Without a word, he pours me a beer.
He looks paler than before. Almost nervous.
Interesting.
The bartender sets the beer down in front of me and immediately disappears behind the counter again.
The Devil watches him for a moment, amused.
"He's new," he says casually. "And a little overwhelmed."
"Can't blame him," Death mutters dryly.
For the first time, I think I hear something resembling humor in his voice.
For several minutes, the only sounds are the soft rustling of cards, the clinking of glasses, and, somewhere far in the distance, the muffled rumble of a passing train.
The atmosphere at the table slowly begins to change.
More focused. Heavier.
Almost tangible.
The Devil watches my every move.
Death, on the other hand, studies his cards as though he has all the time in the world.
Finally, he slowly looks up.
"Then I'll ask the first question," he says calmly.
The Devil immediately leans back with interest.
"Ooooh, now things are getting really interesting."
Death ignores him completely.
His gaze rests on me.
Endless stars beneath the hood.
"Why do you want to live?"
I look down at my cards.
Two kings. My salvation?
Slowly, I raise my eyes.
"Because existence itself has meaning."
The Devil immediately makes a face.
"That sounds alarmingly philosophical."
I ignore him.
"Even the smallest life leaves something behind."
Death barely moves.
"And what do I leave behind?" the Devil asks, amused.
I take a sip of beer.
"Work."
"Life. Death. Work," Death murmurs calmly, looking down at his cards. "In the end, everything is connected anyway."
He reaches into the pocket of his hoodie, pulls out a crumpled fifty-euro bill, and places it on the table.
I take a fifty from my wallet as well and slowly slide it toward the center.
The Devil watches us both for a moment, clearly amused. Then he reaches into the inside pocket of his white pinstripe suit and adds a single fifty of his own.
"Anything more would be a waste anyway," he says, sounding almost bored.
"Even if you win this hand, you won't be around to spend it."
Death lifts his cards slightly.
"You talk too much," he mutters calmly.
"And you don't talk enough."
The Devil grins broadly and pulls two cards from his hand.
"Two new ones."
Death gives an almost imperceptible nod and silently deals him two cards.
Apparently, Death really is the dealer.
The Devil studies his new cards and leans back with satisfaction.
Of course.
I look down at my hand again.
Two kings are still a solid start, but the queen does nothing for me. Neither does the ten.
I discard the ten of hearts.
"One card," I say calmly.
Death silently slides a new card toward me.
King of clubs.
My hand now consists of the king of spades, king of hearts, king of clubs, queen of diamonds, and jack of clubs.
Now we're getting somewhere.
The Devil studies my face carefully.
I take another sip of beer and do my best to look just as bored as before.
"Now he's starting to enjoy himself," the Devil murmurs with satisfaction.
"Not even close."
Death doesn't draw a single card.
Of course he doesn't.