ACOUSTIC METADATA

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• TIMESTAMP: Summer, 2001

• LOCATION: Ninety-Nine Yurts → Casino Lisboa → Studio → Union Hospital, Beijing

• EQUITY EVALUATION: 17% TV company stake ≈ $70 Million USD

• ACOUSTIC TARGET: Gao Yong’s toothbrush-thick finger friction (Blade-sliding frequency)

• BIOLOGICAL INCIDENT: Full-spectrum sensory detonation (Ocular and auditory hemorrhage)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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The yurt was thick with the scent of alcohol and the chaotic internal noise of human bodies. After several rounds of toasts, I faltered. 

 

Baorigé let me rest my head on her bare shoulder, patting me gently as I drifted. In that half-sleep, the heat of her thigh pressed against mine, and I felt my own body begin to swell. 

 

I rubbed my cheek against her rounded shoulder, no longer listening to the senile ramblings of the old Princes. That night, amidst the "rain and dew" hinted at by her name, I poured my energy through the scent of alcohol into those crystalline, snow-white hills.

 

 

Later, I sat before the slot machines in Macau again. 

 

My fingers tapped the betting button like a robot. I found myself thinking of my 17% stake in the TV company. By an investment banker’s math, that equity was worth over $70 million. The bills devoured by the iron maw were mere drops in the ocean.

 

I believed I had become a tycoon. Physically, I looked robust; high-end Japanese dye made my hair dark, and European essential oils gave my pale face a healthy glow. 

 

But I didn't know what I wanted. I treated work like chronic alcoholism. I pushed for impossible goals, ignoring established giants like Phoenix TV. 

 

A business elder in Beijing once complained to me: “Brother, every day I face my staff. They are humble and warm, but I know the truth—every one of them is holding a straw to my neck. They say, 'Dear Boss, please let me have just two more sips.’” 

“Sips of what?" I asked naively. 

“My money, brother! My blood!” He didn't know that the money flowing from my pen wasn't mine.

 

Gao Yong paid a sudden visit. “President Bai," he began, "leadership has tasked me to investigate your situation. As our overseas propaganda platform, if you have difficulties, let us know.”

 

I soon understood: they only cared when the satellite TV would become their megaphone. I didn't announce our lack of funds publicly. Instead, I pulled Gao Yong into the studio and closed the door.

 

"Help us get more money," I said. 

"Hmm. All that cash... spent already?" 

"Satellite TV is a money pit." 

"I'll find a way. However," he paused. "It can't be fifty-fifty this time. You understand. But at least twenty is yours to manage.”

 

As he spoke, his fingers—thick as toothbrushes—traced a line across the control console. The sound was like a blade sliding between my own fingers.

 

"Fine. Whatever you say.” “Heh-heh.”

 

My nerve endings detonated, tearing through the sugar-coated wrapping of lucre. The White Crow heard the enemy’s laugh; it recognized the face.

 

“White Eagle, what’s wrong? Your eyes are bleeding! Your ears are bleeding! Call an ambulance!” Gao Yong’s screams carried a faint echo as a red light flooded my vision.

 

I woke up in a bed at the Union Hospital. Baorigé sat on the edge of the bed, holding my hand, the curve of her thigh alluring.

 

"Are you awake?”

 

The door pushed open. My wife and daughter walked in. 

 

Baorigé instantly withdrew her hand. Her rounded hips swayed as she stood and slipped away.