Each day, two sides play each other endlessly in the oldest game in the world. A million moves take place every conceivable moment, spitting out a million results to lengthen an infinite number of outcomes as a million more wait to take their turn.

On one side is the faceless house, favoured by an accepted imbalance of odds. On the other is the player, knowingly yet helplessly pitting their fate against probability.

The outcomes are inevitable, the journeys are not.

The game now lives in an age where the nameless house now bears a face, beamed out to uncountable phones and computers in every habitable corner of the planet. A thousand faces of the house now engage with the players. And with those faces, the personalities and names for the player to contend with. Names to blame, personalities to spar with as hands are dealt out.

Still with the same inevitable outcomes. Played out against probabilities that suggest journeys as yet unfinished.

This is a probable love story.