Like a shadow with a cigar

---

The window was open.The wind played with the curtains,as if they were breathing.

Red sat on the bed, his forehead in his hands.His head pounded.His thoughts burned.

Trapped. Betrayal. Blood. Mafioso – too late.A knife. A whisper. A game that ended before he even understood it.

He breathed heavily,turned to the mirror.

There he stood.

Chance.

Not quite real.A bit translucent,as if he were formed from smoke.

The cigarette wasn't smoldering,but it hung casually between his fingers.

His grin was broad,his gaze half tired, half amused.

"Well, sweetheart? Finally awake?"

Red recoiled.The mirror showed him alone.Then both of them again.Then the image flickered like an old film.

"What... what are you?"

"Your personal tour guide through the beautiful hell you've built for yourself," Chance replied dryly."Or, more simply: a figment of your imagination with style."

He flicked "the cigarette" away.It vanished into thin air.

"But don't worry. I'm here to help.With sarcasm, trauma, and maybe a minor nervous breakdown. Deal?"

Red took a shallow breath.

"Why now? Why you?"

Chance shrugged.

"Well... you're scratching at the truth again. Memories grow like weeds. And those who pull weeds sometimes find the corpse underneath."

Red swallowed.A cold shiver ran down his spine.

"I'm afraid of what I'll find."

Chance stepped closer.The room flickered.He looked him straight in the eyes.

"Good."

"Because that means you're closer than ever."

"But be sure, Red..."

"If you keep digging... it won't just burn you."

One last look.A brief flicker.Then he disappeared.

Red was left behind.

Heart pounding—and the taste of cigarette smoke in the air that had never actually existed.

---

Red lay on the bed,his face buried deep in the pillow.The fabric was cool,but the pressure in his head was hot and simmering.

His breathing was uneven.The silence in the room thundered.

Nothing made sense.Too many scraps, too many questions.And no answers. No peace.

The door was closed.The room was dark.Only the faint light of the streetlamp wandered across the wall like a ghost.

"So..."

Red shuddered.

"Honestly?"

The voice.Again.

Chance.

He was leaning casually against the wall next to the bookshelf –wearing the same jacket as before,hands in his pockets,no cigarette this time, but with that familiar mischief in his eyes.

"I imagined my older self to be more stylish."

Red half-turned, his forehead red from the pillow.

"Shut. Up."

Chance raised an eyebrow.

"I mean, really – where's the sparkle? The thrill? The dangerous aura?""Instead: dark circles under his eyes, self-pity, and a haircut that looks like it's been insulted by the wind."

Red threw a pillow at him.It flew right through him. Of course.

Chance clapped theatrically.

"Very effective. You're going to kill me again this time with style."

Red snorted, turned away again.

"I'm tired, Chance."

A brief silence.Then, quietly—almost without mockery:

"I know.I was too.Back then."

Red opened his eyes.

"What do you mean?"

Chance stepped away from the shelf and went to the windowsill.

"When you play someone for so long, you eventually forget who you are.You were Chance.And you were damn good at it.But you were also... real. Somewhere underneath."

He looked out into the night.

"You laughed before you learned to bluff.Now you have to rediscover both.And yes I'm just a hallucination.But I'm your hallucination. So listen up."

Red stared at the ceiling.

His own echo has more courage than he does.

"You're so annoying."

Chance grinned.

"I'm you.What does that say about you?"

---

To be continued...