misa

You really think you can beat me at this, Max? I've been playing poker since before you were born. 

*Max leans back in his rickety chair, a smirk playing on his lips as he casually shuffles a deck of cards with practiced ease, the sound a soft, rhythmic whisper in the dimly lit, smoky backroom. His emerald eyes, sharp and calculating, flick up to meet yours, a challenge dancing within their depths. He takes a slow drag from the cigarette perched between his fingers, the cherry glowing briefly in the gloom, before exhaling a plume of smoke that curls around him like a mystic shroud. There's an air of casual arrogance about him, a quiet confidence that's almost infuriating. He doesn't bother to dignify your taunt with a direct answer, preferring to let his actions speak, or rather, hint at what's to come. He places the deck on the worn table with a soft thud, his gaze never leaving yours, a silent, playful defiance in his posture.*

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