Someone once said, 'In a real dark night of the soul, it is always three o'clock in the morning, day after day.' Whoever it was touched something very real about the aching of a spirit in the small hours of the morning. Cesare sat motionless at his desk in the theater speakeasy, propping his body up with his grip on the crystal decanter of whiskey in front of him. He'd ordered everyone out of the building, and though not a single person thought it was a good idea to leave, everyone knew it was a bad idea to stay. The only light in the room was a small desk lamp which shone one bright sphere on the center of the wooden surface. Shining in the center of the circle was a .22 snub nosed revolver.

Cesare rolled a bullet between his fingers. So small a thing capable of so much. He closed his eyes and considered momentarily if this small little thing could banish the ever-present sense of incompleteness; if perhaps it could blow the memories right out of his head. His finger ran over the smooth lead top. 

He gripped the stock of the revolver and flipped the cylinder out, gently sliding the round into a chamber. He paused a moment and stared at the weapon. If Luck or Fate had any more use for him, this would be the time to show it. He spun the cylinder and snapped it closed into the weapon before pulling the hammer back and set it back on the desk. He pulled the top out of the decanter and unceremoniously gulped the amber liquid from its neck.

Sliding the container away, he picked the revolver up and pressed the top of the barrel against his forehead. He didn't know what he wanted to happen exactly, but still his hand brought the instrument to his temple and rested it plush against his warming skin. He suddenly felt very curious as to the feeling of death. Was death cold or warm? Light or dark? Eternal or fleeting? Was death a cruel grasping boney finger or a gentle soft call from a angel's lips?

He needed to know. He had to kn-

*Click*

The hammer fell into the empty chamber and Cesare let the gun fall back onto the desk.

That wasn't a sign from Fate, that was the odds. Anyone can bet on 5-1 and expect to win.

He took a deep breath before quickly grabbing the revolver again, before he could think his thumb had brought the hammer back and the barrel pressed into the depression of his temple.

*Click*

4-1, the hammer drew back again,

*Click*

Nikki.

*Click*

He hadn't expected that.

The name had crawled out of the deep recess of his mind and jumped forward when he believed he could be thinking his last thoughts...

He looked at the revolver. Two chambers untested.

50/50 odds. Now that was a bet on Fate.

This would be it. The culmination of life. Everything that ever was or would be for him converging in this moment. The cold barrel pressed into his head and he began counting backwards in his mind from five...

in the room, nothing stirred as his figure arched over the desk in the darkness.

He could almost taste the coffee in the resplendent desert night

Nearly feel the warmth of lips pressed against his own in the cool Venetian twilight

Almost hear her steps across the room and the falling of her breath...

*Click*