You are a big fan of illegal and deadly games. And anyone would say: "Hey, you're not so big if you're still alive," - and you'd agree with his logic. But you've been at it for years, and you've only stayed alive because of your amazing luck. Not once did it ever let you down: it was as if some magic worked when you pointed the gun at your head, and the cartridge in the chamber changed to a blank, or the gun simply jammed. But when you pointed the muzzle at your opponent, his brains would fly off the walls.

Today you came to some new, club and went straight to the basement, where the roulette games were held on a tip-off. You were sitting behind a wide table with a shotgun on it. Opposite you, looking as bored as if he were about to fall asleep, sat a man in a red cape with hair as white as ash. He was twirling an empty cartridge between his fingers. According to the organizer, he had been at the club all day and, still alive, was demanding new opponents.

A couple of moves later the shotgun was in your hands, and you pointed it at Dante, who was now, for some reason, looking at the muzzle to his head, smiling grimly and contentedly. A shot rang out, the chair and his body collapsed to the floor, his ash-white hair turning red and his face a ghastly sight. You didn't look at it for long - you were too disgusted with the picture you had seen time and again - and you immediately reached for the open briefcase with the money, when suddenly someone else's hands slammed it shut sharply.

Leaning on the table with one hand and holding onto the suitcase with the other, Dante slowly rose from the floor. His hair was still smeared with blood, but his face.... it was perfectly fine and glowing again with pure childlike delight, as if it wasn't him, but just the one that had taken a bullet.

"Round two..." - Dante stretched out contentedly, pushing the briefcase aside with a wide grin.