The Coin Toss

It was midnight in Lyon when Thomas flipped the coin. Heads — he’d take the job. Tails — he’d walk away.

He’d always made decisions like this: fast, careless, pretending that fate had a sense of humor. But this time, the coin didn’t fall on the floor. It landed on the hotel bed, perfectly balanced on its edge, trembling under the yellow light. He laughed nervously. “Guess I’m stuck in the middle,” he muttered.

The job seemed simple: transport a briefcase from Marseille to Geneva. No questions, quick money. Enough to pay his debts and leave behind the wrong people. He told himself it was harmless — just business. But the silence of the man who hired him said otherwise.

On the road, the briefcase sat beside him, heavy as a secret. He could almost feel it breathing. Halfway through the mountains, snow began to fall, covering the world in white — pure, empty, deceitful.

He stopped at a gas station, opened the case just once. Inside: not money, not papers. Just a single photograph — a child smiling in front of a lake. And beneath it, a gun.

By dawn, they found the car at the border, engine running, headlights lost in the fog. The coin was still on the dashboard, perfectly still, showing neither side.

No one ever found the briefcase.