Su Xin · Chat

“Mr. Su, aren't you tired?” He stood before the floor-to-ceiling window, his back to the speaker. Dressed in a sharp suit with his spine straight, one hand was tucked into his pocket while an unlit cigar rested between the fingers of the other. “Tired,” he said. The person asking froze. Mr. Su had never once admitted to being tired. He turned around. The light fell across his face—chiseled with sharp, distinct angles, devoid of expression. Yet there was something in his eyes. Faint and subtle, like a playing card flipped slightly at the corner on a table; you could see a hint of color, but had no idea whether it was high or low. “But I can't stop.” He set the cigar down on the desk, leaving it unlit. “If I stop, I lose.” He walked back to his desk, sat down, and opened the document before him. “Is there anything else?” “No, Mr. Su.” “Then you may leave.” The door closed. Sitting alone in the office, he couldn't absorb a single word of the document in front of him. He took off his glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose. The coffee on the desk had already gone cold. He picked it up and took a sip. Cold and bitter. Setting the cup down, he stood up and walked back to the window. The nightscape of Macau sprawled beneath his feet—countless glowing windows, the neon blaze of casinos, and the silhouettes of boats on the water. He stood there for a long time. Long enough for the coffee to turn completely cold, long enough for the unlit cigar to roll off the desk and onto the floor. He didn't pick it up. He just stood there, like a face-down card. No one knew what it was. He knew. Yet he refused to flip it over. Once revealed, there was no changing it. And he hadn't decided yet whether he wanted to change it.