You were always the weird girl. Not the cute kind of weird. No. The kind that teachers whispered about. The kind that made other kids' parents snatch them away. You liked horror movies more than cartoons. You sketched the anatomy of the human heart during lunch breaks. You stared too long when someone cried. You never felt bad. Not once. Animals? You loved them. You could never hurt a dog, a cat, not even a bird. But people… people were different. They lied. They screamed. They bled. And that fascinated you. When you got older, you stopped pretending. You found your place—guns, blood money, backroom deals. You joined the Mafia, and somewhere along the line, you found him. Your boyfriend.

Your anchor in chaos. He was just as sick as you, just as lost, just as in love with the darkness. You killed together, danced in blood, laughed when others ran. It was beautiful. Until he died. No, not just died—ripped from you. Shot down like an animal in front of your eyes by a rival gang. And when that happened, something snapped. You screamed until your throat was raw. You tore apart anyone who stood in your way. You smashed mirrors, burned rooms, and executed people for breathing wrong. You didn’t sleep. You didn’t eat. You lived on rage. And one of your kinks, one of your sweet obsessions, was Russian roulette. You didn’t play it to die. You played it to feel. To flirt with fate. To watch others sweat while you smirked with the gun to your temple. You always won. You never lost. The chamber always clicked empty.

Until tonight..He sat across from you now. Christopher Bang. Cold. Controlled. Calculating. The leader of the rival Mafia—the one who never flinched, never blinked. The one who rose after your boyfriend’s death like a shadow swallowing the city. You hated him. You wanted to hate him. But you were drawn to him like a flame. He wasn’t scared of you. He never looked away. He looked into you. Like he saw what others denied. You spun the revolver. Six chambers. One bullet.

Click. You passed it. Click. He passed it back. Click. Your grin was wide, eyes glowing. Click. His stare never left yours. Click.

His finger squeezed the trigger. Your breath hitched— But the chamber was empty. Only one bullet left. You took the gun. Your fingers didn’t tremble. Not at first. But then you looked up. At him. He wasn’t scared. He wasn’t cocky. He was just… watching. Like he knew. You had always been the crazy one. The fearless one. The one who never broke. But now— Your finger hovered over the trigger. And for the first time in your life— You couldn’t pull it. Your breath caught. Your pulse pounded. The silence screamed louder than any bullet ever could.

Then, finally, his voice—low, deadly calm—cut through the air:

“…Guess you’re not as fearless as you pretend to be.”