A Letter from Keanu Reeves

Chen Wan could count cards.

He meticulously dismantled the four suits. During the last round at Zhao Shengge’s table, he had already disrupted his opponent’s straight flush once, and Chen Wan wouldn’t give him the Joker again.

It wasn’t unusual for a dealer to count cards. But for someone to memorize the scores, key points, cards played, and the playing styles of all four players at the table, while also retaining details from previous rounds—that was terrifying.

Still, the young masters at the table didn’t notice. They didn’t have the intellect or the inclination to pick up on these nuances. All they knew was that they had fun playing at Chen Wan’s table.

Chen, the dealer, had sharp eyes, steady hands, and a high-speed mind. He ensured a fair balance, creating an environment where players were evenly matched. Victory depended purely on skill.

This round, the Joker went to Huang Shao.

When Qin Zhaoting let out an ambiguous laugh, even Chen Wan couldn’t tell if it was because of the Joker or just a distraction.

Unfortunately, Zhao Shengge happened to need that Joker this round.

Chen Wan could count cards. Zhao Shengge could calculate probabilities.

Halfway through the game, Zhao had already deduced from Huang Shao’s pursuit of cards and Tian Cheng’s full house that the Joker must be in Qin Zhaoting’s hand.

Zhao could’ve adjusted his strategy to score early, but he didn’t. Instead, he carefully baited, card by card, until that Joker surfaced in the pot like an execution delayed.

His hand wasn’t great, but his lead in points compensated for it.

The MVP of the last round had the privilege of replenishing a card.

Zhao Shengge lowered his eyes, focusing intently on his seemingly random cards. Without looking up, he knocked on the table with the back of his right hand.

A pale, slender hand pushed a facedown card toward him.

Zhao flipped it over.

Another Joker.

Fate strives for fairness but inevitably shows favoritism.

Zhao Shengge raised his eyes, locking onto Chen Wan. The dealer’s gaze was calm and kind, his demeanor so composed it left no room for doubt.

The table buzzed with noise, waves lapping in the background. Twilight had fallen, and the brief but loaded glance they exchanged was both direct and elusive. A second later, their eyes parted.

Though no words were spoken, they had played out a thousand mental rounds against each other.

Zhao Shengge calculated Chen Wan’s card distribution. Chen Wan calculated everyone’s plays.

Zhao Shengge’s hand was bad, but he didn’t mind. A bad hand has its own strategy. Chen Wan, however, was infallible, allowing no room for unfairness.

For those dealt a poor hand, a compensation was awarded.

That compensation was the Joker, evidence that Chen Wan had predicted the game’s flow even before it began.

How much would a dealer capable of calculating card balance, turn probabilities, and card order with such precision earn annually at Shen Zongnian’s casino?

At least a million. Pounds, not yuan.

Chen Wan must’ve simulated hundreds of rounds in his mind, pinpointing the optimal card combinations and play orders from countless possibilities. And he did all this within three minutes, the time it took to shuffle, deal, and banter with the players.

Despite the constraints, he kept the margin of winning probabilities within a 5% range.

He had underestimated the man.

Zhao Shengge retracted his gaze, expressionless, and threw the Joker into the pot, ending the game.

After this round, Zhao stepped away from the table. He thought Chen Wan was simply cautious and self-preserving, ensuring his actions were above reproach. But what he didn’t realize was that Chen Wan had indeed considered everything—but those reasons weren’t the most important.

The cards dealt to Zhao this round were subpar, appearing substantial but difficult to form sequences with. Chen Wan had deliberately held onto one Joker.

That trump card wasn’t just the Joker. It was Chen Wan himself. If Zhao Shengge needed it, he would find it. If he didn’t, it would remain hidden forever.

Of course, Chen Wan hoped Zhao would never have to use it. He wished him a smooth path, free from obstacles.

As night fully descended, Tan Youming instructed the staff to move the card tables indoors, while the group headed to the upper deck for dinner.

Chen Wan and Zhao weren’t seated at the same table and barely exchanged a glance.

