Leon said nothing, just quietly looking at Drake.
He didn't want to get into any unnecessary trouble at this important event hosted by the top brass of the Democratic Party and Sheldon Adelson.
Moreover, there was no real conflict of interest between him and Drake. At most, they just sprayed some trash talk online and affectionately greeted each other's families.
And for the motherless Leon, that was completely ineffective damage.
Only a fool uses violence to show off violence, and he wouldn't do something that stupid.
In the next five minutes, every time Drake tried to move, Leon gave a dry cough.
The cough was like a freezing spell, always startling the other guy.
"Man, I think I caught a cold. Damn late autumn weather," Leon mocked.
Drake swallowed hard, constantly telling himself to stay calm.
Since hitting it big with his debut album, even the hardcore gangbangers who'd been in and out of prison three times were rushing to kiss his ass. Why should he be afraid of a white kid younger than him?
Thoughts were thoughts, but his body was very honest.
In silence, he chose the makeup station farthest from Leon, at least ten meters away.
The styling director, who loved following gossip on social media, knew there was some beef between the two popular singers, so he kept his chatter to a minimum.
The previously cheerful atmosphere instantly cooled down.
Fortunately, the biggest guest of the night arrived. Surrounded by a dozen bodyguards, Michael Jordan walked in wearing a gorgeous haute couture suit.
There was no trace of the raw, rough vibe associated with typical "street" figures on him; every detail screamed "standard business mogul."
"Well, you two young guys are here early." Jordan sat down at the makeup station next to Leon. "Street Jesus, right? Talented young man. Although I don't understand today's pop music, the radio is always looping your songs, and Stern always asks NBA teams to play your songs more in the arena."
In the digital age, the explosion of any entertainment work is inseparable from heavy promotion, even if the work itself is excellent.
The public can't choose content they are truly interested in based solely on their own likes and dislikes. When they hear a song they don't like on the radio, switching to another frequency just plays the same song. Switch again, and it's likely the same result.
Turn off the radio, open social media, and the feed is full of content about that song.
Subway ads, mall background music, holiday galas...
As long as enough money is thrown at it, record companies always have a way to achieve their goals.
Under long-term brainwashing, the audience's mental defenses gradually relax. Over time, they start to feel that the noise which sounded like dog sht before doesn't sound so bad anymore.
The highest level of propaganda is not to provide choices to the audience, but to confiscate their choices and cultivate their tastes.
Facing the praise from the God of Basketball, Leon immediately flattered back. "It's my honor to be appreciated by you. I grew up watching your heroic posture on the court. I always pointed at the TV and told my mom: 'Mom, look, this man can fly!'"
Jordan's ears were always filled with praise, but he was still quite amused by Leon's art of conversation.
He waved to the big bodyguard behind him, who immediately understood and took out a wooden box from inside his suit.
"You smoke, right?"
"That's right."
"Then you're in for a treat. Try this." Jordan took a cigar out of the wooden box and handed it over.
Leon took the cigar, sniffed it under his nose, and quickly smelled the difference in aroma from the Cuban cigars he usually smoked.
He blurted out, "Non-Cuban?"
Jordan's eyes lit up. Changing his previous lazy posture, he sat up straight. "I didn't expect you to be so knowledgeable. That's right, this isn't Cuban stuff. Have you heard of Gurkha Cigars? This company once wanted to hire me as a spokesperson, but I refused. Their product premium is too high, completely unworthy of the name. Nevertheless, their president still sends me many not-for-sale cigars."
Jordan was a big smoker, especially fond of cigars; everyone knew this.
In the late stage of the Bulls dynasty, during every locker room celebration after winning the championship, Jordan, puffing on a cigar, was always the most eye-catching one.
Non-Cuban cigars are a general term for all cigars not produced in Cuba. Gurkha is known for its high pricing gimmicks, even launching a box of sky-high priced cigars selling for over $860,000 this year.
