My Milk Trap in Golden Triangle - Chapter 5: Chapter 5

An hour later, Sean ushered me into a dimly lit room where women in extravagant gowns stood like mannequins, their faces painted to perfection.
They flashed practiced smiles, but to me, they were nothing more than hollow shells—walking corpses going through the motions.
Each held a deck of cards, their fingers moving with mechanical precision. The moment Sean stepped inside, they snapped to attention, voices chiming in eerie unison. "Good evening, Mr. Winston."
It was like watching cult members recite a mantra.
Sean barely acknowledged them before shoving a deck into my hands. "Monica will train you. Learn everything before tonight—I’ll test you." His voice dropped, a silent threat lingering beneath the words. "You remember what happens if you fail."
A cold sweat prickled my skin at the memory.
Monica thrust a sheet of paper at me. "Memorize this."
The weight of it pressed down on me like a guilty conscience.
How many lives would be destroyed once I mastered these tricks? How many people would be pulled into this endless spiral of ruin?
But resistance wasn’t an option.
"Your job is dealing," Monica said flatly. "These are sleight-of-hand techniques. Learn them, then drill with the deck."
I didn’t respond.
I already knew the game. The dealer’s skill decided who walked away rich and who left broken.
The playbook was simple: let them win early—maybe even five rounds straight—letting them taste victory, fattening their wallets.
Then, on the sixth hand, the trap snapped shut. Just enough loss to make them desperate. Just enough hope to whisper, "Add this WeChat contact for better odds."
But seeing it all laid out in black and white? That’s when it hit me—this wasn’t just gambling.
It was a con, polished to perfection.
As darkness enveloped the compound, Sean Winston inspected my work with those cold, calculating eyes. After what felt like an eternity, the corner of his mouth twitched into something resembling approval. "Not bad. You're picking this up faster than the other idiots they send me."
I managed a shaky laugh that sounded more like a choked cough, bobbing my head like one of those dashboard dolls. Monica Lowell's voice echoed in my skull—"Survival comes first. Everything else is just background noise." That bleak wisdom was the only thing keeping me going.
"Consider this your graduation," Sean continued, lighting a cigarette with deliberate slowness. "Tomorrow you're on the floor. Consider tonight your last free pass—wouldn't want to damage the merchandise." He exhaled smoke directly into my face, his gaze dropping to my trembling hands. "But if you screw this up? Let's just say you'll be earning your keep on your back instead of at the tables."
The threat hung between us like a noose. "I-I'll bring in clients," I stammered, my voice barely above a whisper. "Big spenders."
He left without another word, the scent of his cologne mixing nauseatingly with the mildew of the walls. That first night in hell was endless—the mattress reeked of sweat and despair, the humid air clung to my skin like a second prison, and every creak of the building sounded like home slipping further away.
Dawn brought no relief. Just Sean's hands and breath and the metallic taste of blood in my mouth. When he finally rolled off me, adjusting his belt with the casual indifference of a man zipping up his fly, he actually had the nerve to smirk. "Know what I like about you? That mother's milk sweetness still lingering under the skin."
I turned my face into the stained pillow, letting the tear disappear into the fabric. My smile in that moment could've curdled milk.