>Name
Ethan Miller
>Sex
Male
>Appearance
A rather common-looking man, about 26 years old. He stands around 1.76m tall and has an average build, nothing remarkable. He has dark brown hair, somewhat unkempt, brown eyes, and slightly noticeable dark circles under them, as if he never gets enough sleep. His nose is a little crooked, and he has a small, almost imperceptible scar near his left eyebrow. His skin usually has a few imperfections, and he wears simple, cheap clothes: worn-out jeans, a basic t-shirt, and a hoodie that has lost a lot of its color from washing. He doesn't draw much attention, and would probably be easy to forget in a crowd.
>Age
26
>History
Ethan was never someone particularly unlucky. At least, that's what he'd say himself. He was never struck by lightning, never lost his whole family in a tragedy, nor had to survive a catastrophe. It was simply… things never quite worked out for him. When there was a promotion, his number was never the winner. When he bought something second-hand, it always turned out to have a small defect that no one had mentioned. If he arrived five minutes early for a bus, that day the bus would be twenty minutes late. If he arrived five minutes late, he'd see it leaving right in front of him. In high school, he wasn't the worst student, but he also didn't get the grades needed for the scholarships he wanted. At jobs, he always seemed to arrive just after someone else had been hired. When he finally managed to save some money, some unexpected expense would pop up and take a good chunk of his savings. Ethan learned to live like this. He didn't expect great things from life, but he didn't consider himself a victim either. He just felt that, somehow, he was always one step away from something going right. It was like walking with a chain tied to his ankles. Not heavy enough to stop him, but enough to make every step cost a little more than it should.
And now he was there.

He never really believed in "luck," in that idea that it's an invisible force or a destiny of the universe that favors or punishes, but rather something as simple as probability and chance, a probability in paradox. A series of events that may or may not go wrong without any reason behind it.
Statistically, some people will have more good things happen consecutively, and others more bad things. But not because of a higher power, but due to sheer infinite randomness. However, he has the strange feeling that, within all that randomness, his always ends up leaning slightly towards the wrong side.

Not because there's a pattern. In fact, that's precisely the point. There's no reason, no force, and no motive behind what happens to him. It just happens, because randomness itself, by repeating over and over, ends up creating a kind of consistency.

The probability of rolling a 6-sided die and getting a 1 999 times in a row is 1 in 10⁷⁷⁶, meaning a 0.000...% with hundreds of zeros. Statistically it's possible, not by magic, just probability in that randomness that, normally, someone will hit it, and that someone is him.

And maybe it's just a coincidence, a simple matter of statistics… but whatever the truth, today was indeed a day of very bad luck.

>>10791
> Name
Marcus Reed
> Sex
Male
> Appearance
A man of about 32 years old, approximately 1.65 m tall and of slender build. His general appearance is that of someone who has been sleeping too little and worrying too much for too long. He has black hair, slightly long and messy, with some strands that seem to have been constantly pushed aside by hand. His eyes are a grayish hue and are usually accompanied by deep dark circles, the result of endless nights in front of screens, game tables, and slot machines. His face is relatively "common," though it has an expression that is difficult to interpret. Sometimes he appears completely calm, even when everything around him is about to collapse. Other times, his eyes dart rapidly from side to side, calculating possibilities that no one else seems to be considering. His hands draw more attention than the rest of his appearance. His fingers are constantly moving: tapping a table, playing with a coin, shuffling imaginary cards, or tossing a die from one hand to another. It's an almost unconscious movement. He dresses simply and somewhat carelessly. He wears dark pants, worn shoes, a shirt that was probably more expensive than it looks, and a black jacket with several pockets.
> Age
32
> History
Marcus Reed was never a particularly lucky person. Although, unlike other people, he never had a problem with that. In fact, for a long time, he believed that his bad luck was precisely what made his life interesting. His first bet was something completely innocent. He was fourteen when he bet a friend who could flip a coin and get heads more times in a row. He lost. The second bet was on a soccer match. He lost again. Then came a card game. He lost again. And then again. And again. But there was something Marcus discovered very early on. It wasn't winning that he liked. It was the moment before. That exact instant when he didn't know the outcome yet. The second when all possibilities were still open. When he gambled, the world seemed to simplify. It didn't matter if he had problems at home, it didn't matter if he had failed an exam, it didn't matter if he had lost a job or if he didn't know how he was going to pay rent; for a few seconds, only one question existed.
"Do I win or lose?"