They claimed that each box was infused with a whole bottle of Louis XIII, the tobacco leaves were carefully cultivated in the high-cold thick soil of the Himalayas, and watered with pure water from Fiji. The entire cigar was wrapped in gold leaf, and a total of 5 carats of diamonds were inlaid at the logo position.
Unsurprisingly, not a single box of this cigar had been sold so far; it was purely a marketing stunt.
Leon cut the cigar cap, lit it, and commented while tasting, "A bit spicy at the first puff, but it passes quickly. The creamy flavor is very rich. It's done very well among non-Cuban products."
"Same feeling as mine!"
Jordan couldn't hide the appreciation in his eyes. Originally, he wanted to use a non-Cuban cigar to show off his knowledge and establish a big brother image in his first meeting with this street maniac.
Although this social tactic failed, the two chatted more and more agreeably, so much so that Jordan completely ignored the others in the dressing room.
Half an hour later, other guests arrived one after another.
There was no extra time for them to get to know each other; the game was about to start.
The stylist team was fully wound up, completing the styling for all guests in the shortest time possible.
To everyone's surprise, that ridiculous rainbow-colored battle suit was actually prepared for the veteran male star George Clooney. Or rather, he requested it himself.
"This guy won't miss any opportunity to express his political views," Phil snorted, whispering before going to the table. "This kind of self-righteous but empty-headed guy gets emotional most easily. He's definitely a fat fish!"
George Clooney, a political fanatic in actor's clothing.
He was the most high-profile political opportunist in the American entertainment industry, never missing any chance to show his face on political occasions.
Not only did he publicly support extreme environmental organizations, "woke" organizations, and extreme liberals, but he also sponsored the smearing of countries inconsistent with American universal values through his Clooney Foundation.
He and politics were mutually dependent, growing and using each other.
The actor made money to transfuse blood to political activities—politics used its control of the media to brag about his handsomeness and good acting skills, helping him get famous. And the more famous he was, the more money he could make, and the more money he had to engage in political activities.
Although Leon didn't care about Clooney's political speculation, he indeed didn't have much affection for this old white man.
When Will Smith publicly attacked The Rap of America for poisoning the values of teenagers, Clooney, as his good friend, also stood up to chime in.
After the guests took their seats, the staff immediately placed chips in front of everyone.
The charity tournament required a minimum buy-in of $1 million, with no upper limit on chips.
Like most guests, Leon only brought the minimum chips of $1 million.
Surprisingly, the one with the most chips wasn't the richest Jordan, who only brought $2 million to the table.
Drake and Bruno Mars, two fanatical gamblers, each brought $3 million. Their greedy eyes scanned everyone at the table like sharks.
These colorful chips weren't just for show; the guests had to pay out of their own pockets with real money.
Adhering to the plan made before the game, Leon only played top-tier hands like pairs and AK suited. He threw away trash hands without hesitation.
He had only one friend at this table—Discipline.
Thirty minutes into the game, everyone else's chip stacks had fluctuated several times, but Leon was as steady as an old dog, as if he wasn't part of this game.
Drake, with his aggressive style, won nearly $1 million in a short time, sweeping away his previous timid appearance in front of Leon. Every time he raked in a pot, it was accompanied by a roar.
He threw out $1,000 tips casually.
"It seems that today, this young man's presence relies entirely on this strange outfit to make up for it." Leon's extremely tight and passive style attracted ridicule from Clooney at the same table. "My good friend Jackie Chan recommended an Eastern movie to me. I remember a silly guy in the movie also wore the same clothes and played cards in the same style."
He paused intentionally for two seconds, curling his lips into a smile. "I think you still need a nail clipper to kill time."
"Don't be impatient. My style of playing cards is like Mike Tyson—when I strike, it's a heavy cannon," Leon responded.
Drake, who didn't understand the "nail clipper" meme at all (a reference to the God of Gamblers movie character), seized the opportunity to laugh presumptuously, venting the repression in his heart.
