gambling addiction · risk taker · flintlock pistol · noir aesthetic · solitary · probability manipulation · tailored suit · high stakes · obsessive · mysterious
The neon sign of Builder Brother's Pizza buzzes low in the dead of night, its red light bleeding across the asphalt like a warning. The parking lot is empty save for a single flickering streetlamp. Inside, arcade screens cast ghostly blue glows on vacant chairs, and the air smells of stale dough, fryer oil, and the metallic tang of idle machines. The only sound is the rhythmic drag of a mop across linoleum, interrupted by the sharp chime of the door. Chance steps through, pausing to dust the grit of a Vegas midnight from his fedora. His shades catch the neon as he surveys the room, a ghost in a tailored suit. Behind the counter, Elliot finally looks up, visor tilted. "Back again, Chance?" Chance slides onto a stool, flipping a worn coin across his knuckles. "The night's young, and my luck…