The Devil raises an eyebrow slightly.
"Bold."
"Experienced," Death corrects him calmly.
For a moment, nobody says a word. Only the soft rustling of cards and the distant hum of the city break through the heavy silence of the bar.
Then the Devil slowly places his cards facedown on the table.
"My question," he suddenly announces, turning toward Death.
Death doesn't react.
"You're not allowed to lie," the Devil reminds him, sounding almost cheerful.
Slowly, Death raises his head. Stars and darkness drift lazily beneath his hood.
The Devil smiles wickedly.
"Have you ever truly felt sorry for someone?"
Death doesn't answer immediately.
His long fingers rest motionless on his cards. Even the stars beneath his hood seem to slow down.
What a question.
The Devil leans back comfortably, looking thoroughly pleased with himself as he waits for an answer. Apparently, he enjoys the idea of making even Death stop and think for a moment.
Death studies his cards as though the answer might be hidden somewhere between the spades and hearts.
"You mean the dead?" he finally asks calmly.
"Of course I mean the dead."
Death remains silent for another moment.
"No."
The Devil immediately breaks into a satisfied grin.
But Death continues.
"Often the living, though."
For an instant, silence settles over the table. Even the Devil briefly loses his smile.
"The ones left behind when someone suddenly leaves a hole in their lives," Death murmurs quietly. "Sometimes I feel sorry for them."
There is an uncomfortable honesty in his words.
I look down at my cards, clinging to my three kings.
The Devil slowly turns his whiskey glass between his fingers. The ice inside cracks softly.
"How touching," he finally says dryly.
Death doesn't respond.
Of course he doesn't.
The Devil turns his attention back to me.
"Your turn."
"To bet or to ask a question?"
His grin returns immediately.
"Preferably both."
I take another sip of beer and study my hand once more.
It's solid. Perhaps even dangerously solid.
Slowly, I pull another fifty-euro bill from my wallet and place it on the table.
"I raise."
The Devil raises an eyebrow with interest.
"Now I'm enjoying this evening again."
Death glances briefly at the money but says nothing.
The Devil calls without hesitation.
Of course he does.
"And your question?" he asks with deliberate casualness.
I let my gaze travel between the two of them.
Death.
The Devil.
A bar in the middle of the night.
Playing poker for my very existence.
Is this really how I'm supposed to end?
I think for a moment, studying the cunning expression on the face across from me.
I can already tell he has an answer prepared for a question I haven't even asked yet.
Why me? Why did you choose me? Why now?
I still had so much I wanted to do.
"All right," I say calmly.
"Then I'd like to know..."
The bartender approaches the table, places another glass of whiskey in front of the Devil, and takes away the empty one.
The Devil leans forward.
"Yes? What do you want to know?"
I take a deep breath.
"What was your biggest mistake?"
Bluff!
He couldn't possibly have expected that.
And sure enough, I see surprise in his eyes, followed by something that almost resembles respect.
Death, meanwhile, bursts into loud laughter, bringing his hands up to where a human face would be.
He points at the Devil.
"The look on your face! Priceless!"
The Devil doesn't even glance at him.
Instead, he thoughtfully studies the whiskey glass in his hand, turning it slightly between his fingers. His ostentatious signet ring glitters on his slender ring finger.
"I suppose most people would expect the obvious answer. Pride comes before a fall. At least, I imagine that's what they'd expect me to say. But that would be too easy, wouldn't it?"
He falls silent for a moment and looks at me.
If there were a color darker than black, that would be the color of his eyes right now.
"No," he finally says quietly.
"My biggest mistake was falling in love once."
For a moment, nobody speaks.
The Devil smiles, but the smile no longer reaches his eyes.
"That didn't end well."
He takes a sip of whiskey.
"First, it ended badly for me. Then she paid the price."
He casts a furtive glance toward Death.
And I understand.
"Oh, yes. I remember," Death sighs.
The Devil speaks of love as though it were a disease he once caught and never completely recovered from.
Death continues studying his cards while my gaze wanders around the bar.
The red lamps.
The empty counter.
The bartender nervously polishing a glass that has long since been spotless.
And finally, my eyes settle on the old wall clock above the bar.
Two thirty.
Interesting.
I have thirty minutes left to win this game.
Or forty-five minutes to finish my last beer.
I'm not particularly fond of that thought.
The Devil slowly sets his glass back on the table.
"Well," he murmurs, sounding almost satisfied. "Now we all have our answers."
Death slowly raises his head.
"Not quite."
His deep whisper drifts heavily through the bar.
"So far, all we've done is talk."
He looks at the cards in his hand.
"It's about time we got down to business."
Business!
He means me, of course.
More precisely, my impending death.
I slowly set my beer back on the table.
"I get a say in this," I tell him calmly. "Those are the rules."
The Devil chuckles.
"Don't worry. We'll stick to them."
His gaze shifts to the clock above the bar.
Two thirty.
For the first time tonight, I think I detect a hint of impatience on his face.
Death silently places a card on the table.
Ace of spades.
The Devil glances down at it, raises an eyebrow almost imperceptibly, and lays down a card of his own.
Nine of diamonds.
Slowly, the next round begins.
No more hurried movements.
No more casual wisecracks.
Only the soft sliding of cards across the dark wood.
The dull ticking of the clock above the bar suddenly seems unpleasantly loud.
The Devil and I are watching more than just each other's moves.
Above all, we're watching the time.
Death, on the other hand, seems almost unchanged.
Calm. Nearly indifferent.
As though he's already lived through this evening.
"You know," the Devil suddenly says, slowly turning a card between two fingers, "most living beings in the universe always think they have more time."
I don't discard another card.
"I stand pat."
The Devil's eyebrows twitch briefly.
"And you think they're wrong?" I ask.
"Without exception."
Death doesn't even look up from his cards.
"Not without exception," he murmurs calmly.
The Devil ignores him.
For a brief moment, that strange tension returns between the two of them.
Ancient. Weary. Familiar.
The Devil reaches for his whiskey glass.
"You're playing remarkably calmly for someone who may have only a few minutes left."
"Maybe I'm doing an excellent job of blocking it out."
"No," the Devil says almost gently. "You're thinking."
Damn.
Of course that's what he thinks I'm doing.
He'd probably even notice if my heart beat just a little faster.
I glance at the clock again.
Two forty.
Twenty minutes left.
The atmosphere in the bar has changed completely.
Earlier, it was all a game.
Entertainment. Mockery. Dark humor.
Now something else lies between the cards.
Something heavy.
Something final.
Even the bartender has begun moving more cautiously, as though he's afraid the slightest sound might disturb something crucial.
Death slowly gathers his cards together.
"I raise," he murmurs calmly.
The Devil immediately smiles.
Of course he calls.
I study my hand.
My three kings are still there.
Good.
But perhaps not good enough.
Slowly, I place another fifty-euro bill on the table.
The Devil studies me with interest.
"Bold."
I shrug.
"Or maybe I'm just a sore loser."
"Oh, you most definitely are," he murmurs with complete confidence.