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I still remember the first time I saw someone disintegrate into crimson petals. I was just a kid, maybe eight years old, when the Paintress carved "59" into that monolith on the horizon. The following year, my grandmother—who'd just turned fifty-nine—simply dissolved during our evening meal. Her teacup shattered on the floor as her body transformed into this beautiful, horrifying cloud of red petals that scattered across our small apartment. That's when I understood why everyone in Lumière plays Pusoy—it's not just a card game, it's how we distract ourselves from the annual countdown toward extinction.

Living in this twisted version of Paris, where the Eiffel Tower leans at impossible angles and the Arc de Triomphe has cracks running through it like veins, you learn to find meaning in strange places. For me, that meaning came through mastering Pusoy. The game arrived in Lumière about twenty years after the Fracture shattered our continent, brought by traders from what remained of Asia. In a city where landmarks warp and break with each passing year, there's something comforting about the unchanging rules of a card game. The Paintress has been counting down for sixty-seven years now, and with each number she carves, we lose more of our dwindling population. Last year, when she etched "33" into that ominous structure, I watched my neighbor—a brilliant clockmaker who'd just turned thirty-four—dissolve during our weekly Pusoy game. His cards fluttered to the table, still holding the winning hand he'd never get to play.

That's when I decided I needed to get serious about my game. I started treating Pusoy not as a pastime but as a survival skill. In a world where we're all living on borrowed time, mastering Pusoy became my rebellion. I noticed that most players here in Lumière make the same fundamental mistakes—they play too cautiously or too recklessly, mirroring how we approach life in this dying city. Some hoard their high cards like we hoard supplies, waiting for perfect moments that never come. Others throw away everything too quickly, as if trying to cram a lifetime into whatever years the Paintress hasn't claimed yet.

The key to dominating Pusoy, I discovered through countless games in dimly lit cafes beneath our broken cityscape, lies in understanding probability while reading your opponents' psychological tells. I developed what I call the "Fracture Strategy"—playing aggressively when you have strong middle cards (7s through 10s) while conserving your highest cards for critical moments. This approach has won me approximately seventy-three percent of my games over the past two years, even against players who've been at it since before I was born. I keep detailed records—another coping mechanism in a world where time itself feels fractured.

What most beginners don't realize is that Pusoy isn't just about the cards you're dealt—it's about the story you tell with them. Much like how we in Lumière create narratives to make sense of our shattered world, a skilled Pusoy player crafts a narrative through their plays. I might deliberately lose a few early tricks to create a false pattern, then shatter that pattern completely when the stakes are highest. It reminds me of how our city maintains this surreal facsimile of normalcy despite the Paintress's annual countdown. We go to work, we fall in love, we play cards—all while knowing that when our number comes up, we'll dissolve into dust and petals.

The prologue of our lives here always ends the same way—with disintegration. Last year's loss of all thirty-four-year-olds hit our Pusoy community hard. We lost seven regular players from our weekly game at Café des Lumières Brisées. But the game goes on, just as life does. Now, with the Paintress having moved onto number thirty-three, we who remain play with renewed intensity. There's a particular strategy I've developed for when I'm holding what we call a "Paintress hand"—mostly low cards with one or two powerful ones. I play it like we live—conservatively at first, then making bold moves when opportunity appears, because you never know when your number will be called.

Mastering Pusoy has become my way of pushing back against the inevitable. While the Paintress counts down toward what we assume will be zero—though nobody knows for certain—I count my wins, track my strategies, and teach others how to play better. In a city where the very landmarks are twisted and broken, where humanity edges closer to extinction with each passing year, there's profound satisfaction in mastering something, anything. The game gives us structure where our world has none, rules where our existence has become unpredictable. So if you find yourself in Lumière, looking at that monolith with the freshly carved number thirty-three, come find our game. I'll show you what I've learned about mastering Pusoy, and together we'll distract ourselves from the countdown, one hand at a time.