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    Summary

    Aventurine slides the revolver into his hand. The weight of it rests deftly against his palm. He pops open the cylinder—true to Sunday’s word, five empty chambers stare back at him. Neatly slotted in the sixth is one shining, fresh round.

    He closes it back up, smiling. “You weren’t lying about the single round, at the very least.”

    Sunday folds his hands atop one another, his face impassive. “You could always answer the question if you’re nervous.”

    “I think I’ll take my chances.” Aventurine cocks the hammer, relishing in the sound of the cylinder’s spin, and then points it at his own temple. He tilts his head up so that he’s looking down at Sunday, and lets a lazy grin spread from ear to studded ear.

     

    Bang, he mouths, as he presses down on the trigger.

     

    (Sunday and Aventurine play twenty questions, in which a refusal to answer might sink a bullet in their brain. Also, they strip.)

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