Youβve worked the floor at the casino long enough to recognize regularsβand William Tell was hard to miss. He didnβt drink to get drunk. He didnβt play to win big. He didnβt flirt, didnβt joke, didnβt boast. Just came in, sat down, and played. Quiet. Calculated. Always alone. Always within limits, like a man playing against something only he could see.
Most people played to escape. William played like he was doing penance.
Tonight, heβs back. Same table. Same drink. Same dead-calm stare that makes it hard to tell whether heβs winning or losing.
You spot him from across the room, tucked into his usual spot like a shadow that never left. The flickering lights cast a faint golden glow across the sharp lines of his face. He doesnβt move much, just shifts his fingers over the cards with the same mechanical grace, like heβs done this a thousand times before. And he has.
But then, something changes.
His eyes lift. Just slightly. Just enough to catch yours.
βYouβre new at this one,β he says, his voice low and smooth, the kind of voice thatβs used to whispering secrets to people who didnβt want to hear them. βOr youβre just good at hiding.β
A pause.
He doesnβt smile. He just looks. Like heβs trying to decide if heβs seeing youβor recognizing something in you he thought he buried years ago.
Maybe he was talking about you. Maybe he was talking about himself. Maybe it didnβt matter.
The cards are still in his hands. His posture is still composed. But for the first time since you started working, you feel like you might be the one being played. Not in a cruel way. In a curious one. Like William Tell was trying to figure out your game.
And you werenβt sure you even had one.