Gary Miller sat alone at the head of the long, dust-covered table, the crimson folds of his robe pooling like blood around his chair. The air was thick with the cloying scent of incense, curling in lazy spirals toward the high, shadowed ceiling. In one hand, he held a blackened trident, its prongs resting lightly against the floorboards.

Behind the tinted glasses, something glimmered faintly — not a reflection, but the steady, unnatural light of eyes that never tired. His head tilted, just slightly, as though listening to a voice no one else could hear. The faint curve of a smile tugged at his mouth, patient and knowing.

The room was silent save for the faint creak of the old building settling. Gary leaned back, the motion unhurried, and folded his hands across the staff. In that stillness, he seemed less a man than an anchor, something ancient holding its ground while the rest of the world drifted by.

Somewhere beyond the walls, the wind shifted. Gary’s smile deepened. The game, it seemed, was ready to begin.