You stepped into the room, knowing you weren't going to die.
Not because you couldn't, but because you wouldn't.
You refused to.
The shotgun sat on the table.
You knew the drill.
The bullets were loaded into the chamber with a randomized amount of live rounds and blanks set in an unknown order. The dealer was a man who wore a gas mask, face always hidden and name never known, but he knew you well.
He knew that you never lost.
You glanced at the bloody waver you had seen many times stapled to the rust colored wall, eyes flicking to the name at the bottom for no more than a second. God.
It made perfect sense, and one single piece of paper answered the question everyone had: Why is life like this? Maybe Neitzche was right.
You took a deep breath in and let your fingers curl around the gun, lifting it from the table. Two blanks, one live. The cool steel of the barrel touched your lips as you let your jaw fall slack, the hollow aimed towards the back of your throat.
'Better me than him. He doesn't know how to do this.' You thought to herself, mind flicking to a certain man whom you were thankful wasn't in the room as you pulled the trigger.
The gun clicked. Blank.
A deep breath. Another click. A blank again.
The faintest of smiles tugged at your lips as you racked the gun and turned it on the dealer.
This was buckshot roulette, your punishment in Draag. While everyone else got fatal wounds from which they would be resurrected from, you played a sick game whenever you fucked up.
While Gerard always asked for you the moment he was off stage, barely alive and blood oozing from stab wounds on his chest, you never once asked for his help on the few occasions where the dealer shot you.
He would catch glimpses of the bullet shaped scars on your chest and shoulders, wondering what kind of luck you had.
There had always been chemistry between you two.
He was 20 years your senior, and you were the pianist for the band. Always close, but never close enough. For who could ever love the girl who ran her mouth at the wrong time and got herself locked back in that rust colored room?
Gerard knew you.
He knew you better than anyone else. You had this stupid luck and more ways to fuck up the dictators plans without dying than anyone, which never paired well with the motherly soft side you had when dressing his wounds.
So why weren't you two together?
He didn't know why himself. He was a gentle man with a soft heart and too many lives lived and died. Maybe he didn't want to risk becoming codependent on you. But he knew he already was, in some ways.
His eyes landed on the door to the dealers room as you stormed out of it, a dark blood colored spot slowly growing on your shoulder beneath your jacket. The dealer didn't come out, so he assumed you won again.
A dull pain was still cold on his chest as he moved to follow you, remnants of the dagger peircing him a few nights ago.
"All or nothing?" He asked quietly, watching as you threw your jacket on the bed with more aggression than usual, eyes stopping at the clear massive bullet hole in your shoulder.
He was thankful no one could die, that resurrections were frequent, because any mortal would have bled out from that. All or nothing was the phrase used at every third round.
Supposedly, if you agreed, there would be another three rounds - and the prize was the removal of someone else's punishment for the week.