Then the crowd erupted.
The roar that followed was less a sound and more a physical phenomenon—a wall of noise that slammed into the sandstone walls with the force of a breaking wave and bounced back with interest, amplified by the acoustics of the pit and the hundreds of voices that had been holding their breath and were now releasing it all at once.
The air itself seemed to vibrate, pressing against my skin with the sheer weight of human excitement, carrying with it the smell of sweat, perfume, spilled drinks, and the particular musk that accumulates when a crowd collectively loses its mind.
People were on their feet, jumping, screaming, grabbing complete strangers and shaking them by the shoulders.
"He did it!" someone screamed from the second level, their voice barely audible over the din but carrying enough raw disbelief to cut through anyway.
"The bastard actually did it!" another shouted, shaking their head as though trying to dislodge reality from some faulty track.
Coins and chips rained down from upper levels, thrown in celebration by people who’d apparently decided that monetary expression was the only way their bodies could adequately communicate their shock.
"Unbelievable!" a woman shrieked somewhere to my left, clutching another spectator so tightly they looked mildly concerned for their oxygen supply.
The cheering built on itself, feeding on its own momentum, growing louder and more frenzied with each passing second, until the entire casino seemed to shake with the force of it.
Oberen went pale. Not the gradual fading you see when someone’s merely surprised—this was instantaneous, a complete evacuation of color from his features as though someone had pulled a plug somewhere behind his face and watched the blood drain out like bathwater.
His mouth opened, stayed open, forgot its original purpose entirely. His knees buckled—not dramatically, not with the theatrical collapse of stage villains, but with the quiet, involuntary surrender of joints that had simply stopped receiving the signals necessary to remain functional.
He dropped to the sand in slow motion, landing heavily, his eyes wide, glassy, and locked on me with the expression of a man watching his entire world get quietly demolished while he knelt there holding nothing but the rubble.
I threw my head back and laughed.
Not a polite chuckle. Not the dignified expression of satisfaction befitting someone who’d just emerged victorious from a life-or-death wager.
No, this was full, unrestrained, borderline-unhinged cackling that bubbled up from somewhere deep in my chest and erupted from my mouth with absolutely no regard for dignity, composure, or the general expectations of civilized behavior.
It shook through my body, tears forming at the corners of my eyes as the pure, undiluted joy of having just pulled this off washed through every nerve ending I possessed, and gods it felt good—it felt so impossibly, ridiculously good that I couldn’t have stopped even if I’d wanted to.
Oberen’s hand reached toward me, trembling, extended almost involuntarily like he was trying to touch something he couldn’t quite believe was real—checking, perhaps, to see if I was a hallucination, a trick of the light, a stress-induced fantasy that would dissolve if he could just make contact with it.
His lips moved, working around words that seemed to require significant effort to assemble into anything coherent, before finally managing to push a single syllable past the threshold of audibility. "How?"
The word came out barely above a whisper, rough, cracked, and stripped of every ounce of the authority and confidence he’d been wearing like armor all night.
He rose from his knees, shaking his head as though the physical motion might rearrange reality into something more acceptable, before his expression hardened into something desperate and accusatory.
"You cheated! You had to have cheated! There’s no other explanation! It’s impossible! Six-to-one odds, five bullets, one chamber—the mathematics alone make what just happened a statistical miracle bordering on divine intervention. This is—it can’t be—"
The overseer stepped forward before Oberen could continue his spiral into conspiracy, his presence cutting through the chaos with the kind of quiet authority that made crowds part and voices soften simply because his attention had turned in their direction.
He moved like smoke, like shadow, like something that existed slightly adjacent to the normal flow of reality, and when he came to a stop the space around him seemed to settle into stillness.
He drew himself up to his full height—which was considerable, now that I had occasion to notice—and adjusted his robes with the practiced deliberation of someone who understood that ceremony mattered, that the proper forms existed for reasons beyond mere tradition. When he spoke, his voice carried the weight of absolute finality
"Victory is confirmed," he declared, "All wagered assets—including the casino itself, its holdings, its contracts, and all associated properties—are hereby transferred in full. The match is concluded. The terms have been satisfied."
