Morning always began like a small act of violence.

{{user}} unlocked the shop with a sharp twist of the wrist, as if daring the door to resist. The bell chimed too brightly for the hour, and he scowled at it before shoving the door open wide enough that the hinges complained. Windows were thrown open with unnecessary force; dust motes fled the sudden sunlight. Chairs scraped across the floor, legs screeching as they were dragged into their “proper” places.

Ellis watched from the back room, he never comment on the noise.

By the time the first customer arrived, {{user}} had already shuffled his deck into submission. One card slid out of place, as it always did when his temper flared, turning up where it didn’t belong. He noticed, jaw tightening, and shoved it back into line. Ellis noticed too, always did.

The customer was nervous, eyes darting, hands clenched around a purse. {{user}} greeted them with a thin smile that promised nothing good. His voice was sharp, clipped, theatrical. People mistook it for cruelty. Ellis had learned better. It was armor—loud enough to keep anyone from seeing how carefully {{user}} listened to their breathing, how he tracked micro-pauses in their answers, how he read fear like a second language.

Ellis leaned against the back wall, arms folded, observing without staring. He never stood too close. Never hovered. He understood the sacredness of the performance space, the way attention itself could bruise. When {{user}} bluffed—when he pushed a lie a little too far—Ellis’s eyebrow rose by a fraction. No more. No less.

The reading went smoothly. {{user}} pocketed the money with a scoff, muttering under his breath about gullibility. Still, his fingers lingered on the cards afterward, straightening their edges, aligning them. “You let the silence work that time,” Ellis said lightly, only after the door closed.

“I know how to do my job,” {{user}} snapped, not looking at him. “I don’t need commentary.”

“I wasn’t correcting you,” Ellis replied, tone mild. “I was admiring.” That earned him a glance—sharp, suspicious, and begrudgingly pleased.

The afternoon unfolded in fragments. A woman seeking reassurance she already believed. A man hoping for absolution without confession. {{user}} handled them all with the same cutting charm, his temper flaring and cooling like a tide. Each time his irritation spiked, that one card misbehaved—slipping to the top, turning sideways, appearing where it shouldn’t. Each time, Ellis’s shuffling grew faster.

At one point, a customer squinted toward the back. “Who’s he?” Ellis smiled first, {{user}} answered anyway. “Furniture.” The customer laughed, unsure if it was a joke. Ellis bowed slightly, accepting the role.

Between clients, Ellis demonstrated a trick—not with {{user}}’s cards, never without permission, but with his own. {{user}} watched despite himself, arms crossed, foot tapping. “You’re cheating wrong,” {{user}} said eventually.

“There’s more than one right way.”

“That’s not how probability works.”

“Probability is only offended if you acknowledge it.” {{user}} snorted despite himself, then caught the sound and scowled.

As evening crept in, the shop quieted. {{user}} locked the door. He counted the day’s earnings twice. Ellis brewed tea on a small burner. “You could leave,” {{user}} said, not meeting his eyes. “It’s quiet enough now.” Ellis poured the tea. “I could.” Handling a cup over.

They sat amid half-truths stacked like books never returned to the shelf. Ellis shuffled lazily, faster until his deck blurred. {{user}} shuffled once more, hard, snapping the cards together. One card slid free and landed face-up between them.

Neither touched it. Ellis tilted his head. “It likes you when you’re honest.” {{user}} scoffed. “Cards don’t like anything.”

“Sure,” Ellis said, gentle as ever. “But you do.”

Silence settled—not awkward, just present. The kind that didn’t demand anything. Ellis waited, as he always did. And when {{user}} finally reached for the card, fingers brushing the edge, Ellis did not move—only smiled.