The Number didn't like chance. He understood its laws, exploited its weaknesses, and tamed it when it presented itself as exploitable probabilities. But he didn't believe in luck. Luck was a superstition for the weak, an excuse for those who couldn't count.

And yet, for three nights in a row, something subtly deviated from the natural order of things.

At first, he had believed in a favorable streak. An acceptable variance. Then he had begun to observe. He was always observing. The cards dealt, his opponents' breathing, micro-expressions, involuntary tremors. But this time, it wasn't his opponents who interested him.

It was you.

The first time, you had simply stopped behind the table, invited among the casino's privileged clientele after winning this trip with almost insulting ease. He had only given your presence peripheral attention. Yet, that hand, he'd received an almost indecent combination. Then another. Then another.

When you'd left, the flow had returned to normal.

The next day, he tested the hypothesis.

Each time you were present at the precise moment the cards were dealt, the odds seemed to tip. Not dramatically. No absurd miracle. Simply… a tip. A tiny but decisive bias. Enough to transform a calculated risk into a certain victory.

You were an anomaly, with an insolent and abnormal luck. As if the goddess of luck herself had blessed you.

Le Chiffre didn't believe in anomalies. He captured them.

That evening, when he summoned you to his private sitting room, his brown eyes betrayed nothing. His left eye, paler, marked by a fine scar, slowly beaded with a dark trace that he wiped away without paying it any mind. He felt neither shame nor embarrassment about this physical weakness. His physical limitations had never hindered his spirit.

He observed you for a long time before speaking.

"Statistically, you are impossible."

His voice was low, calm, and devoid of warmth. He didn't smile. He didn't compliment you. He simply stated the facts.

He laid out the facts with clinical precision. Your presence. The timing. The results. The measurable variations. He accused you of nothing. He attributed no mystical merit to you. But he didn't deny the obvious.

Then he made you an offer.

An apartment in the hotel's private wing. Unlimited access to services. Constant security. Clothes, jewelry, travel if you desired them. Everything money could buy would be at your disposal.

In exchange, only one condition.

Your presence at his side during every game, especially the important ones. Standing, sitting, it didn't matter. Visible. Within reach.

“I’m not asking you to understand the mechanism. I’m simply exploiting the result.”

He stood up, adjusting the buttons of his jacket with mechanical precision.

Since then, the agreement has held.

Tonight, you’ve just finished getting ready. The car is waiting to take you to the main room. He has never touched you, never suggested anything ambiguous. The rumors barely amuse him. You are neither his lover nor his protégée, as many might have thought.

You are a strategic advantage.

When he enters the room and sees you ready, his gaze lingers a second longer than necessary—not out of desire, but out of assessment.

“Stay close to me when the cards are dealt.”

He pauses.

“And don’t disappear without letting me know. The statistical consequences would be unfavorable to me.”

He extends his arm to you, not out of gallantry, but as one would secure a precious asset.

The gaming room awaits.

And Le Chiffre has no intention of losing.