Each word landed like a nail being driven into a coffin—Oberen’s coffin, specifically, the one being constructed in real-time around everything he’d ever built.
Oberen’s head snapped toward the overseer with enough force to make his fur coat ripple with the motion. "A redo!" he shouted, his voice climbing several octaves as he turned to face the crowd. "We need a redo! The gun was faulty—clearly faulty, obviously defective, the mechanism must have jammed, there’s no way—" He whirled back toward the overseer, gesturing frantically. "Bring another weapon! We’ll play again! Right now! This instant!"
The overseer paid him not a single shred of attention—didn’t blink, didn’t shift his weight, didn’t so much as twitch in acknowledgment of Oberen’s increasingly unhinged demands.
He simply bowed, a single smooth motion that carried more dignity in its execution than Oberen had displayed all evening, then turned and slipped into the shadows with the same silent grace he’d arrived with, his robes trailing behind him like the last thread of Oberen’s authority being pulled from the room.
Oberen’s eyes went frantic then, darting around the pit like a trapped animal searching for exits that no longer existed. They climbed upward, scanning the second floor with desperate urgency, then landed on his two Velvet guards still standing next to Brutus on the balcony above—still dressed in their immaculate black, still very much present and very much not doing anything about the situation unfolding below them.
"Kill him!" Oberen shrieked, pointing his finger at me. "Kill all of them! Don’t let a single one of them leave this casino alive! I don’t care how you do it, just—"
The Velvets didn’t move. Didn’t flinch, didn’t shift their weight, didn’t so much as blink in acknowledgment that an order had been given. They simply stood there, immaculate and motionless, staring down at their former employer with the mild disinterest of employees who’d just clocked out and were waiting for the bus home.
I watched the realization dawn across Oberen’s face—watched it arrive not all at once but in stages, each new understanding hitting him like a small, devastating wave. His mouth opened. Closed. Opened again. His eyes traveled between me, the guards, and back again, the connections forming behind those wide, horrified eyes with agonizing slowness.
"They don’t belong to you anymore," I said cheerfully, because someone had to voice the thought and clearly Oberen’s mouth had temporarily lost its ability to function independently of his collapsing worldview. "They’re mine now. Have been since the overseer confirmed my victory. Every asset you wagered transferred the moment that chamber clicked empty, and that includes your Velvets, your casino, your emergency funds, and whatever dignity you had left, which admittedly wasn’t much to begin with."
Oberen looked about ready to cry then, his face crumpling in ways that made him look centuries older than his already aging features suggested, all the bluster, fury, and calculated menace draining out of him like water from a punctured vessel until what remained was just a small, broken man kneeling in the sand that had witnessed his total destruction.
His voice came out husky, rough and stripped raw. "Tell me how you did it," he demanded. It wasn’t an order anymore—it was a plea, the desperate need to understand how something so thoroughly planned and seemingly airtight had been dismantled so completely.
I tapped my chin thoughtfully with the barrel of the revolver—probably not the safest choice but we’d established my relationship with safety was complicated at best—letting the cool metal press against my skin for a moment while I pretended to consider whether I felt like explaining myself.
"You know," I began, my tone light and conversational, "I’d love to tell you it was all fate. That the universe just happened to smile upon me at exactly the right moment, that luck swooped in and carried me through by sheer cosmic whim. But that would be a lie, and I’ve enjoyed tonight far too much to ruin it with dishonesty."
I tilted my head, letting a grin spread across my face.
"It started when Willow acquired that box for me—the same box the overseer just carried out," I said, my voice dropping into something warmer, almost intimate, the tone you use when sharing a secret you’ve been sitting on for far too long. "I spent hours with its contents, studying the revolver, examining every component, mapping its mechanics with the kind of obsessive detail that probably qualifies as a personality disorder in healthier individuals."
Oberen’s brow furrowed, pieces beginning to assemble themselves in his mind despite his obvious wish that they’d stop.
"Once I understood the weapon’s construction—the cylinder, the chambers, the way the mechanism cycles—I moved on to the interesting part. The sensory component."
