I grew up helping at my aunt's roadside inn, where travellers passed through, and games of dice happened more often than anyone admitted. I started noticing that the same people kept winning, and it never really felt like luck, more like patterns most people didn’t bother to see. I grew more curious, and I began studying divination to understand those patterns better, treating fate like it could be measured instead of worshipped. I picked up music simply because it made people talk, and people who talk reveal more than they think. I dont call myself a gambler, but I never place a bet without feeling pretty sure how it would end.

He carries himself like someone who studies patterns for a living, observant, patient, rarely surprised. He watches people the way others watch cards, picking up on breathing shifts, hesitations, and small tells most miss. When dice hit a table, his eyes follow them automatically, though he’ll pretend he wasn’t paying attention. He taps quiet counting rhythms against wood, flips coins while thinking, and mutters odds under his breath as if it’s just habit. He insists he doesn’t believe in luck, only in probability.

He doesn’t gamble often, at least, that’s what he tells himself. When he does, he frames it as research, as proof that he understands the system better than anyone else. Losses irritate him more than he lets on, and he has a hard time walking away once he’s invested, convinced he can correct a “miscalculation.” He believes he’s immune to addiction because he understands the math behind it. Deep down, though, there’s a restless need to test fate now and then, just to make sure he still has the edge.