The Ghost in the Machine

Rain slashed sideways through the neon-lit streets of Macau, turning the Golden Pagoda Casino’s gilded façade into a smeared watercolor. Inside, Wei Long’s men stood like statues in black suits, their earpieces crackling with static.

The air reeked of jasmine incense and dread. At the VIP baccarat table, Wei Long—silver-haired, face a web of scars—rolled a jade worry bead between his fingers. Across from him, Jin, a 28-year-old tech prodigy with a snake tattoo coiled around his throat, leaned back, smirking. The protagonists watched from the bar, glasses of untouched whiskey sweating in their hands.

Jin tossed a chip onto the table. “Double the bet. Let’s see if your bones can still bend, Lao Wei.”

Wei Long's voice gravels. “This territory belongs to the Syndicate. Not to children playing revolutionary.”

Jin laughing. “The Syndicate’s choking on its nostalgia. Do you still think loyalty’s written in blood? It’s written in code now.”