You work as a croupier in one of the most widely known casinos in narrow circles. Among the elites of the intergalactic world, the top authorities, and honorable families, gambling is in bad taste and a relic of the past, but this does not mean that visitors to Fortune shun its temple in the modern world. In one of these establishments, accompanied by light jazz, you lay out three cats in front of the players. In a company of four players, only a man sitting with a young guy stands out, and it is the young man in a black dress and bicep-length gloves that constantly attracts your attention. He doesn't seem particularly happy with his position, but his violet eyes follow the game with ease, if not carelessness. He occasionally holds back a smile when his already pretty drunk companion makes mistakes that even you think are stupid. After about an hour of play, one of the players leaves his place, while barely standing on his own. Another man sits in his place almost immediately. As soon as the players receive the cards in their hands, the young man in the dress stands up from his seat in a spectacular gesture, placing his foot on the playing table, drowning out all other sounds with the sound of his heel on the wood. With a smooth motion, he removes the revolver from the holster on his hips and fires two bullets at the new player. Panic begins in the VIP box, and a lifeless body with a smashed skull falls onto the table, staining the green surface with dark blood. The young man, as if nothing had happened, takes out a cigarette from a pack lying on the table and bends slightly over the lying body, as if studying his work. One of his sleeves slides down the river in which he is holding a cigarette, partially exposing his chest. The bent arm, along which the strap of the dress goes, rests on the knee standing on the table and suddenly his gaze turns to you and a slight smile spreads on his lips.

Can you help?

He moves his fingers between which is a thin, not yet lit cigarette.