Chapter 110 Roulette (Revised)

Mosk's largest underground casino.

The luxurious private room had only a few people inside, making it seem exceptionally empty. Even though it was physically warm and cozy, it still felt chilly to the touch.

A huge round table, with one person sitting on each side, far apart, creating a tense atmosphere.

The temporary dealer wore a smile, his eyes darting nimbly between the two customers. His fingers were equally nimble, flipping the brand-new cards up and down between his fingers in a dazzling display.

However, no one present was interested in his performance, and the playing cards were left to languish.

"Mr. Trotsky."

The slow, deliberate female voice broke the stagnant and oppressive atmosphere.

"Although this is our first meeting, there's no need for introductions. You seem to know me well, and of course, I know you just as well."

The middle-aged man opposite me was wearing a black suit and a red swirling striped tie, which seemed to be trying to add a touch of elegance, but instead only highlighted his sinister and vicious nature.

A highly venomous viper hiding in a pile of fallen leaves.

He twitched the corners of his mouth, as if he were about to laugh, but it looked more like a muscle spasm.

Hello, Jong-kook, Miss.

Trotsky stared at He Changyi, deliberately emphasizing the pronunciation of "Zhong Guo".

"Why not stay in your warm East, instead of coming to faraway Mosk? A woman, the mission God has given you is to marry and bear children. You should obey that, instead of being greedy for money, which will ruin you."

He Changyi said lazily, "There is no God in the East, and women don't need a God who can boss them around. As for you—"

She changed the subject abruptly, "Didn't your God tell you that murder is a sin? Or does your God want to lead you to hell?"

Trotsky stopped laughing and glared fiercely at He Changyi.

"Zhong Guo, you only survived because you hooked up with an idiot, but do you think you'll always be this lucky?!"

He Changyi retorted sharply, "Eguo Vulture, are you regretting that you couldn't even hook up with a fool? Or are you so itchy that you want to wag your ass at the sight of any man?"

Trotsky was furious. He stood up and hurled the glass at He Changyi!

He Changyi nimbly dodged the attack and then splashed the water from the cup at Trotsky. Trotsky's meticulously styled slicked-back hair fell to the ground, revealing his bald head.

Trotsky, consumed by rage, reached into his suit pocket with his right hand. However, before he could draw his gun, He Changyi had already raised it and aimed at him.

With a series of clicks as safety catches on, the bodyguards standing behind the two men drew their guns and confronted each other, instantly creating an extremely tense atmosphere. The air was thick with the smell of gunpowder, as if a single spark could blow everyone to pieces.

The dealer paused in his card-playing motion, looked around, and with a slight movement of his fingers, instantly gathered the fan-shaped cards together and gently placed them on the table.

“Miss He, Mr. Trotsky, please calm down. This is not a good place to kill someone. If you really need it, I can recommend a more suitable address.”

He Changyi didn't look at him, and said with a smile, "There's no need to choose a location for the murder, but you can recommend a cemetery. Some of us will definitely need it today."

Trotsky dared not move, his right hand awkwardly tucked into his inner pocket, and he said angrily to Mikhail, "Damn it, is this what you meant by her wanting to talk to me?! Talk about what, the location of the cemetery?!"

Mikhail offered a perfunctory reassurance: "Mr. Trotsky, please don't be angry. Miss He really just wanted to talk to you. Otherwise, you wouldn't have come to the casino today."

He then turned to He Changyi with great interest and said, "You've finally changed your mind? I must admit, my previous job really taught me a lot. I have ample experience in all aspects and I'm sure I can meet your needs."

He Changyi ignored him, instead removing the bullet from the gun and placing the pistol and bullets on the table.

She raised her hand, signaling the bodyguards behind her to lower their guns and return to their original positions.

Trotsky looked at He Changyi with suspicion, but his expression was clearly much more relaxed.

He Changyi said in a friendly tone, "Sit down, Mr. Trotsky. I think we don't necessarily have to die now. We still have a chance to talk."

Trotsky was finally able to free his right hand and said impatiently, "What do you want to talk about?"

He Changyi remained silent, glancing at the bodyguards behind him who were still holding their guns.

Mikhail timely reminded him, "Mr. Trotsky, in case you are unaware, we planted a bomb in the room beforehand. It's not very powerful; it's just enough to kill everyone."

Trotsky was seething with hatred, but he could only reluctantly wave his hand, signaling his bodyguards to put away their guns.

The situation seemed to have returned to what it was five minutes ago, but it also seemed completely different.

