Inside the printing plant, the machines roared.
Sheets of playing cards moved through the mechanics—inking, cutting, laminating—looking for all the world like cold, hard cash.
The decks were shipped from the warehouse, packed into crates, and transported to every corner of Nanjin City, where they were bought and brought to the poker tables.
A pair of slender, pale hands, with blood-red nail polish, tore through the wrapping, shuffling and dealing with practiced ease.
Chips clicked and stacked between palms, a crisp, orderly percussion.
Lips parted and closed around a drink, the sound of gulping accompanied by the rhythmic rise and fall of an Adam's apple.
Two yellowed fingers gripped a cigarette for a long, heavy drag; smoke billowed, catching the warm golden lamplight, with a few red threads dancing in the hazy air.
His eyes could barely stay open; he had lost track of how long he'd been playing, or how many cigarettes he'd burned through.
The young man toyed with a stack of chips with his right hand while his left hand rose—once, twice—catching the cards flung his way in succession; the plain silver ring on his left hand flashed twice, reflecting the chandelier light.
This was a game of Texas Hold'em.
The player to the left took a drag, sighed, and tossed his hand into the muck.
Then, a female player confidently threw out two chips. "Call."
The others folded one after another.
The player to the right, with slicked-back hair and a furrowed brow, had a face that turned a bruised shade of dark iron; the chips before him had grown into a small mountain. After a few seconds of silence, he pinched a stack from the pile and said, "Raise."
It was the young man's turn to act. He had already burned through several buy-ins today, and this last pile of chips was nearly gone. He glanced at the stack, shielded his cards with his right hand, and slowly peeled back the corners with his left. A pair of Queens.
Luck had been poor today; these Queens were the best hand he'd seen all night. If he didn't seize this chance, the hope of breaking even would be even more remote.
"All-in," the young man declared, pushing forward that meager, pathetic little stack.
The moment the words left his mouth, the female player snapped a chip into the pot and shouted, "All-in!"
The action moved to the man with the slicked-back hair. His furrowed brow suddenly relaxed as he leaned back and bellowed, "Call!!"
The young man froze. This was not a good sign; he might be trailing far behind. He flipped over his pair of Queens and leaned back, trying to see the other two players' hands. At that instant, the piercing white light of the chandelier hit his eyes, and he felt a wave of dizziness...
The golden light gradually faded, leaving only a bright spot in his vision. As his sight recovered, he confirmed it was a desk lamp.
He was currently sitting in a dim, small room, with the sound of clattering chips and muffled voices drifting in from outside.
The young man began to survey the room. It appeared to be a secondary bedroom, sparsely decorated—simple white-washed walls and a few pieces of furniture. It was several levels below the luxury of the living room outside. On the desk, besides the lamp, was a POS machine, piles of chips, and several contract documents. A poker table and several executive chairs were leaned neatly against the wall behind the desk.
Most interesting were the dozen or so mobile phones arranged neatly on the desk; they were far too conspicuous. Smartphones had been prominent for three or four years now, yet these were all "brick" phones that could be bought for a hundred or two hundred bucks.
This wasn't his first time in this room today, but this time, he had enough time to look closely. This room was the "Cage" of the game. A poker game usually took place in a fully rented apartment; the living room was decorated more luxuriously, offering free tobacco, alcohol, and drinks for the players' entertainment, the master bedroom was for rest, and the second bedroom served as the accounting room.
And the manager of the Cage sat right in front of the young man. Every player's buy-in had to go through his hands. Only a desk separated the two of them.
The young man looked at the man's massive frame—it wasn't muscle, but a mountain of soft fat. He wore clean, plain clothes that looked custom-made; the oversized black crew-neck T-shirt was devoid of any logos or patterns. The fat man squinted, using his meaty hand to adjust the lampshade, raising it until it shined directly into the young man's eyes.
Instantly, the blinding light hit him head-on. The young man hurried to lower his head, but the intense glare still stung his eyes, and tears began to flow.
"A bit dramatic, don't you think?" The fat man chuckled as he looked at the frail, studious-looking young man who couldn't even handle a little light.
The young man was handsome, with clean features, single eyelids, and a high-bridged nose, dressed like a typical student in a T-shirt and jeans. Because his face was thin, his shoulders looked exceptionally broad. His hair, with a slight perm, swept to one side.
Before the young man, the fat man felt like he was a teacher.
The young man frowned and wiped away his tears, then pulled a few more tissues from the desk to dry them completely.
The fat man offered the young man a cigarette, gesturing for him to take it, then flicked a lighter and slowly extended his nearly immobile arm toward the young man.
As the lighter drew closer, the young man could hear the fat man's heavy breathing.
"Fat Brother, just give me one more buy-in today," the young man said with the cigarette in his mouth, watching the fat man struggle to stretch his arm to its limit before leaning his neck out to reach the flame.
"Can't do it. Little Lin's authority is for three buy-ins at most, and you've already used them up."
The fat man began rummaging through his things.
"My last hand with QQ could have turned it all around, but I ran into two players with AA. Just too much bad luck."
"I don't understand what happens at the table, but these are your accounts for today, right?" The fat man found the ledger and turned to the page recording the young man's buy-ins.
In the ledger before the young man, each player had a separate page to record their buy-in time and amount. The young man's page already had eight lines, meaning he had bought in eight times today.
The fat man pointed with his thick, stubby finger at that page. "Five buy-ins, paid by card, cleared. These three, put it on Little Lin's tab, right?" The fat man took a puff of his cigarette and continued, "If you want to keep playing, you have to clear these three first."
Seeing that the fat man wouldn't agree, the young man took the ledger and began to write; he was preparing to record his ninth buy-in. "If Little Lin hadn't introduced me today, I wouldn't have come to show my support. If I lose this last one, I'll swipe my card and settle up immediately."
"Isn't swiping now the same as swiping after? If you win, I'll refund you; if you lose, we're even." The fat man squinted his nearly closed eyes, watching the young man finish writing the ninth line, then reached out to take the ledger back.
"It's just one more. Are you afraid I'll run off?"
"Tell you what, I'll go out and ask Brother Hei. I don't have the authority to release any more credit here." The fat man stood up, preparing to go to the living room.
The "Brother Hei" the fat man mentioned was the one with the slicked-back hair—the host of the game who had won against the young man's QQ with AA half an hour ago.
"Fine, then ask Brother Hei for me. Regardless of winning or losing, I'll definitely settle the account tonight," the young man said to the fat man, watching him stand up with difficulty and waddle toward the door, step by step.
The grey Jordan 1s on his feet were squashed and deformed, bulging out on both sides.
"As long as we're still talking, there's still a chance, right? The card is already empty; at the very least, I have to win back the debt pinned on Little Lin."
The young man calculated in his mind; pinning the debt on someone without their consent made him feel a little guilty.
Because this couldn't be called bravery; it was only a "baseless, inexplicable confidence."