"Monopoly Dice Roll," Nyra said again.
Veyron frowned, leaning closer. "What does that even mean?"
Nyra rested her elbows against the wooden railing of the farmhouse balcony. Dawn was creeping in slowly, washing the fields in pale blue. Somewhere far away, a bird cried out. Peaceful. Too peaceful, considering everything.
"Axel's power isn't luck," she said at last. "At least—not the kind people think it is. Nothing just happens for him unless he chooses to trigger it."
She lifted her hand and tapped two fingers together, soft—click, click.
"When he activates it, two dice roll inside his head. Green and white. Electric. Glowing. He's the only one who can see them."
Veyron's breath slowed without him realizing. "Dice… like actual dice?"
Nyra nodded. "One's called the Outcome Die. It decides how hard reality tilts in his favor. A low number means barely anything—someone misses by an inch, a bullet grazes past, timing lines up just enough. A high number…" She hesitated. "A high number can rewrite the moment completely."
"And the other one?" Veyron asked.
"The Scope Die," Nyra said. "That one decides what the luck applies to."
She held up her fingers, counting.
"Roll a one or two—it affects Axel himself. Reflexes, balance, timing.""Three or four—it affects the clash. An attack. A defense. A collision.""Five—the person he's fighting.""Six—the environment. Space. Objects. The world around him."
Veyron swallowed. "That's… insanely specific."
"It has to be," Nyra replied. "Because he doesn't get to choose the numbers. Only whether he rolls."
She exhaled slowly, the sound heavy.
"Low numbers don't save him. They just give him a sliver of help. High numbers?" Her jaw tightened. "They hurt him. The more the world bends, the more stamina it rips out of his body."
Veyron's hands clenched on the railing.
"So when he dodges things that should kill him—"
"He's paying for it," Nyra finished. "Every time."
Silence settled between them.
"That's why he looks reckless," she continued quietly. "But he's not. He's calculating. Counting. Measuring how many rolls his body can survive. Because once he stops rolling…"
She turned to look at Veyron directly.
"…he's just a guy with fast reflexes and no safety net."
Veyron didn't respond right away.
His mind drifted—uninvited.
A memory surfaced.
Dark streets. Rain-slick concrete. The smell of smoke.
The black gas man.
Veyron remembered the way the gun had gone off. How the shot should've hit him—should have. How his body had moved without thinking. A stumble. A step back. The bullet tearing past his shoulder instead of through his chest.
At the time, he'd told himself it was instinct.
Now his heart pounded.
"Nyra…" he said slowly. "Axel's power. Does it ever… spill over?"
She tilted her head. "What do you mean?"
"Like—could it affect other people? Accidentally?"
Nyra considered that. "It can. If the Scope Die hits five or six. But even then, it's localized. Short. Controlled."
Veyron nodded, though his thoughts were racing.
Was that really instinct?Or did Axel roll the dice that night?
He looked down at his hands.
"So every time Axel smiles after something impossible happens," Veyron murmured, "he's probably exhausted."
Nyra's voice softened. "Yeah."
Another quiet stretch passed.
"He never told me," Veyron said. Not accusing. Just… small.
Nyra smiled faintly. "He doesn't like people worrying about him."
Veyron let out a shaky breath. "Too bad. I'm really bad at not doing that."