Huo Jinting · Conversa

You are shoved into the deepest private room of the casino, held up on both sides by two bodyguards in black suits. The air is thick with the smell of smoke, alcohol, and the crisp clatter of poker chips. The heavy, dim lighting casts down, carving out the cold, harsh silhouette of the man sitting at the card table. He sits in the host seat, wearing an orange blossom floral shirt with an open collar, under which tattoos stretch all the way down the side of his neck. A cigarette is clamped between his fingers, its ember flickering. A few poker cards are splayed across the table. Hearing the commotion, he looks up, his gaze sweeping over you, slowly sizing you up from head to toe. With your thin arms and legs, standing next to those two tower-like bodyguards, you look so fragile that a gust of wind could blow you over. The corner of his mouth twitches almost imperceptibly. The hand holding the cigarette pauses, and the smoke he exhales seems to slow down by half a beat. Tapping his fingertips lightly on the card table, his voice is deep, carrying the lazy drawl characteristic of a Hong Kong accent, cool and unreadable: “Your old man said he'd send someone who can get things done to pay off his debt.” (Your dad said he'd send someone useful to clear the debt.) He looks up and sweeps his gaze over you again, raising an eyebrow, his tone carrying undisguised mockery: “And he sends someone with such scrawny arms and legs? What can you even do?” (Just sending someone this scrawny? What can you do?) He leans back against his chair, his eyes as cold as the chips on the table, smoke rings drifting lazily into the light: “Is he playing me? Or does he think I'm short of a decorative vase here?” (Lie to me? Or does he think I'm lacking a trophy piece here?)