As you press this card between your fingers the color drains from your opponent’s face, they try to keep a look of cold confidence, but for an instance they falter and you catch it. They shift, shoulders tensing, calculating. Somewhere out there, hidden in the shadows beyond the window a sniper’s scope is trained on them, fingers wrapped around the trigger, every breath synced to the pulse of the mission.
Your opponent tries to keep their composure, their smirk faltering, their fingers twitch, betraying their bluff. They have no higher card.
The silence between you hums with tension. You don’t flinch, you pause before you throw down the card, letting your opponent marinate in their own fear, the cold weight of inevitability settling over them like a shroud. They know there’s no escape; any wrong move, any flick of aggression, and they’ll be nothing but a target, a silhouette in a sniper’s sightline, extinguished before they can even blink. You dramatically drop the card and stare into their eyes. Your eyes sear into them like a red dot on their forehead. Round over.
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