The dealer completed a new round of dealing. This time Leon got pocket Aces, the best starting hand before the flop.
Clooney raised $5,000 from under the gun, met by a re-raise to $30,000 from Drake in the straddle position. Other players folded one after another.
Leon, on the button with pocket Aces, re-raised to $100,000 without thinking.
At this time, the pot had reached nearly $170,000, with only Leon, Clooney, and Drake left in the hand.
Drake checked his hole cards repeatedly—AK offsuit. He wrote his hand strength on his face, his expression quite tangled and painful.
"Fck!"
Considering Leon's extremely tight playing style, he gritted his teeth and folded this hand.
The problem was passed to Clooney holding pocket 10s.
"You must be holding a huge hand. Am I right?" Clooney took the champagne glass and took an elegant sip.
"Yes, very, very big." Leon touched the Knicks championship ring on his finger, maintaining a smile throughout.
"Looks like I'm going to disappoint you. I choose to fold." Saying that, Clooney threw away his hand without hesitation.
"Damn... why do I feel like I was tricked by him?" Drake muttered in his heart. His biggest wish tonight was to bite a piece of meat off Leon hard.
"Wise choice." Leon chose to show his hand.
When the two Aces appeared on the table, Drake jumped up excitedly. "Fck! I knew it! I had AK! Look, I'm like a prophet! How did I play this hand? Do I have the shadow of Tom Dwan?"
"Beautifully done." Clooney bumped fists with him.
"Cough cough... maintain some dignity, young man." Jordan couldn't stand it and reminded him in a low voice.
In the next hour, Leon's style remained tight. He was the most disciplined man at the entire table.
But luck seemed to be on his side. He got big hands like AA, KK, and AK suited consecutively in a short time.
Such luck could no longer be described as being favored by Lady Luck; saying Lady Luck was holding his head and kissing him wouldn't be an exaggeration.
However, good luck didn't bring him much profit. His opponents had figured out his style—either he didn't enter the pot, or if he did, he must have a big hand.
He had a very obvious tell: whenever he got a big hand, he would unconsciously turn the ring on his left hand.
Only the stubborn Drake rushed into the pot knowing the opponent had a big hand. The $600,000 profit at Leon's hand came almost entirely from his contribution.
Clooney mocked, "I have to remind you, the Knicks suck now. The God of Basketball is at this table; you need to wear a Bulls ring to dominate this table."
Drake was dizzy from being hammered by Leon's continuous big hands, forcing his way into pots no matter how bad his hand was.
Soon, the chips in front of him were spat back with interest, leaving only $2 million.
"Damn, damn... Can you fcking deal faster!" Drake shouted at the dealer while pounding the table.
After a new round of hands was dealt, LeBron James made a mini-raise of $1,400. Drake and Leon called in position.
Pre-flop pot was $4,800, with only three players left.
Flop: J, 7, Q.
Unexpectedly, Leon played a small hand for the first time. Holding 9-7 of diamonds, hitting a pair of 7s with the board, he chose to check in position.
James bet $4,000. Drake raised to $14,000 to force him out, waiting to go heads-up with Leon.
Unexpectedly, this action invited strong resistance from Leon, who re-raised to $41,000, leaving the problem to the opponent.
"Calm down, I have to be calm and not let him see through me." Drake held 6-3 of diamonds, hitting absolutely nothing.
Lose anything but momentum!
He gritted his teeth and called. The pot instantly swelled to nearly $100,000.
Turn card was a 6. He hit the smallest pair on the board.
Without giving him a chance to think, Leon took the initiative to attack, betting full pot—$100,000.
Drake immediately put on a mask of pain, the corners of his mouth twitching slightly.
"Hurry up, don't waste everyone's time contributing to charity."
While speaking, Leon sold another tell, touching his ring again.
"Fck! Does he think I'm an idiot!"
Drake cursed inwardly. Reason told him to fold quickly, but he couldn't convince himself to believe the other party really had a hand.
