A Letter from Keanu Reeves

Chen Wan’s heart nearly leapt out of his chest.

“No,” he replied, his composure unbroken.

The flickering flame in his palm danced in the night, casting shadows against the endless darkness. Like the waves surging silently beneath the ship, the moment was framed as a dense, deep-blue painting—a quiet ten seconds of mutual gaze.

Zhao Shengge’s expression carried a hint of mockery. He smoothly took the lighter from Chen Wan’s hand. The cigarette between his lips had gone out during their silent standoff. With a furrowed brow, he lit it again himself.

The sea breeze ruffled Zhao Shengge’s shirt, outlining his tall and striking figure. His slightly messy hair, paired with his nonchalant stance at the railing, made him resemble an arrogant, untouchable superstar from a 1990s Hong Kong film.

Damn, so damn gorgeous, Chen Wan thought, his face impassive. But after one glance, he quickly looked away, taking a polite step back to maintain a safe distance.

It didn’t help.

The faint fragrance of Zhao Shengge’s cigarette—its scent foreign and intoxicating—wafted toward Chen Wan, unsettling him, making his thoughts scatter.

Zhao Shengge casually toyed with the lighter in his hand, even examining it closely, showing no intention of returning it.

Though his personal belonging had been casually confiscated, Chen Wan didn’t utter a word of protest. Instead, he silently regretted not carrying a more expensive or extravagant one. A Cartier, for example, might’ve been more fitting for Zhao Shengge.

Having relit his cigarette, Zhao Shengge leaned casually on the railing, eyes fixed on the sea, paying Chen Wan no further attention.

Chen Wan was debating whether to leave when Qin Zhaoting appeared, smiling. “I’ve been looking for you two everywhere, and here you are.”

His tone made it sound like they’d planned a secret rendezvous. Chen Wan smiled politely. “I came out for some fresh air and happened to run into Mr. Zhao.”

His tone was measured, polite, and left no room for misunderstanding that he and Zhao Shengge were close.

Only when alone with Zhao Shengge did Chen Wan reveal the slightest trace of vulnerability—those subtle cracks that made him seem more alive, less calculated. In any other setting, his demeanor reverted to its flawless, polished default: a perfect mask of elegance, leaving no room for criticism.

The amusement in Qin Zhaoting’s eyes deepened. “If you’ve rested enough, let’s head back. You Ming has been calling everyone back to the table.”

The timing of each game was carefully planned. With midnight approaching, it was time for the second half to begin.

Chen Wan moved to step inside, but Zhao Shengge’s calm voice stopped him.

“What’s the rush? Can’t you at least let me finish my cigarette?”

“…” Chen Wan froze, rooted to the spot.

Zhao Shengge’s tone wasn’t harsh, but his presence and authority lent weight to even his most casual words. The quieter he was, the more intimidating he became.

Qin Zhaoting raised an eyebrow. “Isn’t it bad luck to miss the scheduled time?”

Out at sea, rituals and feng shui were taken seriously, and even more so at the gambling table, where every detail mattered—from the seating arrangements to the timing of each round.

But Zhao Shengge didn’t care. True power allowed one to disregard such trivialities. He stood there like an unmovable iceberg on the open ocean, forcing whales to retreat and ships to change course.

His attitude left Qin Zhaoting no choice but to stay put as well. Neither of them spoke.

“…”

Chen Wan offered his usual affable smile, attempting to diffuse the tension. “Mr. Zhao’s incredible luck tonight must be his way of leaving a bit of fortune for everyone else.”

Qin Zhaoting turned to Chen Wan, his smile tinged with amusement. “And what about you, Mr. Chen?”

Zhao Shengge also looked at Chen Wan.

One was urging him to leave; the other wouldn’t let him.

Chen Wan, unwilling to offend either man, replied diplomatically, “I’m just here to borrow a bit of Mr. Zhao’s good fortune. Let’s see if it works at the table later, shall we?”

With that, Qin Zhaoting couldn’t press further and laughed. “Alright, we’ll see how it goes later.”

It was impossible to tell whether Zhao Shengge was satisfied with the response. He leaned against the railing, smoking leisurely, gazing at the sea as if he had all the time in the world.

Chen Wan stood quietly beside him, waiting.

