Denial, Cigarettes, and Other Coping Mechanisms

The air felt heavier after Chance vanished.The only sound left in the room was the faint hum of the city outside and the quiet tick of the old clock on the wall.

Red sat on the couch, still looking at the spot where Chance had been, his face pale and unreadable. Mafioso stood by the window, back turned, trying to light a cigarette with slightly trembling hands.

The lighter clicked. Once. Twice.The flame finally caught.

Mafioso exhaled a long plume of smoke, voice low."He's lying."

Red blinked, looking up. "What?"

Mafioso didn't turn around. "That thing about me being schizophrenic. It's bullshit."

Red hesitated. "You sound awfully defensive for someone who just kissed air."

Mafioso gave him a sharp look over his shoulder. "Watch it."

Red raised his hands. "Just saying."

For a while, neither spoke.The silence between them was awkward, uncomfortable — too full of thoughts neither of them wanted to unpack.

Finally, Red said, "...You don't think it's true? Any of it?"

Mafioso took another drag of his cigarette, eyes hard. "He twists everything. Always has. Even when he's right, he makes it sound wrong."

Red frowned. "But he said I'm him. That I'm Chance."

Mafioso exhaled sharply. "You're not him."

"How do you know?" Red asked quietly.

Mafioso turned fully now, expression caught somewhere between irritation and something almost like fear. "Because Chance was..." He stopped. "...different."

Red tilted his head. "Different how?"

Mafioso stared at the floor. "He never shut up. He never stopped smiling, even when he should've. He was reckless. Infuriating. But... he wasn't like you."

Red waited. "...You sound like you miss him."

Mafioso's jaw tightened. "Missing him and being haunted by him are two different things."

Red leaned forward, elbows on his knees. "Then what if he's right, though? What if—what if I am him, and you're just—" he hesitated, searching for words— "seeing what you want to see?"

Mafioso let out a short, humorless laugh. "You think I want to see him like this? As some... half-real phantom making jokes about my sanity?"

Red didn't answer.

Mafioso took another drag and muttered, "He always did have a sick sense of humor."

They sat there again in silence.Red's thoughts spiraled quietly — the flashbacks, the dreams, the memories that didn't feel like his own. Everything Chance had said replayed in his head like broken glass spinning in water.

"I'm your subconscious, sweetheart.""You just don't want to remember."

Red finally spoke, softly. "He knew things I didn't. About the past. About ITrapped. About you."

Mafioso's voice was sharp. "He claims to know."

"But what if he's telling the truth?" Red pressed. "What if he's not a hallucination or a ghost or whatever, but—me? Like... a version of me that never died?"

Mafioso's silence was his only answer.

Red stood up, pacing now. "He knew about the casino. About the gun. About things you never told me. How would he know if he wasn't—"

"Stop," Mafioso interrupted, voice low and warning.

Red looked at him, eyes narrow. "You're afraid it's true."

Mafioso's hand twitched around the cigarette. "...I'm not afraid."

"Yeah," Red said dryly. "You're terrified."

That earned him a glare sharp enough to cut glass.But underneath it — there was something else. Something tired. Haunted.

Mafioso finally spoke again, quieter this time.

"If he really is you... then it means I already lost you once."

Red blinked. "What?"

Mafioso looked up, eyes softer now, unreadable. "And if I believe him—if I let myself believe that—you'll disappear, too."

Red didn't know what to say to that.

So he didn't.

He just watched Mafioso stub out the cigarette in the ashtray, his hand trembling just slightly, the faint scent of smoke and regret hanging in the air.

After a while, Red said quietly, "Maybe you didn't lose him. Maybe you just forgot where to look."

Mafioso's lips twitched — a flicker of a bitter smile.

"Don't start sounding like him."

Red shrugged, forcing a small grin. "Someone has to."

Outside, thunder rumbled faintly in the distance — the kind of storm that promised everything would change.

Neither of them knew if Chance would come back that night.

But both of them, in their own way, hoped he would.