"Want to play psychological games with me, bastard?!" Drake gritted his teeth, emotion overcoming reason.
I'm raising!
Under everyone's stunned expressions, he pushed out $300,000 in chips.
"Young people have energy."
Other guests were attracted by the crazy raising war. Anyone could see that these two were going at it.
Leon narrowed his eyes and stared at Drake, choosing to call after more than ten seconds.
At this time, the pot had swelled to $800,000.
River card was a 4. Neither of their hand strengths changed.
At this point, hand strength was no longer important; what determined the final result was the psychological game.
Leon checked again. Drake, red-eyed and desperate, acted like a desperado.
"I'm all in!"
He pushed all the chips in front of him without hesitation, which meant Leon had to push his remaining $1 million stack if he wanted to call.
"WTF... what the hell does he have?"
Even Jordan couldn't sit still with such a crazy play style, holding his chin to analyze the situation on the board.
In the absence of a flush or straight draw, what kind of hand drove two young people to fight so fiercely?
Leon looked completely stress-free, leaning back in the swivel chair playing with chips. "This isn't small money for you, Drake. How are your new album sales? Seems the results aren't as good as expected."
Drake didn't say a word, trying to avoid revealing any flaws.
"Fine, it doesn't matter how much you lose anyway," Leon mocked. "Your daddy Lil Wayne will wipe your ass for you."
Everyone burst into laughter, waiting for the moment the answer was revealed.
Leon appeared to be launching a psychological war on the surface, but he was actually analyzing the opponent's line of action. Every choice the opponent made was unreasonable.
Throwing heavy bets consecutively on such a dry board exposed the inner thought of not wanting to show down.
Leon touched the ring again and casually threw out a chip. "Call."
Drake's face turned ashen instantly. Holding a pair of 6s, he understood that as long as the opponent called this kind of hand, it was 100% bigger than his.
Desperate bluff failed, arrested on the spot.
"Ah... sht..."
Drake stared blankly at the studio ceiling. The moment he shouted "all in" was cool, but it also meant that months of commercial performances were all for nothing.
However, the more heartbreaking part was yet to come. When they saw Leon show 9-7, everyone's expression was like they had seen a ghost.
He dared to catch a $1 million desperate bluff with just a pair of 7s. A total of $2.8 million—the largest pot in the history of televised poker programs.
"Holy sht! Do you have mind-reading skills, Bro?" James swallowed, glad he didn't encounter such a terrible opponent.
"Unbelievable!" Jordan gave a thumbs up. "I've played cards with Tom Dwan. I bet even he definitely wouldn't call this bluff!"
"How on earth did you do it?"
Leon suppressed a greedy smile, sweeping the mountain of chips into his arms. "I never thought about winning. My goal here was to lose money, to contribute to global warming and women's rights. I never thought the showdown would end up like this."
"Wow..." This speech about his "big picture" mindset made the celebrities at the table look at each other.
If it were a pot of a few hundred thousand dollars, they might have believed it. But $2.8 million was not a number anyone could discard at will.
But they couldn't think of a more reasonable explanation, so they could only praise repeatedly, "What a young man with a big vision. No wonder the industries you invest in are blooming everywhere."
In stark contrast to the harmonious atmosphere among the others, the moment Drake saw Leon's hole cards, he seemed to have his soul sucked out, freezing in place as if in detention.
After a moment of silence, he completely broke down, shouting hoarsely: "Is this a joke? I thought he had three of a kind, but he caught my all-in with a pair of 7s? This is too fake, Bro. Unless special means were used, this is totally a ghost story."
"Accept reality, buddy." The guests comforted him one after another. No one could accept such a thing happening to them.
Leon rocked his swivel chair, mocking with a wicked smile, "You're right. Actually, I'm wearing contact lenses that can see through hole cards. The latest cutting-edge product from Germany."
"Get me a pair of those good things too!"
Everyone grinned and laughed, watching Drake's face turn redder and redder.