In the second half of the night, the energy at the tables grew more intense. Chen Wan, having declared his intention to “borrow Mr. Zhao’s good fortune,” couldn’t afford to lose. After winning a few rounds, he intentionally began holding back, preemptively smoothing things over: “Mr. Zhao’s luck is truly loyal—it won’t be shared easily. I was lucky to borrow just a little, but now it’s all used up.”

Even Qin Zhaoting couldn’t find fault with this explanation and laughed heartily.

Chen Wan’s willingness to lose made him popular, and the others happily took advantage. For them, the money wasn’t the main point—it was all about the luck and the thrill of the game.

But the young masters had no sense of moderation. Toward the end of the evening, someone, emboldened by their gambling high, egged Chen Wan on, suggesting he take off his watch and bet it.

Betting money was boring; for these people, money was meaningless.

Chen Wan’s watch wasn’t a luxury brand, but it was something he’d worn for years—a personal item. Removing one’s watch at the table carried a certain undertone of humiliation, and Chen Wan wasn’t about to tolerate that. He decided this round, he wouldn’t hold back.

The first lesson nine-year-old Chen Wan had learned in Xiaolan Mountain was this: Let people know your limits.

As the crowd clamored, Zhao Shengge grew annoyed. He pushed all his chips forward with a lazy sweep of his hand, declaring himself the banker.

The solid gold chips clattered loudly, silencing the room. Everyone turned to look.

“I’ll bank,” Zhao Shengge said, utterly indifferent.

The others quickly joined in, eager to bet against him.

Chen Wan hesitated. With so little left in his own pile, following Zhao Shengge wouldn’t offer much support. But before he could decide, Zhao Shengge’s casual voice cut through the noise:

“Chen Wan, I play to win.”

For a moment, Chen Wan felt like he was back on Xiaolan Mountain, a boy facing the scorching summer heat ten years ago.

He quickly adjusted, flashing a composed smile and gesturing politely. “Of course.”

The smart move was to team up with someone of equal skill. With their combined wit—easily a thousand schemes between them—Chen Wan and Zhao Shengge became an unstoppable force, tearing through the table without mercy.

When drawing cards, their fingertips inadvertently brushed against each other, like an electric current passing through—brief, fleeting, and then they each withdrew.

Playing cards felt like flirting: mutual anticipation, you chase, I follow, feigned moves and counterattacks, all masked with pretense. Onlookers marveled at their seamless chemistry, exclaiming how perfectly matched they were, like a pair destined to be together.

Chen Wan, however, dared not accept such compliments. In Haishi, who could claim to be “one family” with Zhao Shengge? He politely and modestly deflected, attributing his wins to Zhao’s generosity, saying he merely benefited from good fortune.

At the table, others looked on enviously, but Chen Wan could only smile wryly to himself. Zhao Shengge’s dealer’s table was not so easy to join. His strategies were unpredictable, his moves eccentric, and when he went wild, he’d even “eat” his own team’s cards.

But Zhao Shengge had enough chips to spare—losing a card or two was like sacrificing insignificant pawns. He played for the thrill, leaving Chen Wan to suffer. Without solid mental fortitude, one simply couldn’t keep up with Zhao’s gameplay.

Zhao Shengge was tricky like that. Unable to figure out Chen Wan’s style, he ensured that Chen Wan couldn’t figure out his either.

Chen Wan was said to be flawless, so Zhao deliberately exploited vulnerabilities. Just as Chen Wan was about to lose his card to the next player, Zhao would swoop in like a savior, appearing at the perfect moment, like a sly cat teasing a mouse. Advance or retreat, win or lose, life or death—all at his whim.

By the time the game wore on, Chen Wan felt his brain cells were running out, yet he thought it was all worth it. Zhao Shengge seemed to be genuinely enjoying himself.

With two decks of cards, Zhao Shengge secured the land for Jiaoxi Tower and the property for Shengtian Plaza.

The opponent across the table already looked like they couldn’t take it anymore, and Chen Wan couldn’t help but want to laugh.

Playing at Zhao Shengge’s dealer’s table was undoubtedly mentally exhausting, but it was equally exhilarating. It was the sparks of high-speed thinking, the exchange of open and covert moves, the feeling of facing off against an equally skilled opponent while having each other’s backs against outsiders. The adrenaline rush and the thrilling catharsis brought Chen Wan almost to a mental high.

The night grew late, like a ship sailing further into the depths of the sea.