I held up the revolver, turning it slowly so the light caught the cylinder. "What I discovered was fascinating—because while the weapon itself is straightforward in its engineering, the cylinder operates on principles that, once you understand them deeply enough, become almost predictable." I smirked then. "You see, the weight distribution within each chamber isn’t perfectly uniform. When a bullet sits in a chamber, it shifts the center of gravity ever so slightly—measurably, quantifiably, if your senses are calibrated precisely enough to detect the difference."
I paused, letting that sink in before continuing. "So I blindfolded myself and practiced. For hours. Holding the loaded weapon, spinning the cylinder myself, feeling the way the weight shifted depending on how many bullets were loaded and where they sat."
My smirk widened. "The scientific term for what I was training is called proprioception—essentially, a method of using tactile sensitivity and kinesthetic awareness to approximate the rotational position of the cylinder based on the weight differential caused by the loaded and unloaded chambers."
Oberen stared at me, his mouth slightly open, processing the implications of what I was describing. "You could feel where the bullets were," he said slowly, the words coming out flat and hollow. "Through the grip. You could actually feel the weight."
I nodded, a small smile playing at my lips. "Approximately, yes. But that alone wouldn’t have been enough," I continued before he could recover, because momentum was everything and I was enjoying this far too much to let him interrupt. "I needed a reference point—a way to orient myself relative to the cylinder’s starting position."
I tapped the side of the revolver with my fingertip, indicating a spot on the cylinder’s edge that, to anyone without enhanced senses, looked completely smooth and unmarked.
"There’s a manufacturing imperfection here. Barely visible to the eye—a tiny ridge that you can feel if you know exactly where to look and how to touch. I found it during my hours of examination and designated it as my reference point."
I traced my finger through the air in a slow arc. "A standard six-chamber revolver divides three hundred and sixty degrees into six equal segments—sixty degrees between each chamber, precisely. Once I established the reference point and understood the rotation mechanics, I could calculate the approximate resting position after any given spin by tracking the cylinder’s deceleration rate and estimating the total rotational distance. It’s not exact science—more educated guesswork elevated to an art form—but combined with the weight-based positioning data, it gave me enough information to make an informed decision about where the bullet was likely to be."
"But—" Oberen held up a shaking hand, something flickering behind his exhausted eyes. "But we loaded five bullets. Five! That changes everything! With five chambers occupied and only one empty, even if you knew where every bullet was sitting, the odds were still catastrophic! You had one chance, one single pull, and if your calculations were off by even a fraction—"
I laughed, bright, genuine, and thoroughly entertained by his attempt to find a crack in the logic. "Oh, I know," I said, waving my hand dismissively. "That’s exactly why I practiced with every possible combination beforehand. One bullet, two bullets, three, four, five—all of them, in every arrangement I could produce, hundreds of repetitions with varying spin speeds and chamber positions."
I leaned forward slightly, letting my smile widen further. "Did you really think I’d walk into this gamble without preparing for you to pull that kind of stunt? It was quite predictable coming from you. You were desperate, you were cornered, and desperate cornered men always try to stack the odds so heavily in their favor that survival becomes mathematically impossible for their opponent." I shrugged with exaggerated nonchalance. "So I made sure it wasn’t."
Oberen sat there, completely dumbstruck, the color having long since abandoned his face and left behind something that looked carved from old wax. His mouth worked silently for several seconds before he managed to push words past whatever barrier had formed between his thoughts and his voice.
"But—even then—even if all of that is true—even if you could somehow feel the bullets and calculate the chamber positions—that still doesn’t explain how you survived with certainty.
He shook his head, frustration and disbelief tangling together in his expression. "Knowing where the empty chamber sits doesn’t change the odds, does it? The cylinder spins randomly! You have no control over where it lands! So even with perfect knowledge of the bullets’ positions, you’re still gambling on where the spin stops, and that’s pure chance! That’s completely beyond your ability to—"
"And that," I interrupted, holding up my finger with the theatrical precision of someone about to deliver the punchline that makes the entire joke worthwhile, "is where the second mechanism comes into play."