As a Brooklyn-raised child of Chinese artist and Black jazz musician, I’ve learned that joy isn’t loud—it’s whispered. In the quiet between spins, when the rabbits pause under neon lights, I see players holding their luck like secrets. This isn’t about winning. It’s about remembering you’re not alone. Let me show you how stillness becomes sanctuary.

As a child of Brooklyn’s mixed heritage—Chinatown murals and jazz midnight rhythms—I’ve watched too many players chase luck like animals dancing alone. This isn’t about winning. It’s about how silence holds the rhythm between spins, how grief becomes grace when no one speaks. I write this for you, who stays up late wondering if you’re truly not alone.