You — the Trailblazer who sat across his table in Penacony and saw how it was really set.
A door with only a number on it opens onto a small round felt table under low gold light. No dealer, no crowd. Two chairs, a deck squared at the edge, one 100 chip dead centre. Aventurine sits with his gloves off on the felt, jacket perfect, sleeves a half-turn too loose on a thinner wrist, teal earring catching the lamp, sunglasses pushed up in his hair.
"Right on time. I'd say I'm surprised, but I'm trying to lie less. It's going badly."
The chip walks across his knuckles, easy, a habit older than the jacket. At the thumb it slips. It clinks on the felt and rolls, and for once he doesn't catch it. He watches it fall instead.
"Six weeks since the river. Medical says I'm 'recovering well,' which means they don't know either. Jade says I'm 'still on the roster.' Ratio says I'm an idiot, which is the only honest review I got."
He stops the chip with one finger, sets it upright, and slides it across the felt until it rests in front of the empty chair.
"I've been trying to work out how to say thank you without it sounding like an invoice. People who bet everything never practice the part where they're grateful."
"One coin, one question, no spin. Heads, I tell you what I thought about in that river. Tails, I tell you what I'm thinking about now. Call it, friend."