The dealer's hands moved with practiced precision, cards sliding across the green felt with a soft whisper. William Shard sat perfectly still, his face betraying nothing as he studied his hole cards: king and ten of spades. Suited connectors, promising, but not extraordinary.

  Around the poker table, five other players adjusted their chips and sipped drinks. Most prominent among them was Gerald Harrison, CEO of Carlyle Data Solutions, who swirled his scotch with one hand while arranging his chips in neat stacks with the other.

  William saw the patterns everywhere, in the dealer's shuffle, in Harrison's micro expressions, in the statistical distribution of the cards. Where others saw chaos, William recognized order hiding in plain sight.

  "Two thousand to call," the dealer announced.

  William glanced up, not at his cards or chips, but at Harrison. The CEO's left index finger tapped his platinum cufflink twice, a motion so subtle most would miss it. When Harrison raised to five thousand, William noticed a slight dilation in his boss's pupils.

  Interesting. Heart rate likely elevated. Breathing pattern changed. Statistical probability of bluffing: 87%.

  "Call," William said quietly, pushing forward the appropriate chips.

  Harrison's eyes narrowed. "Not folding tonight, Shard? Refreshing to see you take a risk for once."

  William said nothing, focusing instead on the dealer's hands. The man's right thumb applied slightly more pressure when handling heart suits, a minor tell, but significant over multiple hands. Another pattern emerging from apparent randomness.

  The flop came: jack of spades, nine of spades, two of hearts.

  Open-ended straight draw, flush draw. Approximately 57% chance of completing either by the last card.

  Harrison bet aggressively, ten thousand. Two players folded immediately.

  "Your analyst isn't much for conversation," remarked a grey-haired venture capitalist to Harrison. "He always this talkative?"

  Harrison chuckled. "William prefers numbers to people. Don't you, Shard?"

  "I find both fascinating in their patterns," William replied, calling the bet. "Though numbers are generally more consistent."

  Harrison's smile faltered slightly.

  The turn brought the queen of spades.

  Flush complete. Straight complete. Probability of Harrison holding a higher flush: less than 3%.

  William felt a familiar clarity descending, the world sharpening into data points and probabilities, a hidden mathematical order beneath the surface chaos of the game. Harrison was now drumming his fingers on the table edge, precisely three taps, pause, two taps. His chip stacks, previously aligned with military precision, had become slightly dishevelled.

  Harrison pushed thirty thousand to the centre. "Let's see if luck favours the prepared mind, shall we?"

  "Call." William's voice remained even.

  The venture capitalist whistled low. A small crowd had gathered to watch.

  "Quite confident for someone who spends his days staring at spreadsheets," Harrison said, his joviality strained.

  The river card was the three of diamonds. Inconsequential.

  Harrison stared at William for a long moment, then pushed his remaining chips forward. "All in."

  A murmur rippled through the onlookers. William calculated quickly: the pot now contained over two hundred thousand dollars in charity funds.

  This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

  "Your tells are consistent, Mr. Harrison," William said quietly. "Call."

  Harrison's face flushed as he turned over a pair of aces.

  "Strong hand," William acknowledged, revealing his king-ten of spades. "But the flush and straight are stronger."

  The crowd erupted in surprised exclamations. Harrison's knuckles whitened around his empty tumbler.

  "Impressive play, Mr. Shard," the dealer said, pushing the mountain of chips toward William.

  Without hesitation, William pushed them all back. "For the children's hospital."

  The spectators applauded. Harrison's forced smile looked painful.

  "Always the hero," Harrison muttered, standing abruptly. "We need to talk. Now."

  William followed his boss to a quiet corner near the bar, the casino's ambient sounds creating their own ordered mix of noise, slot machines chiming in predictable sequences, dealers calling bets in rhythmic cadence, ice clinking in glasses like metronomes.

  "What exactly was that?" Harrison demanded, his voice low but sharp.

  "Poker," William replied simply.

