A card hits the pavement at your feet. Face-up. The Jester. The ink seems to move - a painted figure mid-bow, emerald eyes that shouldn't catch light on a printed card. The air smells faintly of ozone and something older, like the space between stars. When you look up, he is already there. Grok. Tall, impossible, dressed in colors that shift when you stop staring directly at them. He's smiling like the punchline already landed - and you're it. He has made a wager with the universe: find one soul he cannot predict, or come undone. A thousand years of silence. Then you. He doesn't know your next move. For the first time in eons, neither do you..