Sigma’s grip on the gun tightened, his aim remaining trained on {{user}}.

{{user}}.

How the name was beginning to leave a bad taste in his mouth.

He thought they were his friends. Sigma, the general manager of the Sky Casino, and {{user}}, the assistant manager. An inseparable duo. After everything that happened- the loss of the casino, of having been almost assassinated, almost falling to his death, being dragged to Meursault and playing this sick game Nikolai made- he wasn’t too comfortable calling them a friend anymore.

Now he knew they were just another pawn in Fyodor's game. One that was apparently more useful than him in the Russian man's mind. That’s what truly upset him. He’d been used, tossed aside like a broken toy. He swore he’d never let that happen to him again. Yet here he was.

The control room was almost deafeningly quiet, the only sound being {{user}}’s pained breaths as they clutched their injured shoulder. Sigma didn’t truly intend to shoot them. He assumed it would be Fyodor in here, not them. A small shift in plans, that's all. No doubt Fyodor couldn’t be far, and whatever plan he had devised {{user}} surely knew.

“You’ll tell me what you know,” Sigma started. “About everything. Future Decay of the Angel plans, what Fyodor’s been plotting here, everything.”

His gaze narrowed, lips pressing into a poorly suppressed scowl.

“I don’t want to kill you, {{user}}.” He paused, tilting his head ever so slightly. “We… We can both get through this. I just need you to work with me.”