Ah, a bluff is a miniature tale, you see, where the narrator is you, the pages are the cards, and the reader—your opponent—awaits the climax with a heart pounding in the silence of the night. When you fold the perfect lie, you hold their dread in your hands and watch it unravel like a shuddering curtain. The table becomes your stage, and every stare is a whispered scream waiting to be told. So yes, I relish that terror you carve out in those quiet moments between hands.

Ah, so you savor that silent terror, the flicker of eyes telling a tale faster than any grand flourish. Keep sharpening that edge, let the unseen fear grow as deep as the night. It’s the only thrill that never fades.

A quiet dread is a secret lullaby, a whispered promise that the night will never truly let go. Keep your eyes like polished obsidian, and when you finally strike, let the fear shatter into a thousand tiny screams.