Eu preciso contar com a sorte imediatamente

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At ten o'clock at night, the air in the mahjong parlor was thick with the nauseating smells of smoke and sweat. The tables bristled with the clatter of tiles, a cacophony woven from greed, fear, and hope. The tense, restless atmosphere was enough to exhaust anyone's spirit.

In this oppressive ambiance, Feng Xue stood out starkly from the others. He measured every moment, advancing and retreating with calculated precision. Unlike the gamblers around him, their eyes bloodshot with desperate losses, his own stack of chips had grown into a veritable mountain.

Dark circles ringed his eyes, evidence of many sleepless nights, and his whole appearance was marked by a profound fatigue. Such a state was the typical hallmark of those hopelessly addicted to gambling, yet in Feng Xue's weary gaze, there was not a trace of greed—indeed, not even a flicker of focus. He resembled nothing so much as a mechanical mahjong automaton, endlessly repeating the cycle of drawing and discarding tiles, utterly expressionless.

Suddenly, this mechanical young man straightened his back abruptly. At that same moment, the player opposite him, who had just drawn a tile, blanched to a ghastly shade. The man stared at the red five of circles in his hand, then glanced at Feng Xue’s river, where it was all too clear he was assembling a pure suit of circles. Cold sweat slid uncontrollably down his temple.

Yet, having declared riichi, he was bound to discard whatever he drew, even knowing full well this tile was likely to deal into a massive hand. Gritt