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Summary
Alastor didn’t meet his eyes; his gaze stayed fixed on the gun in his hand as he opened the cylinder and tipped the remaining bullets into his hand. He looked at them for a moment, rattling them around with muted clinks before finally taking one between his fingers and slipping it into a chamber. “Have you ever played Russian roulette?”
Eyes wide, Vox couldn’t suppress his derisive snort. “Fuck no. Why would I?” He watched Alastor snap the cylinder back into place and give it a spin, the chrome flashing like a disco ball. Vox swallowed. “Have you?”
The smirk Alastor shot him was dark and dangerous, and he felt his heart clench. “Once. It was quite a rush.” With his thumb, he pulled the hammer back; there was a decisive click as it locked into place. “Fancy a game?”
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OR: Old men will do literally anything but go to therapy.