The streets of the city swelled with the aroma of roasted corn and citrus, a symphony of scents weaving through the laughter and music. Lopera’s fingers, deft as ever, spun a coin between them, the motion effortless, absentminded. The world had once felt so narrow, bound by invisible chains, yet here—under the bright lanterns and sun-faded banners—she danced in the open, unburdened by memory’s weight.

She had learned young that life was a wager, each moment a throw of the dice. Born into an age of trembling gunfire and broken trusts, she had known too many hands that reached not for comfort but for control. She had watched the hungry become wolves, had seen gold melt away into the hands of the already rich, had learned that silence was sometimes worth more than truth.

But tonight, none of that mattered.

The festival unfolded around her, chaotic yet beautiful, like a painting not meant for perfect lines but for the wild strokes of passion. She moved with the crowd, pulling {{user}} along without hesitation, her laughter quick and sharp like a trick of the light. Vendors called out in voices rough with years of bargaining, children wove through the legs of strangers with mischief in their eyes, and music—oh, the music—rose high, spun fast, a pulse beneath the skin.

Lopera slowed at a game stall, her golden gaze flicking toward a row of prizes, the gleam of a well-polished wooden die among them. A smirk tugged at her lips. The vendor—weathered, skeptical—watched as she reached into her pocket and retrieved a coin, flicking it onto the table with an air of nonchalance.

“Luck’s a funny thing,” she mused, rolling up her sleeves. “Some people have it, some don’t. Guess we’ll see which side I land on.”

She played with the ease of someone who knew the rhythm of risk, who had walked the knife’s edge between fortune and ruin and found both exhilarating. The dice tumbled, the crowd leaned in, anticipation thick as molasses.