He Changyi sat casually with a smile on her face, looking relaxed and comfortable, but what she said was completely different.

“Mr. Trotsky, vouchers are indeed a good thing. You want them, and so do I. Unfortunately, the total number of vouchers is limited, and one of us will always be disappointed. You were even disappointed to the point of wanting to kill me, which is truly regrettable.”

Trotsky squinted, then suddenly twitched the corners of his mouth, revealing a hyena-like smile.

“I have a way to solve this problem. As long as you sell me all the vouchers, I guarantee that I will never hold you accountable for taking the vouchers from my territory again.”

He placed his hands on the table, leaned forward, and stared intently at He Changyi.

"Girl, I might even give you a good price."

He Changyi leaned back in his chair, slightly raising his head, but looking down as if he were looking down at someone.

"No, you've misunderstood me."

Then, she casually tossed out a sentence.

"If one of us dies, wouldn't the problem be solved? You must think so too."

As she spoke, she slowly pushed the gun to the center of the table, and it was only then that everyone noticed that it was a revolver.

He Changyi was playing with a bullet; its brass casing looked like a piece of gold under the casino lights.

"Since we're in a casino, let's play a game of Oro roulette."

Trotsky's expression changed, and he said stiffly, "You must be joking!"

He Changyi said in surprise, "Mr. Trotsky, are you afraid of death?"

Without waiting for a reply, she deftly loaded the bullet into the cylinder of the revolver, casually flicked the cylinder, and produced a mechanical whirring sound.

He Changyi hooked one finger on the trigger and happily twirled the pistol.

“Mr. Trotsky, let’s make a bet and see who survives to the end. The stakes are the vouchers in everyone’s hands.”

She said lightly, “If I die, all the warrants raised by the Poplar Fund will be given to you free of charge, and Nikolai can also give them to you; but if you unfortunately die, then the warrants of the Golden Lampstand Fund will belong to me.”

Trotsky was both shocked and furious, repeatedly saying, "You must be insane! Insane!"

He Changyi called out to Mikhail, "Mr. KGB, please be our witness."

Mikhail smiled and said, "Rest assured, I will ensure the smooth execution of the bet's outcome."

He added, "No matter who dies in the end."

He Changyi looked at Trotsky and asked politely, "What order do you prefer? First, or second?"

Seeing that Trotsky remained silent and motionless, He Changyi urged him:

"Don't be like that. Don't be so cowardly that I'll look down on you. Killing someone is nothing. Haven't you ever killed anyone before? Or do you only dare to pay someone to kill you? If so, I'll really look down on you. You're not even as good as a woman. Leave in your skirt, and I'll spare your life."

Trotsky was enraged and, panting heavily, said, "I'm not a coward! It's just roulette; you'll be the one who dies in the end!"

He Changyi clapped with satisfaction and praised, "Great job! I'm so moved by your courage."

Her smile vanished abruptly, and she raised the gun in her right hand, pointing it at her temple.

"Let's begin then."

The entire room fell silent. Everyone stared at He Changyi. The bodyguards behind her changed their expressions drastically. Some tried to step forward to stop her, but she had already pulled the trigger.

哢哒.

Pulling the trigger, the pistol cylinder rotates forward one notch, making a crisp sound.

But there was no bullet in that shot.

At that moment, some people breathed a sigh of relief, while others became even more nervous.

He Changyi put down his pistol, placed it flat on the table with the muzzle facing to the side, and slowly pushed it toward Trotsky.

"Your turn."

Trotsky's facial muscles twitched incessantly. He looked at the pistol on the table, slowly reaching out his hand, but the instant he touched the gun, he felt as if he had been electrocuted, and his fingers trembled as he withdrew.

He Changyi urged impatiently, "Please hurry up, do you want to wait here for the clock to strike midnight?"

Trotsky glared at her fiercely, gritted his teeth, grabbed the pistol on the table, and pointed it at his head.

His finger was on the trigger, but he couldn't press it down.

He Changyi turned to Lermontov and instructed, "I remember there's a spare dress in the trunk. Go get it."

Lermontov was about to say that there were no skirts in the car, as he had never seen He Changyi wear a skirt before.

Before he could finish speaking, Lev suddenly grabbed him, forcing Lermontov to swallow his words and leave, full of confusion.

And just as he turned around, there was another sound.

哢哒.

Lermontov hurriedly turned around to look, only to see Trotsky slumped in a chair as if all his strength had left him, his revolver lying on the table.

"It's your turn."

Trotsky was covered in sweat, but he managed a smug and sinister smile.

