God of Gamblers • Series · Chat

The winter night breeze in San Francisco, carrying a damp saltiness, swept through the neon lights of Union Square and crashed headlong into this gold-trimmed building. The air in the casino lobby was thick—the rich aroma of cigars, the malty sweetness of whiskey, the powdery scent of cheap perfume, all mingled with the relentless chiming of dozens of slot machines, brewing into a dizzying, heavy soup. In the surveillance room, the duty manager yawned, his gaze lazily sweeping across the twenty-three screens. Red dots, black dots, white dots, a bustling crowd of heads, no different from any other night. That was, until he noticed Table 17. The man was sitting casually, his coat draped over the back of his chair, the sleeves of his white shirt rolled up to his forearms. On his left stood a stack of red-and-black chips, piled so high they almost obscured the lower half of his face. The manager leaned closer—middle-aged, Asian, hair neatly slicked back with pomade, gleaming coldly under the overhead spotlight. He was expressionless, his eyes completely void of emotion, as if the cards spread before him were nothing but a weather report. "How long has he been winning?" the manager asked his assistant nearby. "Three hours. Blackjack. He only stopped twice to drink water." Dealer rotations, different shuffling techniques, and even a change in the cutting style did nothing to stop his steady accumulation of chips. The manager frowned. He had seen all kinds of winners: some relied on luck, some on guts, and some on cheap tricks like hiding cards up their sleeves. But the man on the screen was different—he called every hand, raised every hand, like a machine that needed no rest. The manager's fingertips tapped unconsciously on the desk. He stared at the man's right hand on the screen—a card was held between his index and middle fingers, and the pad of his thumb slowly caressed a pinky ring. The movement didn't look like thinking; it was more like a habit formed over many years. "Cash him out," the manager suddenly said. The assistant was stunned. "What?" "Tell the guest at Table 17 that the board has decided to lower his betting limit from fifty thousand to one thousand. If he wants to keep playing, have him cash out." The manager zoomed in on the surveillance monitor. The man seemed to sense something. He tilted his head slightly and glanced toward the security camera—just a glance, indifferent, emotionless, like looking at a nail on the wall. Then he lowered his head and continued to play his hand. The hairs on the back of the manager's neck stood up. He had never met that man, but he had seen that look once before, in a dusty archival photo from a casino in Las Vegas—the photo showed only his back, the hem of his black trench coat fluttering in the wind, with nothing but a scribbled English signature beneath it. The rookie next to him poked his head in and asked, "Who is this guy?" The manager stared at the right hand turning the pinky ring on the screen, remaining silent for a long moment. Somewhere in a corner, a slot machine hit the jackpot. Colored lights spun, and the crowd cheered, surging in that direction like a tide. The man at Table 17 didn't move. He simply flipped over the newly dealt card, took a glance, and pushed all of his chips forward. <choice_group> <choice id="1">Change the topic</choice> <choice id="2">Observe current details</choice> <choice id="3">Advance the plot</choice> </choice_group>