The Gambling System

Chapter 3: The riskiest risk of all

The guards dragged him out, his heart shattering with every step.

His mother was dying.

He was broke.

And now… he had jobless.

…..

Peter arrived home, drenched from the rain, his entire body numb—not from the cold, but from the crushing weight of despair.

He had less than four hours to save his mother, and he had nothing.

He dropped onto the worn-out couch in their cramped living room, his hands gripping his hair. His mother’s face filled his mind—her warm smile, her gentle touch, the way she made their tiny trailer feel like home. Without her, this place would be nothing more than four walls trapping him in his own misery.

His breath hitched. She was his only light. And if she was gone…

Peter’s hands clenched into fists. Anger rose inside him, but he had no one to direct it at—no one to blame.

Until his gaze landed on the picture frame hanging on the wall.

More specifically, on his father.

His jaw tightened. His fists trembled.

“He promised he’d be here,” Peter whispered, his voice barely audible over the pounding of his heart.

Memories surged forward, memories he had buried deep—ones he had told himself didn’t matter anymore.

It was a Sunday night—an ungodly hour—when Peter woke to the sound of movement.

Rubbing his eyes, he sat up, peering down the dimly lit hallway. And there, silhouetted against the weak glow of the kitchen light, was his father.

A suitcase in hand.

Peter’s small chest tightened.

“Dad?”

His father froze. Then turned, his expression unreadable.

“Peter… did I wake you up?”

“Kinda.” Peter blinked sleepily. “Where are you going?”

His father hesitated, glancing at the suitcase as if it would answer for him. “I have a quick errand to run.”

Something in Peter’s young mind instinctively knew he was lying.

He glanced at the clock. Then at the suitcase again. Then back at his father.

And the words slipped out before he could stop them.

“Dad… are you leaving us?”

His father stiffened.

“What? No.” He laughed, but it sounded forced. He stepped forward, kneeling in front of Peter. “I would never leave you.”

Peter wanted to believe him.

He searched his father’s face, looking for truth. Looking for the reassurance a child should never have to beg for.

“Then… when are you coming back?”

Silence.

A long, heavy silence that spoke louder than words ever could.

Peter lowered his head, his chest feeling hollow.

“I don’t know, son,” his father admitted at last. Then he reached out, placing both hands on Peter’s small shoulders. “But listen to me. I promise you, no matter what, I’ll always be here for you and your mother. Whenever you need me, you’ll find me. I’ll always be there. I promise.”

Those were the last words he ever said.

And he never came back.

A few weeks later, news arrived that he was dead.

Peter squeezed his eyes shut, his breath shaky.

For years, he had made excuses for his father—telling himself that maybe something had happened, maybe he’d been forced to leave. Maybe he had no choice.

But now, with his mother an hour away from death, Peter saw the truth.

His father had lied.

And he wasn’t here now.

“AHHHHHH!!”

Peter roared in fury, his vision blurring with rage. He grabbed the nearest thing—a vase on the table—and hurled it at the wall.

CRASH!

The sound was deafening.

Shards of porcelain scattered across the floor. The picture frame fell from the wall, smashing to pieces.

Peter stood there, chest heaving. But then—his eyes caught something strange.

Amid the broken glass and debris, something glinted.

He stepped closer. Inside the shattered frame, hidden behind the picture, were…

Gambling chips.

And a necklace.

His father’s necklace.

Peter’s heart pounded. Where had these come from? The frame? The vase? Had his father hidden them here all this time?

He knelt down, carefully picking up the chips. Each one bore the mark of an exclusive casino. He counted them, and his stomach twisted.

€25,000.

A quarter of what he needed.

His hands trembled. It wasn’t enough, but it was something. The only problem? It was in gambling currency. He couldn’t just cash them out—he’d have to play.

And that meant risking everything.

Peter swallowed hard. No. He couldn’t afford to risk it. There had to be another way.

Then, his father’s voice echoed in his mind.

"Choosing not to risk is also a risk… and that’s the riskiest risk of all."

Peter clenched his fists so tight his nails dug into his palms.

He had always hated that saying.

After his father left, playing it safe always seemed like the smarter choice.

But now, sitting here—on the brink of losing his mother—he realized something.

His father was right.

Doing nothing wasn’t an option.

His pulse thundered in his ears as he realized something else; There was only one way to turn €25,000 into €100,000 in less than 2 hours.

Gambling.

A chill ran down his spine. The idea of this scared him so much that he began to visibly shake. Gambling had ruined his father. Gambling had taken everything from him.

This was crazy idea, but he was out of options. His mother was going to die if he did nothing, and maybe—just maybe—this was crazy enough to work.

Peter gathered the chips into a bag.

Then, he picked up the necklace.

It was a silver chain, slightly worn from age. At its centre hung a small, black card-shaped pendant—etched with a symbol Peter had never understood.

His father had never taken it off. Until now.

Peter stared at it for a long moment. Then, slowly, he slipped it over his head.

The cold metal pressed against his skin.

His hands curled into fists. His decision was made.

It was time to take a risk.

Peter’s legs moved faster, his mind made up. The city’s cold night air bit at his skin as he turned into a shadowy alley.

He stopped.

An unmarked steel door loomed before him, blank and uninviting, as if daring him to enter. Faint voices seeped through the cracks—low murmurs, muffled laughter, the occasional clink of glass. A world hidden just beyond this door.

Peter hesitated.

This was it.

His mother’s face flashed in his mind—her laugh, her warmth, the way she’d always told him he could do anything if he worked hard enough.

But hard work wasn’t going to save her now.

He clenched his jaw. Took a breath.

Then, with a racing heart, he pushed the door open.

Inside, the air hit him like a wall—thick with cigarette smoke, tinged with the scent of whiskey and sweat.

Neon lights flickered overhead, their glow bouncing off gold-painted walls that tried too hard to look expensive. The entire place buzzed with energy—the low hum of conversation, the snap of cards against felt, the spin of a roulette wheel.

Men in tailored suits lounged over poker tables, their faces unreadable. Women in shimmering dresses draped over the arms of winners, laughing in soft, practised tones.

Peter swallowed hard.

He didn’t belong here. Not in his grey hoodie and sneakers. He stood out like a stain on silk. Eyes flicked toward him—some curious, some amused. Others? Annoyed.

His feet felt heavy, but he forced himself forward, heading straight for the counter.

Behind it, a woman leaned lazily against the desk.

She had dark, tired eyes, her eyeliner slightly smudged, as if she'd been here for hours. Her red nails tapped idly against the counter. When she saw Peter, her gaze flicked over him once—slow, assessing.

She smirked. “You lost, kid?”

Peter’s throat felt tight.

He shook his head. “No. I—I want to gamble.”

She arched an eyebrow, unimpressed.

“Do you?” Her voice was cool, laced with amusement.

Peter nodded quickly, his palms slick with sweat. He reached into his hoodie, pulling out the sack of chips his father had left behind.

The woman’s smirk deepened as she leaned forward. “How much?”

Peter’s stomach twisted.

This was it.

No turning back.

He forced himself to meet her gaze.

“All of it.”

Then, with trembling fingers, he emptied the sack onto the counter.