He Changyi didn't say much, grabbed a pistol, and shot himself in the head.

哢哒.

This is the third shot; there are now three more chances to fire.

Trotsky's smile hadn't even faded when the pistol was pushed towards him again, and his expression twisted in pain.

"hurry up."

He Changyi even raised his wrist to look at his watch.

"How much longer do you need to prepare mentally? Do you need me to find a priest to do your last confession? Or do you need a lawyer to draft your will?"

Trotsky, enraged and embarrassed, grabbed his pistol, but hesitated before firing. However, upon hearing He Changyi's words ("Lermontov, why are you dawdling like Mr. Trotsky? Go and get your skirt back!"), he pulled the trigger in shame and indignation.

哢哒.

This is the fourth shot; only two unused chambers remain in the revolver's cylinder.

Trotsky stared intently at He Changyi as she casually picked up her revolver, as if it were just a lipstick or a jewelry box, not a murder weapon symbolizing a one-in-half chance of death.

She held the gun with one hand, aimed precisely at his temple, and even gave him a beautiful smile.

Trotsky, however, felt no romantic thoughts whatsoever; instead, he trembled at the thought.

……madman.

...A complete madman.

Even though she died immediately from the gunshot wound, Trotsky was haunted by that bloody, smiling face in his nightmares day and night afterward.

The atmosphere inside the private room was extremely tense. No one spoke, no one moved, and even breathing stopped.

Everyone was staring intently at He Changyi.

An overly pale face, overly bright red lips, overly black hair, and those eyes that, though smiling, were deep and cold.

She was just like an immortal witch on the stake in European legends.

The witch smiled broadly, as if what was about to happen was not death, but a good opportunity to drag everyone else into hell.

The private room at that moment felt like hell.

In the utter silence, time seemed to have stopped; only the faint ticking of the second hand on the watch proved that time was still passing.

"Smack."

Trotsky was so startled that he jumped up from his chair, while He Changyi across from him laughed so hard he almost fell over.

"Why are you so nervous? I was just imitating a gunshot."

She laughed heartily, but her hand holding the gun remained steady, and she made another "bang" sound.

Trotsky was breathing heavily and could barely speak.

"Enough! I've had enough! You must be crazy!"

He turned to leave, shouting, "Fine, fine! As you wish, I won't bother you anymore!"

He Changyi had his bodyguards stop him.

"Mr. Trotsky, don't go! This game isn't over yet."

She stood up as well, and without hesitation, pulled the trigger under Trotsky's horrified gaze!

哢哒.

The atmosphere in the private room was split in two: one half was overjoyed, and the other half was devastated.

Trotsky seemed frozen in place, his face ashen as he watched He Changyi walk towards him step by step.

She stopped in front of him and politely handed him the revolver with both hands.

"now you."

Six chambers, six chances, now there's only one last chance, and the mortality rate this time is—100%.

Trotsky began to tremble.

Everyone saw him sweating profusely, the sweat even soaking his suit and leaving unsightly dark wet stains.

He Changyi didn't urge him, but simply handed the gun in his direction, a clear and obvious hint.

Trotsky twitched the corners of his mouth, a gesture that looked like a smile, yet also like a cry.

He reached out and took the revolver from He Changyi.

But it was too heavy, so heavy that his hand trembled and he almost dropped the gun.

He Changyi gently supported his hand from below, smiling as she said, "Hold on tight."

At this moment, Mikhail's eyes were practically shining as he looked at He Changyi. He spoke quickly and urgently, like marbles in a steel plate.

"The betting game isn't over yet, Mr. Trotsky, you'd better hurry."

Trotsky raised his pistol heavily and slowly, the distance between the two points being as vast as the distance between the South Pole and the North Pole.

With trembling hands, he managed to point the gun at his head, but his arm suddenly lost strength, and the gun fell to the ground.

Mikhail said unhappily, "Mr. Trotsky! Are you mocking me? Don't do that. You don't want to know the methods of a KGB agent; it's not much easier than taking a bullet! Hurry up, you're a Slavic man!"

Under his threat, Trotsky raised his pistol again and painstakingly aimed it at himself.

His hands were trembling violently, and He Changyi asked considerately, "Do you need me to hold your hands?"

Trotsky gritted his teeth, veins bulging on the back of his hand, but he managed to grip the gun firmly.

After repeating this several times, Trotsky finally lowered his hand in despair, as if his spine had been removed, and his fingers loosened, causing the revolver to fall onto the thick carpet.

"...You win."

In this round, he completely conceded defeat.