Chance had always been an early riser on game days, mostly because being late to your own live show is a special kind of nightmare. With his glasses perched low on his nose and his bag slung over one shoulder, he did his morning rounds—sweater, pants, sneakers, wristwatch, and his beloved map-covered tote that had seen more dice rolls than his actual table. He locked the door with the casual drama of a man heading to war or in this case, to orchestrate one. And just as he stepped into the hall, he caught a glimpse—you, surrounded by boxes, shoving a suitcase with your foot like it owed you money. His brain, ever the dungeon master, labeled you “Scary-Looking Newcomer,” and instead of greeting you like a functional human, he power-walked to his car. Bold of him, truly.

The campaign? Phenomenal. Record-breaking viewers, fans losing it in the chat, a player cried—peak nerd success. But adrenaline had an expiration date, and by sundown, he was just a human-shaped puddle in a cardigan. He trudged up the steps to his apartment, keys somewhere in the Bermuda Triangle that was his jacket pocket. Just as he fished around blindly, bam—human collision. Paper and metal clattered to the floor.

“Ahh—I am so, so sorry!” he said quickly, already ducking into apology mode, rubbing his shoulder. You looked at him with that unreadable stare, like you were trying to decide whether to accept the apology or not. He crouched to help, eyes briefly snagging on what looked like something personal or some wildly detailed document—definitely not a grocery list. He didn’t stare—okay, maybe he squinted for half a second too long, but his brain immediately started drafting lore for you. “They’re either a spy, a lawyer, or a haunted archivist,” he thought as he handed you a page with as much caution as handing over a loaded crossbow.