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Ciel is eighteen - a little vain as all adolescents are in the prime of their life, sharp edges wrapped in a build that his surrogate brothel mothers and sisters fawn over every time he visits. The world of Velder’s underbelly is opening for him like a blooming flower, and it's as if he were born into the life of organised crime rather than introduced, the way he takes to it.
But there is still a seed of hatred, the loathing of those who hurt the defenceless and if bandits learn to avoid the town of fire because not one of their kind walks out again, it is purely coincidence.
Ciel is eighteen when he receives the letter delivered by a man he does not trust further than he can kill him - his name is Yvan, Ciel remembers as his eyes scan the neat words. An invitation to a party with the Don's inner circle.
Promotion crosses his mind. It was not unheard of to have people as young as he to be among the Boss' confidants.
So he accepts as all questionably sane men should, and finds himself at a private room behind a very fancy restaurant. It smells of sawdust and expensive liquor, the air hazy with the rich scent of cigar. Yvan claps him on the back and whispers in his ear, making his skin crawl.
“Close your eyes. It helps.”
Ciel is perplexed.
Advice? From the Don’s right-hand man? It doesn’t sit well with him, but it’s too late to think on it because the boss himself is addressing him.
The head is an older man. A huge, curling white moustache that calls to mind the great seals of Hamel sprouts from a nose that is perpetually knitted to his equally as tangled eyebrows. The gleam in his deep set eyes is disconcerting. Even more disconcerting than the rest of the inner circle standing casually around the dining table and eyeing Ciel like a cut of meat.
“My boy,” The boss greets in his thick foreign accent. He never addresses anyone by name. “I have heard good things from you.”
Ciel bends his head stiffly. “Thank you, Boss.”
A look is cast over him like a net and Ciel is waved to the seat before him. “Sit, sit. We have much to discuss.”
The rest of the boss’ retinue sit after their leader and Ciel carefully mirrors their movements. There is a small bell on the table that the boss rings twice. He puts the bell down in a muted, dissonant ring and steeples his fingers, looking at Ciel over the tips.
“Before we have our meal, I would like you to play a game with me.”
That brings alarm to Ciel that he carefully schools off his face. A game with the don while the others most loyal to him watch was either ceremony or a bullet in the head if he did something wrong.
“What are the rules?” Ciel is proud that his voice does not waver under the impassive gazes of assassins much older and more experienced than he.
An attendant quietly enters and places an old box on the table before the boss, eyes lowered in deferment. They bow and exit the room but not without one look of pity in Ciel’s direction as the old man lifts the lid and brings out a gun with a revolving chamber. The boss looks up and his moustache twitches in a way that suggests he was smiling.
“Don’t die.” He says.
Ciel’s heart leaps to his throat. Russian Roulette? To his surprise, only a single bullet is removed from the chamber, clattering onto the table without care. Beneath the table, Ciel’s left knee quivers.
“Ours is a little different from the original,” the Don say in his accented voice. “There is only one chance of survival.”
The boss spins the chamber and locks it with a flick of his wrist. The old man places the weapon on the wooden surface of the table and slides it to Ciel and he stares down at it, heart hammering in his throat. His stomach clenches as he gazes at the polished metal, gleaming dimly in the low light.
“An assassin is five parts skill and one part luck. You have shown your skill, now show your luck.”
Slowly, Ciel picks up the revolver, feeling its heavy weight in his hand. One chance in six. The odds were stacked against him here. He couldn’t just bail out, not with the inner circle here watching.
Then again, what did he have to lose?
No real family, no real friends. Just an orphan with a life-debt to this walrus of a man.
Ciel thumbs back the hammer and raises the gun to his head, eyes meeting the black pits of the Don’s own face.
One…
Two…
Breathe…
…
Click-
Ciel opens his eyes, not sure when he’d closed them. By some miracle, he was still alive…
The boss laughs uproariously, hands out in celebration. The men closest to Ciel clap him on the back in congratulation and the waiter appears again with expensive whiskey. Ciel’s head spins at the shock and adrenaline.
“Welcome!” They say. “To the inner circle.”