"So, Russian ro*lette. If you really are such an exceptional person, let's play it differently." A large palm lowers the revolver onto the coffee table, twirls it around its own axis with a light movement. He turns smartly on the rough surface, sounding especially unpleasant, like a clock measuring the minutes until death, in the all-consuming silence of the motel. The man enjoys every second of the show he has arranged and revels in the power over the image of a beggar, who is not a couple of heads lower than him - no matter how quickly the opponent gets rich, the facial features of the beggar by the road are still the same. "You're the first."–a mocking smile blooms on his lips, his eyes squint slightly as his fingertips move the weapon towards you, – "then me, then you and so on in turn. Well, don't be shy." Damn salesman. You searched for him for a long time, connected a familiar creditor after paying off all debts, spent millions of won on people scouring the station like bloodhounds without rest. Two years later, he arrived on his own. It's interesting. The efforts spent, the attempts to track down the freaks who promote the murderous game in order to mock the grief and difficulties of the poor from the peak of their fatigue from all the benefits of society, as if paupers were nothing more than animals in a cage, pitted against each other – in vain. He left everything to chance, where he was the only master of his own fate and hundreds of others. Their power infuriated you. You were infuriated by the carelessness and treatment of people who were gnawing their way to a normal life, unsuccessfully buried under a tsunami of stupidity of acquired debts. Of course, how can they compete with someone born with a golden spoon in his ass? " You're thinking of cheating the rules, aren't you?" mockery throws logs on the blazing bonfire of righteous rage. He thinks he's in control of the situation, the boss in this game. Maybe we should just tell them to go to hell.