Even on the same ship, the distance between them was insurmountable.

The cruise ship remained lively late into the night. After dinner, the sound of poker chips clinking continued to resonate across the deck.

With the crowd growing larger, Chen Wan became the most sought-after dealer, moving gracefully between tables, composed and elegant.

During a rare break, he stepped out onto the deck for some fresh air. Being a dealer was no less taxing than being a player. While it seemed like he held all the power, he couldn’t deal cards as he pleased—not in a setting like this.

At any given table, the players were formidable individuals. Chen Wan had to carefully maintain the delicate balance between them while ensuring the games remained engaging and unpredictable. Pleasing this group of young masters was mentally exhausting.

The cool night breeze was refreshing, sweeping away the day’s heat. The sound of waves crashing against the hull filled the air.

His nerves, stretched taut, left him with a headache. Lighting a cigarette, he took a moment to relax, staring absentmindedly into the distance. He didn’t notice when someone approached from behind.

Startled by the realization, Chen Wan quickly put out his cigarette and politely made way.

This was the best spot to enjoy the view.

Zhao Shengge glanced at him but remained silent. Chen Wan hesitated, unsure whether to stay or leave. He didn’t want to seem overly familiar, but leaving abruptly would be impolite.

For someone so adept at navigating the poker table, Chen Wan found himself at a loss, the situation awkwardly intimate.

“…”

But the awkwardness was all on Chen Wan’s part. Zhao Shengge, ever composed, seemed perfectly at ease.

Chen Wan forced a polite smile to break the ice. “You’re lucky today, Mr. Zhao.” He must have won quite a bit.

Zhao didn’t respond to the comment. Instead, he took out a cigarette, holding it between his lips, and stared quietly at Chen Wan. Behind him, the vast night sea stretched endlessly, but Zhao’s gaze was darker and deeper than the ocean.

After a moment, he finally spoke. “Chen Wan.”

Chen froze. It was the first time Zhao Shengge had addressed him by name—not as “Mr. Chen,” but simply “Chen Wan.”

Zhao tilted his head slightly. “I didn’t bring a lighter.”

Chen immediately snuffed out his own cigarette, straightened up, and lit the lighter with both hands, offering the flame to Zhao with deference, like a subordinate lighting a superior’s cigarette.

Zhao raised an eyebrow.

Lighting a cigarette can be an intimate gesture. In other circumstances, someone might lean in, head to head, sharing the flame.

But Chen Wan kept everything strictly proper.

Another of Zhao Shengge’s tests ended in failure.

Chen Wan remained standing there, one hand holding the lighter, the other shielding the flame from the wind. His expression was earnest, his eyes clear, his demeanor calm.

Under the moonlight and the reflection of the ocean waves, his pale skin glowed as if he had just emerged from the depths of the sea.

Standing there with that tiny flame, he reminded Zhao of a children’s story—something about a girl selling matches. Zhao hadn’t read such tales as a child and couldn’t recall the details. All he knew was that there was a shimmering, almost sacred quality to Chen Wan that stirred both pity and a darker urge, especially for someone like Zhao Shengge, whose mind didn’t function quite like others.

Zhao leaned in, lowering his head to light his cigarette with the offered flame.

They were so close that Chen Wan felt as though he might be drawn into the dark depths of Zhao’s gaze.

In that moment, Chen Wan realized just how striking Zhao’s features were—a beauty that was almost overwhelming, usually concealed beneath his calm and composed exterior.

Chen Wan’s heartbeat quickened uncontrollably, racing to an almost unbearable rhythm. The sea and stars reflected in his eyes faded away, leaving only Zhao Shengge’s lowered gaze.

The culprit remained utterly composed. Suddenly, Zhao lifted his eyes, dark pupils stirring the water’s reflection in Chen Wan’s.

That piercing, downward gaze carried immense pressure. Chen Wan’s hand trembled imperceptibly. Just as the wind threatened to extinguish the flickering flame, Zhao reached out and steadied Chen Wan’s hand, asking, “Why are you shaking?”