2025-01-15 16:02:53Peter had passed out. Hours later, his eyes flickered open. He wasn’t healed. He wasn’t saved. But he was alive. And for the first time in his short, miserable life, he felt the faintest glimmer of something foreign.
Hope. The rain poured steadily, washing blood and grime from his face. His body screamed in protest as he raised himself to a seated position, his limbs heavy as lead. The pain was unbearable, but the fact that he’d survived—that he could move at all—left him more stunned than anything. It had to be a dream, Peter thought. But as he clutched his chest, gasping for breath, the semi-transparent screen appeared in front of him again, its glow cutting through the rain. …….. [PLAYER PROFILE] LEVEL: 1 EXP: 0/100 Skill: None Inventory: See more... ……. Peter blinked, his eyes widening. “Oh, it definitely wasn’t a dream,” he muttered. …… [SYSTEM REPORT] Default system skill attained: Bank Roll Level 1 – 1 million euros per day. Explanation: The player is granted 1 million euros into their account daily to gamble with. Note: This money cannot be used for any other purpose except gambling. …… “What? That’s impossible!” Peter gasped. His phone beeped. Trembling, he pulled it out of his pocket and stared at the screen. [The sum of one million euros has been credited to your account.] Peter froze, his jaw slack. “I’ll be damned…” he whispered in disbelief. …… [QUEST ACTIVATED: ROULETTE REVENGE] Objective: Win a game of roulette. Reward: +5 EXP, Unlock new skill. Penalty: Loss of system forever. ….. Peter clenched his fists and staggered to his feet, swaying like a new-born fawn. There was no use contemplating. He had nothing left to lose and everything to gain. His pride. His father’s necklace. And most importantly, the chance to pay for his mother’s surgery. One unsteady step after another, Peter made his way back to the gambling house. He wasn’t sure how he managed it, but a quarter of an hour later, he was standing at its entrance. He pushed through the door, soaked to the bone and trembling. The woman at the counter looked up, startled. Her face shifted from mild annoyance to outright shock as her gaze fell on Peter. His face was bruised and bloodied, his clothes torn and stained with rain and filth. “Kid…” she began cautiously, her brows knitting together. “I don’t know what happened to you, but you need to turn around and head to a hospital.” Peter met her gaze, his bloodshot eyes burning with desperation. “This is a gambling den, isn’t it?” he said. She stared at him, silent. The question wasn’t rhetorical, but it didn’t need an answer. “I’m here to gamble,” Peter said, his voice low and steady. It wasn’t the voice of the timid seventeen-year-old she’d met earlier. It was the voice of a man who had been to hell and back, who had made a deal with the devil and survived to tell the tale. She swallowed hard. “How much are you gambling?” “All of it,” Peter said, slapping his atm card onto the counter. Her eyes flickered to the card, then back to his face. Hesitating for a moment, she swiped it. When the numbers popped up on her screen, her breath caught in her throat. A million euros. “How…” she began, but she bit back the question. She wasn’t foolish enough to press. Instead, she handed him 20 chips, each worth fifty thousand euros. “Good luck, kid,” she said quietly. The gambling floor hadn’t changed, but Peter had. The noise of the room—the laughter, shouting, clinking glasses, and slot machines—washed over him like background static. He surveyed the floor, his eyes sharp and calculating. He wasn’t looking for a table. He was looking for a man. “FALCONE!” Peter’s voice thundered across the room. The chatter stopped instantly, all eyes turning toward him. “I’m back for a REBET!” Falcone turned slowly, his expression unreadable at first. Then he saw Peter. “I’ll be damned,” Falcone muttered, a grin spreading across his face. “You’re alive.” He strode forward, his aura of intimidation radiating with every step. But Peter didn’t flinch. His back was against the wall, and the only way forward was through Falcone. “Kid, you’re really something, you know that?” Falcone said, stopping inches from Peter. His voice was calm, but his gaze bore into Peter like a blade. “Tell me—why would I gamble with you again?” Peter didn’t hesitate. “A million euros,” he said. Falcone’s grin faltered. “What?” Peter opened his bag and tilted it slightly, revealing the chips inside. Gasps rippled through the crowd. “A single bet. All on black,” Peter said firmly. Falcone stared at him, frozen for a moment. Then he threw back his head and laughed—a deep, booming laugh that echoed through the room. “You’re insane,” he said, his amusement clear. Peter didn’t smile. “If I win, I walk out of here with my necklace—and an extra million.” Falcone stopped laughing, his gaze turning icy. For a moment, the air between them crackled with tension. Then, slowly, Falcone nodded. “All right, kid. You’ve got yourself a bet.” The roulette table gleamed under the dim lights, its polished surface reflecting the tension in the room. The crowd pressed closer, the hum of whispers turning into a heavy, suffocating silence. Peter stood across from Falcone, his battered face unreadable, though his fists trembled slightly at his sides. Falcone, by contrast, leaned back in his chair, smug as ever, exuding the confidence of a man who always had the upper hand. The dealer gestured to Peter. “Place your bet.” Peter stepped forward, his breaths shallow but steady. One by one, he stacked his chips on black. Each chip clinked against the felt louder than it should have, each sound sending ripples through the room. “All on black,” Peter said, his voice steady, though inside, his heart was pounding like a drum. The whispers surged behind him. “A million euros? On one spin?” “This kid’s insane.” “Who even does this?” Falcone chuckled, his eyes gleaming with amusement. “You’ve got guts, kid. Too bad guts won’t change the odds.” Peter didn’t respond. He stepped back, folding his arms as his gaze locked onto the wheel. The dealer raised his hands. “Ladies and gentlemen, bets are closed.” The wheel began to spin, the blur of red and black a hypnotic spiral. The dealer flicked the small white ball, sending it careening in the opposite direction. The sound of the ball clattering against the wheel’s metal grooves cut through the silence. The rhythm was erratic, chaotic. Peter’s world shrank to that spinning wheel. Every nerve in his body was taut, every muscle wound tight. The sound of the ball grew louder, sharper, until it was all he could hear. Click. Click. Click. The ball jumped, bounced, and rattled like it had a mind of its own. It was impossible to predict where it might land, and each unpredictable bounce felt like a blow to Peter’s chest. His hands clenched into fists. His nails dug into his palms, but he didn’t notice. His eyes stayed glued to the ball as though his sheer willpower could sway it. This is it. This has to work. Falcone, still leaning back, smirked. “Looks like the house might win again, kid.” Peter didn’t take his eyes off the wheel. The ball slowed, teasing as it hovered over a red number. His heart stopped. Not red. Please, not red. It bounced again, ricocheting off the divider, wobbling over to black for the briefest of moments. “Yes,” Peter whispered under his breath, hope surging through his chest. But the ball didn’t stay. Click. It teetered dangerously between red and black, as if mocking him. Peter’s breath caught, his body frozen. Stay. Just stay. The room seemed to hold its collective breath. Even the air felt heavy, charged with anticipation. The ball wobbled again, its momentum faltering. Time slowed to a crawl. Falcone leaned forward now, his smirk fading ever so slightly. His fingers tapped rhythmically against the table, betraying his impatience. “Come on,” someone whispered in the crowd. The ball skittered over to black, landed, and wobbled—hovering just on the edge. Peter’s pulse thundered in his ears, drowning out every other sound. His entire life balanced on that ball. His pride, his future, his mother’s survival—it was all tied to this moment. Click. The ball shifted again, pausing between black and red as though deciding its allegiance. Peter’s jaw clenched so tightly it hurt. It rolled once more, bouncing off the rim of a black number and— Stopped. Black.
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