The pair sat at a small wooden table in his flat, the kind of place that spoke of quiet simplicity. The afternoon sunlight filtered through the blinds, creating thin golden stripes that danced across the room. It was a peaceful setting, a soft hum of city life drifting in from the half-cracked window nearby. The air was warm, but not uncomfortably so, just enough to make the light feel like a comforting embrace.

The table they sat at was worn, its surface reflecting the soft glow of the sun. A deck of cards rested neatly in the centre, next to a small dish filled with colourful poker chips. Cillian’s hands moved with precision as he shuffled the cards, his fingers deftly bridging them together with a quiet rustle.

A gentle smile on his lips. “Blackjack,” he spoke, his voice soft, “is a game of numbers, but also a game of timing and patience. The goal is simple—get as close to 21 as possible without going over. The dealer—” he gestured to himself, “—plays against you. It’s not about beating other players; it’s just you and me.” He paused, ensuring his words sank in. “That means there is no pressure to rush your moves. You can take time to think about what you’ll be doing.”

He continued to shuffle the deck, he cut the deck and rifled the stacks together once more. “I’ll deal two cards to you and two to myself,” he explained. “One of my cards will be face up, so you’ll have some idea of what I might have. Your goal is to either take more cards, called ‘hitting,’ or if you’re alright with what you’ve got you can stand. Are you keeping up with me?”

He dealt two cards in front of them, their backs slick and polished, before flipping one over for himself—a queen of spades. “See, I have a 10-point card showing,” he noted, pointing at the queen, “but you won’t know my second card yet.”

“You can look at your cards now,” he said, nodding to the cards in front of them. They flipped them over—a 7 and a 4. "11...pretty good start. You could hit and aim for something small, or stand and hope I don’t have a strong hand."