Feel sorry
4:59 a.m., Old Town, Las Vegas.
The wind blew in from the alley entrance, swirling up newspapers and empty cans, making a soft, rustling sound.
Yu Chen suddenly opened his eyes—
Her long, black hair was loose over her shoulders, the ends of which were wet with night dew, like a fire extinguished by water.
The corners of his lips still smelled of alcohol, but there was no minty flavor at all.
She sat up, her back pressed against the damp brick wall, her knuckles white from the cold—
Convenience stores, freezers, minty kisses—it's all a dream.
Only the empty whiskey bottle rolled at my feet, making a hollow "thump," like a dash marking the end of a dream.
The phone vibrated in my palm, its screen blindingly bright—
Sender: Seal Engraving
content:
[Victoire's next appearance: Tsar Anniversary Dinner, Saturday 8:00 PM, VIP penthouse.]
[The admission ticket has been forged, but the woman dealing the tickets continues to use her identity.]
Location: Top floor of Tsar Casino; Theme: Snowy Night.
[Note: Victor Lin (Alin) will also be attending, marking his first public appearance.]
Yu Chen's knuckles tightened silently, the screen light casting a cold white outline on her face, like a final seal on an unexploded bomb.
She lowered her head, kicked the empty bottle aside, and spoke in a voice so low it was barely a whisper:
"The dream is over, the main show begins."
She stood up, tucked her long black hair into the collar of her hoodie, like hiding fire in the night.
The wind was strong at the alley entrance, sending a chill down her spine, but it couldn't dispel the metallic smell lingering in her chest—
The minty kiss that I was pushed away in my dream still lingers on my lips, like a mark that water can't wash away.
She raised her hand and touched her lower lip with her fingertip—
There was no warmth, no mint, only the bitterness of alcohol.
Yet, it still lingers in my memory, leaving an undiminished aftertaste:
—I can push it away, but I can't forget it.
You can escape, but you can't hide.
—The dream is over, but the person still needs to be found.
She lowered her head to reply to the text message from the seal engraver, her voice trailing off in coldness:
"Leave the voucher, leave the identity, and leave Ah Lin."
“Vicky, stay too.”
Send, turn off the phone, remove the SIM card, break the SIM card—
Imagine plotting a delayed coordinate on an incomplete parsing:
—Death has been registered, revenge has begun.
—The dream is over, time to wrap things up.
—At the top floor of the Tsar House, on a snowy night, Cheng Yan, the card dealer.
—I will personally uncover my enemy's final trump card.
5:15 a.m., the old apartment.
Yu Chen shut off the wind from the alleyway into the bathroom, turned the hot water to the maximum, and the steam instantly climbed onto the mirror, like applying a layer of frosted glass to the night.
She stood under the shower, her knuckles white from the cold, but she didn't move for a long time—
The minty taste that lingered on my lips in my dream, like a mark that water can't wash away.
Hot water rinsed over the ends of her hair, causing the dyed black hair to blend into an even deeper shade of ink, as if the night had recolored it.
She closed her eyes and turned the water to its hottest setting, like trying to find a cold towel for a high fever, but she couldn't get rid of the rusty smell—
The eighteenth failure, a kiss that was pushed away but did not dissipate.
The hot water stopped after five minutes.
She stepped out of the bathroom and pulled out her work clothes from the bottom of the closet—
A black miniskirt, just past the knee, the dealer's uniform, with a tiny sapphire pinned to the collar—the Tsar Casino logo, like a star weighed down by snow.
She blow-dried her long black hair until it was half dry, tucking the ends into her uniform collar, like hiding fire in snow.
In the mirror, I have fair skin, pale lips, but sharp lip lines.
Like putting a final seal on an unexploded bomb.
She bent down, stuffed the red boxing glove bag under the bed, and took only a tiny USB drive with her.
A list of moles, copies of debts, a revenge plan, and, of course, a death certificate he issued himself.
Like stamping a personal seal on an old identity, and then setting off on a snowy night.
5:40 a.m., Old Town, Las Vegas.
The fog hadn't lifted, and the streetlights cast a dim, yellowish glow, like a bronze plaque blurred by water.
Yu Chen, wearing high heels, tapped her shoes on the wet, slippery pavement, making a crisp "tap-tap" sound, like drawing delayed coordinates for an unfinished analysis.
As she turned the corner of the alley, she bumped into a figure—
The collision of shoulders, though not with great force, was enough to scatter the other party's documents all over the floor.
She apologized instinctively, her voice cold but steady: "I'm sorry."
He crouched down to pick up the documents for the other person.
Fingertips touched the paper, eyes swept over it—
The logo of Anshi Group is gold-plated, resembling a bronze plaque that has been exposed to sunlight.
She didn't look up, only noticing the other person's leather shoes—
Black, made of excellent leather, with a touch of mist on the toe, as if the shoes had just been worn through the entire night.
The other person didn't speak, but simply reached out and took the document; their fingers were long and slender, but the pads of their fingers were covered with a thin layer of calluses.
These are the marks left by long periods of holding a pen and steering a ship.
Yu Chen stood up, his hat brim pressed down to his brow bone, his voice so low it was barely a whisper: "Sorry."
She turned and continued towards Tsar Casino, her steps quickening even more than before.
It's like adding another layer of shock-absorbing cotton to an unexploded ordnance.
She didn't turn around, so she didn't see it.
The other person stood still, their gaze piercing through the fog, landing on the ends of her dyed black hair—
There, a faint red glint flashed under the streetlight, like a dash marking the end of an unfinished analysis:
—I can push it away, but I can't forget it.
You can escape, but you can't hide.
—The dream is over, but the person still needs to be found.
The other person stood still, their gaze piercing through the fog, landing on the ends of her dyed black hair—
There, a faint red glint flashed under the streetlight, like a delayed coordinate drawn on an unfinished analysis:
—An Yi, currently the president of Anjia Company, is incredibly impressive.
He recognized the red hair, but not the face.
Because her face was cold, her lips were unsmiling, yet her lip lines were sharp, like a final seal on an unexploded bomb.
His knuckles tightened silently on the document, his voice barely audible.
"...Yu Chen?"
But they dared not chase, dared not shout, dared not confirm—
Because she walked so fast, it was as if she were adding a delay to an unfinished analysis.
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