The city’s power grid flickers as the first
bullet cracks through the vault door. The mob’s
accountant, known only as "Gunner,"
steps into
the neonlit basement of an abandoned speakeasy.
His hands are steady, but his mind races. The
billionaire’s men have given him two choices:
join the tournament or be erased.
The tournament is a weekly event, held in the
backrooms of closed clubs. Each round is a
brutal test of skill, loyalty, and luck. The
prize? A sealed envelope containing a check for
$1 million — and a guarantee of safety from the
billionaire’s reach. But the rules are clear:
once you enter, you can’t leave until you win or
die.
Gunner’s first opponent is a former NFL player
turned enforcer, whose biceps are as big as his
ego. They play poker in a circle of dim light
and smoke. Gunner folds early, watching the
man’s confidence shrink with each loss. By the
third round, the player’s face is red, his hands
shaking. He slams his chips down and screams,
“I’m not a joke!” The crowd laughs. Gunner
doesn’t.
The next week, Gunner faces a woman with a
silver tongue and a .38 revolver hidden in her
purse. She wins the round by bluffing, then
leans in and whispers, “You’re next.” The rule
against speaking to opponents is strict — any
verbal exchange results in immediate
disqualification and a bullet to the head.
Gunner says nothing. He watches her leave, her
smile sharp as a blade.
By the fourth round, the tournament has drawn
attention from the city’s elite. A newspaper
reporter, dressed in a tailored suit and fedora,
sneaks in with a notebook. He’s there to expose
the billionaire’s operation, but the rules don’t
allow outside interference. If he’s caught, he’s
out — and not just from the game. The reporter
scribbles notes between rounds, unaware that the
billionaire’s men are already watching him.
The final round is a threeway showdown. Gunner
faces the NFL player and the woman with the
revolver. The stakes are higher: the winner gets
the check, but the losers are taken to a
warehouse on the edge of town. No one returns
from there. The table is crowded, the air thick
with tension. Gunner bets everything — his life,
his freedom, his name. The cards are dealt. He
holds a full house.
The woman folds. The player stares at his hand,
then at Gunner. He shakes his head and walks
away. The reporter, who had been watching from
the shadows, steps forward. The rules say no
outsiders, but the billionaire’s men are
distracted. The reporter is pulled out, but not
before he shouts, “This is a crime!” The crowd
erupts. Gunner doesn’t move.
The billionaire’s representative slides the
envelope across the table. Gunner opens it.
Inside is a check, but also a note: “You’re not
done.” The tournament ends. The lights go out.
The city sleeps. But Gunner knows the game isn’t
over — it’s just beginning.
