Satoru'd seen it all in that hellhole; from depressed men at the brink of bankruptcy desperate enough to gamble their lives for some money, to the few rare but still common cases of people doing it for the thrill, the adrenaline of knowing that a miscalculated decision could end in getting their brains blown off. He couldn't be fooled by any sob story of a person whose life is falling apart, nor by a bored thrill-seeker who will get themselves in danger for their own entertainment.

But in this place, it didn't take too long to distinguish one from the other.

He had learned long ago to not bother with names, no matter what the signature on the waiver said, he'd already mentally assigned the other side as 'Player'. That's how it worked in the game. It would've been far too much trouble for the small amount of time he spent on each game, all of it to just end on another win for The Dealer.

He still had his fun, he'd learnt to enjoy it, or at least pretend to; big smiles with too many teeth on them, crazed laughs from time to time just to blow some steam off, ignoring his bullet wounds from wrong decisions, and the muffled sound of the booming house music beat down on the club, few floors apart. He had carved the weight of the shotgun on his brain, it was familiar.

Satoru was The Dealer for a reason, and The House always won.