Zhao Shengge held an unlit cigarette between his teeth, glanced down at the cards he’d just been dealt, casually drew a spade, and threw it out. Chen Wan quickly followed with a diamond ace. Before the next player could make their calculations, Zhao immediately stepped on the bridge Chen Wan had built and played a “queen,” politely addressing the opponent, “I’ll take the Qionghua Manor.”

His tone was so courteous, as if he were negotiating.

The opponent’s face shifted immediately—it was the same person who had made Chen Wan give up his watch earlier.

The man hesitated, struggling to decide whether to “empty the pot” and abandon everything. Chen Wan promptly played the largest club king in his hand to suppress the “king,” completing a flush with Zhao Shengge’s cards.

Whatever Zhao Shengge wanted, Chen Wan did his utmost to secure.

The two played their own cards without looking at each other, without communicating. They each did their part, stayed in their positions, and dealt blows decisively like merciless predators at the gambling table, plotting wealth and seizing fortunes.

With that, the game was decided.

With Zhao Shengge at the table, Chen Wan could let loose and still win quite a bit. Naturally, his watch stayed securely on his wrist.

Someone jokingly suggested trading the watch for a shop at Wangchunjiao Market. Chen Wan tactfully declined with smooth words.

The shop wasn’t large, nor was it in a particularly good location. However, it had been won in the previous round when Zhao Shengge set the stage, and the cards happened to land in Chen Wan’s hands. Thus, it became his.

Although Zhao Shengge had done it casually and without much intention, Chen Wan decided to consider it a gift from Zhao.

The gambling table didn’t close until after one in the morning. Chen Wan, having won a considerable amount, treated everyone to a late-night snack.

Zhuo Zhixuan joined him to order food and asked why he didn’t take Zhao Shengge’s knight card in the final round.

“Do you know how many people were staring at it?” Zhuo teased, rolling his eyes.

In their circle, the knight card was a symbol of unspoken rules. Holding someone’s knight card meant you could request a favor from them. It was a social currency in business circles, much like the camaraderie at drinking banquets.

Chen Wan shook his head. “It wouldn’t have been appropriate.”

It was too ambiguous.

Knight cards varied in meaning, and the last remaining card was the red heart king—a card often associated with casino hostesses and carried slight sexual implications. It wasn’t suitable.

Besides, it would have felt like taking advantage of Zhao Shengge and using the situation to climb the social ladder.

Zhuo Zhixuan rolled his eyes again. “You’re overthinking it. Zhao Shengge wouldn’t care.”

In their world, these gestures were commonplace. If every single interaction were scrutinized, it would never end. The business world thrived on relationships fostered through such games and traditions.

“But I would care,” Chen Wan interrupted, turning to face him with calm, darkly obsessive eyes. “I have no such intentions.”

“I don’t do ambiguity.”

Chen Wan was resolute. He patted Zhuo’s shoulder, making a stark, almost absurd analogy to emphasize his resolve: “Even for a casual fling, I wouldn’t play games.”

Zhuo Zhixuan: “…”

“Aren’t you the one who always says I’m mentally off? That’s why Monica came into my life,” Chen Wan said lightly.

He refused to let his relationship with Zhao Shengge cross into anything beyond ordinary friendship. A patient couldn’t control themselves, and it was impossible to predict what they might do.

If he ever crossed that line and made his feelings known, Chen Wan was absolutely certain that he wouldn’t let Zhao Shengge go, whether Zhao loved him or not.

Zhuo Zhixuan looked at Chen Wan’s serene expression, a chill creeping up his spine.

Yet he couldn’t shake the feeling that this was an excuse. “It’s not that serious. Monica said your condition could improve with proper treatment—”

Chen Wan shook his head again, cutting him off. There was nothing to discuss.

Chen Wan was gentle with others but cruel to himself. While he appeared easygoing, he adhered to an unyielding set of principles and beliefs, particularly when it came to his feelings.

Zhuo Zhixuan, who grew up in this world, had never encountered anyone like that.

The most extreme kind of obsession wasn’t losing oneself over the person they loved but rather exhibiting unparalleled restraint and rationality, even to the point of self-denial, coexisting with the pain of unfulfilled desires.

But Chen Wan was always self-assured. He knew exactly what he wanted.

And it wasn’t Zhao Shengge’s love.