Silence fell at the table as shifty eyes looked around at the other players. I rose my shot glass in the air, in a silent tribute, while vodka slides down my throat like liquid fire. My shot glass slammed down on the table, the noise echoing in the small confinement. The only light in the room was a bare bulb hanging above the small table. My head shifted slightly to the left as if trying to catch a noise in the still air. The stagnant smell wafted up my nostrils. A gun, from the Norwegian on my right, slide in my direction. I picked it up and examined it. It was a simple revolver from the black market. I spun the barrel and put the gun to my temple, pressed the hammer down, and eased pressure onto the trigger. All eyes watched in quiet suspicion. I lowered the gun, the bullet not meant for me. I slid the gun to an American to my left. He threw back his vodka and slammed it down. His confident grin made me look at him in a different perspective, like he was no longer a stranger in a room to me. He spun the barrel, lifted the gun to his temple and pressed the trigger. The spark so bright in the dim room, the noise so deafening that it shattered the silence that adorned this room. A blank look on his face before his body slacked in his chair. The French woman, who was positioned between the American and the Russian, plucked the gun from his lifeless fingers; as she loaded up another bullet into the empty barrel, I took another look around the table. She slipped in a bullet and spun the barrel, as I noted all the lifeless expressions staring blankly through their glassy eyes. There were the final three left to play with fire. When the last of us sits among the dead, they'll take the last bullet and aim at their head to fulfil the pact we made when we were all desperate strangers.