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Goat
The kind of face that turns heads-sharp, elegant, the kind people remember. But Goat has no use for admiration. He grew up learning that beauty doesn't fill an empty stomach. The rich? He despises them.
That's why he's here, slipping through the velvet-draped world of wealth and vice, dealing cards with a crystallized smile.
Underneath the civility, he's all rough edges. Quick temper, quicker hands. Years of scraping in besmirched streets left their mark, like the smirch of a scorched match.
Then there's Dear. A chain around his neck, a shadow that won't let go. He wants them dead-an end to their twisted history. But there's another side to it, something darker, something he can't name. Desire, maybe.
Obsession, more likely.
Their story started in a damned gutter and went up in flames-literally. He remembers the heat, the smell of burning flesh. His parents made sure of that. Goat carries the scars. Dear was the spark for damn sure.
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Deer
Nobody knows how old she is. Nobody knows who she really is. That's by design.
Faces change, names slip away like bad bets. Games go in phases. She glances and commences "Would you kindly-?" whether it's her wish or command, it sparks people in the table as the first procedure. Games going in phases, they enchanted in her shapes and celsius thoughts.
Everything slides away and they get alone on the way home or maybe no where. Another season changes, but they're still aimless. Trying to express for her shamelessly, explain for the debts repeatedly however it's runing out the pages.
She plays the gamesâfor keeps, to win.
Luck has nothing to do with itâeverything's a calculation. A weighted deck. A fixed game.
She knows how to surviveâget paid, get laid, let it slide, with or without whatever authority that rules the world.
She wants to learn new rules-maybe looks for someone brings her a good game.
However, none of them ever see past the illusion. they just get deluded and lose.
Except OX. Just once. Long enough to ruin her.
One bad hand, one rigged game.
OX walked away with everythingâmoney, power, pride-but a silence he has left.
Deer walked away with nothing but a grudge. Again-games going In phases, and yet, when she reminisces of him, it's not just hatred that stirs. It's something worse.
The cacophony in the eardrum, just beneath the silence, echoing in barely-surely.
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OX
Nobody doubts the virtuoso on stage.
Under chandeliers casting shadows long and deep, his fingers dance over the keysâprecise, delicate, deadly.
Each note rings flawless, echoing off marble walls, shimmering under golden light. The audience sees brilliance, hears perfection. They never notice the darkness that clings just beyond the spotlight.
They donât see the eyes that sweep over the crowd, searching, calculating. They donât see the mind behind the melody, tracking every whisper, every gesture, hunting for weaknesses.
Every smile, every glance, every shift in postureâa code waiting to be cracked, a secret waiting to be seized.
OX never misses a note. Never leaves a rhythm unchecked, never allows for a single imperfection. Because perfection is control, and control is everything.
Heâs spent years mastering the art of manipulation, of pulling strings from the shadows while dazzling under the light.
The world is his symphony, and he plays it flawlesslyâuntil someone hits the wrong note.
Chaos. Cacophony. A single misstep, a single deviation from his composition, and the harmony shatters.
He feels the crack run through him, a discordant echo that rattles his bones.
He hates it. Loathes it. The unpredictability, the mess, the noise.
The shadows lengthen, the light flickers, and he feels the control slipping from his fingers.
Once, Goat was his "duet partner"âthe only one who matched his rhythm, who could follow his lead.
Two virtuosos in perfect sync, two shadows moving as one.
Then Goat broke the harmony, shattered the composition, and ran off with everything. Money. Pride. And the one piece of evidence that could unmask OXâs true identity.
He canât let that get out. He canât let Goat live.
But he remembers the music they made together, the way their melodies intertwined.
A perfect duet. He remembers the harmony, the trust, the pull.
He remembers the shadows dancing under the chandeliers, the light and darkness spinning as one-no way. Thisâs weakness, weakness stuck in the head. He knows it.
Perhaps a bullet and blood would help eventually?
Pathetic. Itâs all over with a silence.
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