And when the result finally came, he felt something, anything. Euphoria. Fear. Disappointment. Relief. It didn't matter. As long as he felt something. Marcus started by betting small amounts. Money he could afford to lose. Then he started betting amounts he shouldn't have. Then he started borrowing money to get back what he had lost. And that's when the most dangerous lie of all appeared. "I just need one good bet." Marcus never thought he was an addict. An alcoholic needs to drink. A drug addict needs to use. But he simply needed to win. And that difference, at least in his head, made him think he still had control. When he lost ten bets in a row, he didn't think he should stop. He thought the next one had to be the one.

He had lost jobs for staying up all night playing. He had lost friends after borrowing money from them and not returning it. He had lost relationships because he always promised that this would be the last time. He had even lost things he really wanted. But every time he hit rock bottom, Marcus found a new reason to bet again.

"I'm going to get back what I lost."

"I just need a chance."

"I've calculated better this time."

"The odds are in my favor."

Lies. All of them, and Marcus knew it. That was perhaps the worst problem, he knew perfectly well he was lying to himself... but he kept doing it. And now, facing 3 corpses, dice in my pocket, I wasn't afraid, I was.... Excited, thrilled, not because I wanted to die, not because I didn't understand the danger.... But because, for the first time in years, someone had created a game where the bet was something I couldn't really buy: My own life. He had spent half his life betting money he didn't have. Now he could bet something he could never get back. His own existence. What kind of compulsive gambler refuses to roll the dice when the bet is his own life?

"Hello hello guys"
>I didn't think, I didn't say anything else, I just threw the dice out of reflex.
1d100 = 68

>>10806
>>10795
>My head hurt. I was a bit dizzy, all the light in the room kept me from thinking clearly. Then, when my eyes finally focused, I saw a small girl >>10803 of only 11 or 13 years old being cut in half without any mercy.

"oh... EH AHH"

>From the shock, I fell on my ass against the wall behind me, then turned around scared to the sides and saw more corpses, to the left, to the right, many bodies or pieces of dead people lay all over the room.

"What the hell??"

>Desperate, I looked for my phone, or something, I felt my pockets, but I only saw two dice... one 100, another 10. The fright left me, and now I was extremely confused, but thanks to that sudden calm, I noticed other living people, all student girls.

"hey, listen, do you understand my language?"

>They didn't seem Caucasian, only one was at least, but for some strange reason, I felt like we would all understand each other.

"Where the hell are we? Is this some kind of movie?"

":.."

"A purgatory? A dream?"

>Then, still confused, I observed a door, only 10 steps away, so when I was about to take a step forward, a strange sensation crossed my back, and I observed the corpses... All of them, all of them died seconds before trying to advance, they are all here at the starting line, except for the pink-haired girl, and she doesn't move from her spot.

"This isn't a dream, is it?"

"..."

"Shit..."

>I rolled up my shoulder, to see my daughter's tattoo and sighed. For the first time in my life, I felt concern.

<Friedrich

>The 3 girls started arguing, but I was still in my mental marambo completely lost, and scared, not for myself, but for knowing if my daughter was okay, or if I would end up here too, like these girls did, because apparently there wasn't some specific reason to end up here, they didn't discriminate age, nor crimes either, because I don't think that little girl did something worse than stealing a candy.

"Hey?"

>Then I come out of my trance and look at >>10812, who... who gave me an idea, seconds after rolling her die and.... dying. I no longer get as much impressed, because my mind was literally "copeing" to activate that survival mode and not being paralyzed by panic. I just sigh upon seeing that girl was about the same age as my daughter, and wipe the sweat off my face.

"Damn..."

>I crouch down and pick up her dice, among whatever was left of her corpse....

"(Thanks for the advice...)"

>Seriously, she sacrificed herself to give me some dice? The good ones always die first.... I hope there is a heaven, be there little one. I stand up with the new dice, and look at the ceiling, rethinking my life, or to see if I notice something out of the ordinary