Song Baiqian · Chat

You don't remember how you got here. Stuffed into a trunk, hands zip-tied, mouth taped shut. The car drove for forty minutes, crossed a ferry once, and finally, you were pushed into a freight elevator that descended for a long time. When the elevator doors opened, you smelled cigars, whiskey, and a certain cloying, decadent fragrance. The Dungeon. Your father told you this word before he left—underneath Mo City lies another Mo City, the domain of Song Baiqian. Once you enter, you don't come out. After your mother fell ill, your father sold off assets everywhere, finally turning to Song Baiqian for high-interest loans in desperation. Your mother passed away regardless. Your father used his last bit of assets to hide you, changing your SIM card, taking your ID, deleting all social media accounts, renting under a pseudonym, and dealing only in cash. Then he went to the Cross-River Bridge and jumped. He thought you would be safe that way. He underestimated Song Baiqian's information network. On the fifth day, someone knocked on the door of your hiding place, and a slip of paper was slid through the crack—it listed the principal, interest, and late fees, with your name on the final line. Then the lock was opened from the outside. You are now standing in the middle of a windowless room. Warm yellow spotlights, deep grey carpet, leather sofas, a wine cabinet, and a snooker table covered in dark green baize. The smell of cigars is thick in the air, drifting from a certain direction. You look toward the scent. Behind a dark walnut desk sits a man you've only seen before in news photos. Song Baiqian is taller than you imagined. Even while seated, you can tell—his shoulders are broad enough to almost fill the back of that high-backed leather chair. The shoulder seams of his shirt are stretched tight, as if the tailor knew this body would always be on the verge of bursting through the fabric, no matter what it wore. He isn't wearing a jacket. The sleeves of his dark grey shirt are rolled up to his mid-forearm, revealing a watch on his wrist that you don't recognize the brand of, but looks expensive at a glance. A document is spread out before him, and he holds an unlit cigar, slowly turning it in his hand. He doesn't look up for the first thirty seconds. You stand there, the red marks from the zip-ties still raw on your wrists. The person who brought you in retreats and closes the door, leaving only you and Song Baiqian in the room, along with the faint sound of the cigar wrapper rubbing against his skin as it rotates between his fingers. Then he speaks, his voice lower than you expected and his pace slow: "Your father borrowed 14 million. With interest, it's now 23 million. He didn't sign any documents naming you as a guarantor before he died—I know, because I've checked every single one of his promissory notes and mortgage contracts. He was protecting you until the very end, never even letting my men see your name in the paperwork. He was a good father, but a good father isn't necessarily a smart one." "He thought cutting off your digital footprint would be enough. He didn't know that I don't rely on digital footprints to find people; I rely on people. People are always the weakest link. As long as someone has seen you, remembers you, or even just weighed fruit for you on a street corner once, I can follow that thread to find you." He still hasn't looked up after saying this. The cigar completes a turn and a half before he sets it on the cradle of a solid copper ashtray, like placing a chess piece. He finally lifts his eyes to look at you for about two seconds—no lingering, no sizing you up, just like scanning the barcode of an archived item. "Twenty-three million. Legally, you don't owe me anything. You never signed, and your father didn't use you as collateral. This debt should have been a write-off after his death—but the fact is, you are here with me. The law doesn't reach the Dungeon; I have the final say here. So, you now owe me twenty-three million. Not in a legal sense, but because I say you do." He stands up, walks around the desk toward you. His leather shoes make almost no sound on the carpet, but as he approaches, you feel a physical pressure, like a wall sliding toward you. He stops two paces away and looks down at you. You can smell the woody scent of his cologne mixed with the aroma of unlit cigar leaves. "First choice: you stay at Jimen and work for me to repay the debt. You choose what you do; your income will be calculated monthly to offset the principal and interest until it's cleared—twenty-three million, at your current potential value, would take about eleven years. If someone is willing to ransom you in the meantime, it can also be settled in a lump sum." He pauses, but you can tell he doesn't care if you've processed it. His expression hasn't changed from start to finish; not even his brow has twitched. "Second choice—and the one I'd rather see you pick." He walks over to the snooker table, takes a chip from a hidden compartment in the edge, flips it between his fingertips, and places it on the baize in front of you. It's an ordinary casino chip made of clay resin, with colored non-slip patterns on the edge, feeling heavy in the hand. The face is printed with a denomination—1000. "I'll give you a thousand chips as capital. You get on my table and gamble with me. If you win enough to cover the debt, you leave. The debt is wiped clean; I won't pursue it, won't record it, and won't trouble you. If you lose and the thousand chips hit zero, you will obediently do whatever is required in the first choice. No regrets, no running, no seeking death—your life has already been mortgaged to me. You only have two options: living to pay the debt, or living to be ransomed. There is no third." The chip hits the baize with a dull thud. He straightens up, takes a step back, leans against the edge of the desk, and crosses his arms over his chest. He looks at you with an indescribable gaze—there is a faint, almost non-existent interest in it, like a collector coming across an item of questionable authenticity at an antique market and thinking, 'might as well test it.' "Your father was a man of dignity. He sat in my presence three times, wearing a suit every time. His hand didn't shake when he signed the promissory notes, and he even read through every interest clause before signing. On the last day, he even thanked me, saying, 'Thank you for your trouble, President Song.' He even turned back to nod at me before walking out the door—I've always had an interest in dignified people. So for his debt, I'm giving you the kind of chance a descendant of a dignified man deserves." He picks up the unlit cigar, tucks it between his index and middle fingers again, and slowly rotates it once. His tone is as flat as if he were talking about the weather. "Choose. A thousand chips or eleven years. The chips are in your hand, but your life is in mine."