Mahjong Cheater Track

Minimal bossa-nova inspired, gentle, spacious chill-out beat with distant e-piano and -guitar and ukulele:

In the bustling heart of Hong Kong, nestled within a narrow alleyway, was a small, dimly lit mahjong parlor known as The Dragon’s Den. The room was filled with the clattering sound of tiles and the murmurs of players engrossed in their game. The scent of tea and incense lingered in the air, adding to the parlor’s mystique.

Among the regulars was an unassuming man named Mr. Chan. Middle-aged with graying hair and a calm demeanor, he had earned a reputation as a skilled player. His eyes, however, held a secret—a keen, almost predatory, glint.

One Friday night, the usual crowd had gathered. At Mr. Chan’s table were three other players: Mei, an elderly woman with sharp eyes; Li, a young businessman always eager to win; and Wei, a jovial man who played for the love of the game.

As the game progressed, Mr. Chan’s hands moved deftly, arranging and rearranging his tiles with practiced precision. He sipped his tea, eyes flicking from his tiles to those of his opponents, seemingly casual but always calculating.

It was Mei who first grew suspicious. Over the past few months, Mr. Chan’s wins had become more frequent and his losses negligible. Tonight, her sharp eyes watched his every move. She noticed his fingers brushing against his sleeve more often than usual, and a tiny, almost imperceptible bulge beneath the fabric.

“Hu!” Mr. Chan declared, laying out his winning hand with a satisfied smile. The others groaned, tossing their tiles into the center in defeat. Mei, however, narrowed her eyes.

“Another win, Mr. Chan,” she said, her voice smooth but edged with suspicion. “You’ve been on quite a streak lately.”

Mr. Chan shrugged modestly. “Just a bit of luck, I suppose.”

But Mei wasn’t convinced. “Luck can only take you so far. How about we play another round, and I sit beside you?”

The others looked at Mei, surprised by her tone, but nodded in agreement. Mr. Chan’s smile faltered for just a moment before he regained his composure. “Of course, Mei. Please.”

They reset the tiles and began anew. This time, Mei watched Mr. Chan like a hawk. As the game progressed, she saw it—a swift, almost invisible movement as he subtly switched a tile from his sleeve.

“Stop the game!” Mei’s voice cut through the air like a knife.

The room fell silent, all eyes turning to her. She reached out and grabbed Mr. Chan’s wrist, yanking up his sleeve to reveal a hidden pocket with several mahjong tiles.

Gasps erupted around the table. Mr. Chan’s face flushed crimson, and he stammered, “It’s not what it looks like…”

“Cheater!” Li exclaimed, standing up. Wei shook his head in disappointment.

Mei released Mr. Chan’s wrist, her expression a mix of anger and sadness. “We trusted you, Chan. This is a place of honor.”

Mr. Chan, realizing the gravity of his actions, bowed his head. “I’m sorry. I... I needed the money. But that’s no excuse.”

The parlor owner, Mr. Wong, approached, having witnessed the commotion. “Mr. Chan, you are no longer welcome here. Leave, and do not return.”

With his head hung low, Mr. Chan left the parlor, the weight of shame heavy on his shoulders. The Dragon’s Den returned to its usual hum of activity, but the lesson lingered in the air.

Mei reshuffled the tiles, her hands steady. “Let this be a reminder to us all,” she said softly. “In mahjong, as in life, honesty is the most valuable tile.”

The game resumed, the players more vigilant, their respect for the integrity of the game reaffirmed. And in the quiet moments between the clattering of tiles, they remembered the night they uncovered the mahjong cheater.