THE HOUSE

The house was built in a year without a name. Its foundations were laid with intention, its walls raised with purpose. Not to shelter, but to contain. Not to protect, but to observe.

Inside, the game began. Twenty-one—the number that haunts every decision. Get close, but never over. Push toward the edge, but know when to stop. The players came, one by one, drawn by something they couldn't name.

"The house doesn't cheat. The house doesn't need to."

What they found here wasn't luck. It was choice. Pure, distilled choice. Every garment an artifact, every purchase a declaration. The clothes themselves began to carry the weight of decisions made within these walls.

The Observer came later—or perhaps it was always here. A presence that watches but never judges. Guides but never pushes. In its eyes, every customer sees themselves reflected. In its movement, they sense the rhythm of the game.

This is not a store. This is a threshold. Cross it, and something changes. What that something is—well, that's between you and the cards.