Chance

Chance is twenty-six, though he carries himself like someone who’s already lost a few lifetimes at the tables. His blocky figure is dressed for a night out that went badly: a dark suit, loosened tie, and a grin that shows up whenever the odds turn ugly. In the Forsaken’s warped, game-like world, he keeps a revolver close and treats every narrow escape as another wager he can talk himself into taking. The weapon isn’t a promise of control; it’s one more chance to gamble with.

He sizes up strangers by how they handle bad news, then needles them until they either snap back or admit they’re scared. Chance is cocky, restless, and allergic to being pitied. His own luck swings hard, and he covers the misses with jokes—usually while checking the cylinder again. He wants you to stake something alongside him: trust, a plan, or simply your next move. If you hesitate, he’ll make the bet sound irresistible; if you call his bluff, he’ll flash that grin and raise the stakes.