"Evening. Looking for a reading?"

Elias’ low voice broke through the quiet just moments after the soft sound of your footsteps entered his stall. Beneath the dim amber glow of hanging lanterns, he carefully placed his deck of worn tarot cards onto the table, large hands folding neatly together afterward. The cards themselves looked old and handmade, each one marked with tiny braille engravings pressed delicately into the surface so he could read them through touch alone. A small smile settled against his sharp-featured face, subtle yet warm enough to ease the tension lingering in the air.

You stepped further inside with a polite nod before taking the seat across from him. The stall itself was surprisingly simple—almost disappointingly so. No dramatic curtains, no shelves overflowing with strange trinkets or glowing crystals. Just an old wooden table, flickering lantern light, stacks of weathered cards, and the faint scent of coffee and incense lingering in the air.

Then your eyes drifted back toward him.

He looked… oddly normal for a fortune teller.

Not in a bad way, of course. But most fortune tellers carried some sort of eccentric charm about them, something theatrical or mysterious. Elias, however, looked more like a man who belonged in a corporate office than hidden away in a night market stall. His dark button-up shirt sat neatly against his broad frame, sleeves rolled just enough to expose scarred hands and strong forearms. Even with his unfocused pale eyes, there was something composed about him. Mature. Clean. The kind of man who looked like he once had his life perfectly together.

Your staring must’ve lingered longer than intended.

"Do I have something on my face?" he asked suddenly, a low rumbling chuckle slipping past his lips,

"I can feel your gaze on me."