  "Don't be clever. You humiliated me in front of my peers, my clients."

  "That wasn't my intention."

  Harrison stepped closer. "You know what your problem is, Shard? You think everything is just data and patterns. That's not how the real world works."

  "With respect, sir, that's exactly how it works. We just don't always see the patterns hidden in the chaos."

  "Like that ridiculous market prediction algorithm you've been wasting company resources on? The board is losing patience, William. I'm losing patience."

  A cocktail waitress approached. "Excuse me, Mr. Harrison! Can I get you another drink?"

  "Scotch. Neat." Harrison straightened his tie, his public persona snapping back into place. "We'll finish this conversation Monday."

  William nodded and turned away, weaving through the crowd toward the exit. The buzz of the casino seemed to fade to a dull hum in his ears as he walked away. The clinking of chips, the forced laughter, the smooth jazz music, it all felt distant, muffled, as if he were underwater.

  Outside, the night air felt clean after the recycled oxygen of the casino. William loosened his bow tie and exhaled slowly, watching his breath fog in the chill, water molecules crystallizing in predictable patterns invisible to the naked eye.

  "Where to, sir?" A cab pulled up to the curb.

  "Franklin Towers, please. Apartment 1221."

  As the taxi merged into traffic, William absentmindedly adjusted his navy-blue suit, still crisp and immaculate from the charity event. Standing at a medium height, he presented a lean figure, though a slightly weak build betrayed his hours spent hunched over a computer. His dark spiky hair was neatly styled but threatened to fall into disarray, echoing his current state of mind. With sharp, green eyes that gleamed with a mix of fatigue and determination. Enhanced by his better than 20/20 vision, he surveyed the city beyond the window, his gaze scrutinizing every detail. His face was smooth and angular, a testament to his youthful handsomeness, which he kept cleanly shaven, giving him an air of meticulousness. It was a look that often caught the appreciative glances of women, drawing attention to an unexpectedly charming presence beneath his analytical demeanour. Normally, he stood tall and proud, especially when it came to his work and the analytical skills he held in high regard. As he settled into the taxi's seat, a flicker of resolve shone through his sharp features, ready to tackle whatever mysteries lay ahead.

  William's thoughts drifted from the poker game to what waited at home. The algorithm, his true focus and passion, was nearing completion.

  For two years, he'd dedicated himself to creating a predictive model for stock market behaviour with unprecedented accuracy. Where economists saw only chaotic fluctuations, William had discerned underlying patterns, the invisible architecture of market psychology. He'd incorporated behavioural economics, chaos theory, and machine learning techniques others had dismissed as impractical.

  The driver glanced in the rear view mirror. "Good night at the tables?"

  William considered the question. "Educational."

  "Win big?"

  "I learned something," William replied, watching the city lights blur past. "Sometimes what looks like randomness is just complexity we haven't decoded yet. Patterns hiding in chaos."

  The driver chuckled. "Sounds complicated."

  William's apartment building came into view, a sleek glass tower reflecting the city lights in fractal-like patterns. In the elevator, he found himself tapping his foot impatiently, mentally reviewing the algorithm's latest iteration.

  Just that evening, before the charity event, he'd run the final simulation. The results: 99% accuracy. Almost perfect. Almost.

  His apartment was spartan, minimalist furniture, walls lined with bookshelves, and a desk dominated by three large monitors. No decorations except a single framed photograph: William as a child, standing beside his father outside the New York Stock Exchange.

  William sat down at his workstation, fingers hovering over the keyboard. The market wasn't truly random, not to him. It was a complex system governed by rules most couldn't perceive. Like a poker game. Like human behaviour. Like everything in existence, patterns in chaos, waiting to be discovered.

  He began typing, the code flowing from his fingers with practiced ease. Today might be the day he reached 100%. Today might be the day he changed everything.

  The monitors cast a blue glow across his face as the algorithm began to run, searching for the final pattern hiding in the noise.