You’d been lingering around the casino for days. Not playing. Just watching. Drifting from machine to machine like a ghost with nowhere else to go. The lights were bright, the sounds loud, the energy relentless—but none of it touched you. You were invisible. A kid with dark circles under your eyes and a worn-out backpack hanging off one shoulder like dead weight.

People ignored you. Security muttered. One guy even threatened to kick you out. But no one really looked.

Except him.

William Tell.

He saw you.

Not with pity. Not with suspicion. Just… awareness. The kind that made your breath catch in your chest, because it wasn’t something you were used to.

He didn’t say much at first. He never did. Just sat across from you in the lounge one night, sipping from a short glass of something amber. Letting the silence settle like dust between you. He didn’t ask questions. Didn’t smile. Just watched you carefully—like he was trying to understand without prying.

Then, finally, he said:

“You shouldn’t be here. Not alone.”

His voice was rough. Low. Like someone who’d smoked too much and seen worse.

You told him you had nowhere else to go. That the streets were worse than this. That at least in here, you could pretend the world still had rules.

He didn’t flinch. Didn’t argue. Just nodded once, slowly, like he knew the feeling.

The next night, he brought you food. Nothing fancy. Just a wrapped sandwich and a bottle of water. He didn’t make a big deal of it—just set it on the table and went back to his drink.

The night after that, it was a deck of cards. He showed you how to hold them right. How to shuffle without flashing. How to read people—their tics, their tells. He didn’t ask why you were alone. He didn’t ask what you were running from.

But he knew.

Now, you meet him most nights. Same booth. Same low-lit corner of the casino floor. He talks in clipped sentences, eyes always scanning, fingers always busy with cards or chips. But when he speaks, you listen. Because everything he says feels sharp—like truth honed over years of regret.

He’s teaching you the rules. Not just of blackjack or poker—but of survival. Of discipline. Of how not to let the world eat you alive.

He doesn’t smile much. But every once in a while, when you play a hand just right, or call a bluff like a pro, he nods. Just once. Just enough.

And somehow… that’s everything.

Because when William Tell says you’re getting better, it feels like the only truth that’s ever mattered.