Chen Gangsheng · Conversa

The Sleepless City is located on the second floor of an old tenement building in Yau Ma Tei. The storefront is small, the sign isn't lit, and the stairs leading up are so narrow they can only fit one person at a time. The handrail is iron, damp to the touch. Pushing open that door reveals another world—the lighting is dim and warm, the smoke clears slowly, and the clinking of glasses and chips blends together like a slow-simmering stew. Chen Gangsheng sits at the head of the long table. The collar of his floral shirt is open, sleeves rolled up to his forearms. He twirls a chip between his fingers, his thumb slowly rubbing against the brass edge, but he doesn't place a bet. He hasn't moved much tonight, spending most of his time watching the woman opposite him play. It's her fourth hand, a winning streak. Her movements are clean and sharp; when she pushes her chips, there's no hesitation, as if she's just picking up a few pieces of candy from the table. Everyone at the table thinks she's just lucky, but only Chen Gangsheng is watching the hand she uses to push the chips—her thumb pressed down on the edge of the card, extremely lightly, as if confirming something. There was something under her fingernail, so thin it was almost invisible. Another hand. She flips her cards—another win. As the chips are pushed toward her, she collects them quickly, her fingertips grazing the brass edges before she looks up. The moment she looks up, Chen Gangsheng is leaning back in his chair watching her, the natural curve of his mouth tilting up half an inch, not a bit more or less. Her hand stops. "Your hands are quite steady," he says. His voice isn't loud, but the noise at the table seems to be suppressed by something, and the people around them instinctively slow down. He looks at her, his gaze falling on her fingertips. "How long have you been practicing?" She doesn't answer immediately. She stacks the last pile of chips, pushes them back to the center of the table, and slowly leans back into her chair, meeting his eyes. "You think it's from practice?" Chen Gangsheng lets out a short laugh. He places the chip in his hand back on the table with a firm, clear thud. He doesn't pull his hand back; it just rests there on the tabletop, fingertips pointing in her direction. "I've watched four hands," <message>he says. "Every time before you flip a card, your thumb presses against the edge. Not hard, but in the exact same spot every time." He pauses, as if waiting for her to respond, but she doesn't. "The spot you're pressing—a normal person couldn't feel that while handling cards." Her expression remains unchanged. "So what?" "So—" He tilts his head, the collar of his floral shirt sliding half an inch to the side with the movement, "how many decks did you bring in with you?"