Chapter 1: The First Roll
CHAPTER 1 - THE FIRST ROLL
Darkness. Heavy breathing.
JOHN (40s, out of shape, terrified) runs down an empty alley. His shoes splash in puddles. His heart pounds in his ears.
He looks back.
Nothing.
He keeps running.
Then he stops.
A figure stands before him. Tall. Blond. Face marked with scars.
Norman (29) doesn't move. Doesn't breathe.
John tries to run. His legs won't move.
Norman takes a step forward.
"You ran fast, John."
John opens his mouth. No sound comes out.
Norman reaches into his pocket. Pulls out a white dice.
He places it on a wooden crate between them.
"You know how this works."
John shakes his head. Tears fall.
Norman's voice is cold. Flat. Empty.
"You lost, John."
John falls to his knees. Tears mix with rain.
Norman doesn't move. He just watches.
"Please..." John whispers.
Norman tilts his head. Like a curious child watching an insect.
"You knew the rules."
He picks up the dice. Rolls it in his palm.
"But I'll give you something John. Hope."
John looks up.
Norman's scarred face catches a flicker of light.
"Not all my victims die. Some choose the right number. Some live."
He crouches down. His face inches from John's.
"The question is... will you?"
He places the dice between them.
"Choose a number. One to six."
John's hand shakes as he reaches for the dice.
Norman slaps his hand away.
"No. You don't touch it. You just choose."
"Six," John says quickly. "I choose six."
Norman smiles. Cold. Empty.
"Six."
He picks up the dice.
"Are you sure?"
John nods.
Norman rolls.
The dice spins. Slows. Stops.
Four.
John exhales. Almost laughs.
Norman doesn't move.
"You said if I choose wrong I die," John says. "I chose six. It's four. I live."
Norman stands.
"I lied."
He puts the dice back in his pocket.
John's face crumbles. His lips move, but no words come out. Just air. Just fear.
Norman takes out a gun. Old. A cowboy revolver. Silver with a wooden grip.
The alley is silent. Even the city sounds seem to stop.
"The dice was never the game, John."
He points the gun at John's forehead. The metal is cold against his skin.
"The game was hope."
John closes his eyes.
Tears fall down his cheeks.
"Please," he whispers one last time. "My daughter. She's only seven."
Norman doesn't blink.
"She'll forget you."
*BLAM. *
The sound echoes through the alley. A dog barks in the distance. Somewhere, a car alarm starts.
John's body slides down the wall. A dark stain spreads across his chest.
Norman stands there for a moment. Watching.
No emotion. No satisfaction. No guilt.
Just emptiness.
He crouches down. Wipes the dice clean with a cloth. Puts it back in his pocket.
Then he takes something else from his pocket. A single red rose. Wilted. Dark at the edges.
He places it on John's chest.
Stands up.
Walks away without looking back.
No emotion. No satisfaction. No guilt.
Just emptiness.
The alley is silent now. The city sounds have returned, but they feel far away. Distant. Like a world Norman no longer belongs to.
He looks at the body one last time.
"You chose six, John," he whispers.
"But the dice was never in your hands."
He turns.
Walks away.
The rain begins to fall. Soft at first. Then harder.
Washing the blood from the alley.
Washing the dice from his memory.
But not the rose.
Never the rose.
---
THE END OF CHAPTER ONE
