After learning that Qi Ji had left on his own, Li Xinjie immediately warned Pei Yusheng.
Until Qi Ji completed the task that required him to act independently, it was best not to forcibly interrupt his actions, to prevent him from getting trapped on the boundary between reality and illusion, which could compromise the safety zone entirely.
But when the final crisis came, there was clearly no time to deliberate. Acting before reason could catch up, Pei Yusheng grabbed Qi Ji before the highly alert bodyguards even had a chance to react.
Fortunately, after the intense emotional upheaval, Qi Ji slipped into unconsciousness and began the self-healing process that Li Xinjie had described. The runaway incident was finally brought back under control, and careful treatment could resume.
Yet that didn’t mean the following therapy would be smooth or worry-free. In fact, for both patient and caretaker, the entire process was nothing short of torture.
After returning, Qi Ji developed a high fever that lasted more than twenty hours. Even when he had been rescued from the auction, his condition had never been this severe.
Zhao Mingzhen kept reassuring Pei Yusheng that it wasn’t necessarily a bad sign—it was the body repairing itself. Unfortunately, the comfort had little effect, especially when Qi Ji, delirious from the fever, cried unconsciously.
Hospitals didn’t allow loud noise. In the ward, Pei Yusheng didn’t react outwardly; he quietly wiped away the tears as they fell.
When he returned home, he vented his frustration on his two usual punching bags.
Meanwhile, the investigation into BSW991 was gradually progressing.
Having seen Qi Ji lost and dazed at the accident scene, Pei Yusheng had briefly feared that he might lose the will to survive. Zhao Mingzhen, however, remained optimistic.
Qi Ji’s character was strong enough to carry him through. And these actions occurred under the influence of the drug—once fully awake, Qi Ji would likely not even remember what he had done. All of the struggle and pain could be erased.
Zhao Mingzhen wasn’t speculating blindly; the drug investigation report supported this.
The report showed that previous users of the same drug, after enduring two months or more of enforced activity, forgot everything that had occurred once fully conscious again.
BSW991 was rare and expensive. The selection criteria for users were strict, making each user highly valuable at auction. Most buyers, after subjecting a user to these experiences, would follow professional advice and replay the recordings to the now-amnesiac subject, intensifying humiliation by showing them their own involuntary actions.
This allowed buyers to continue deriving perverse satisfaction: observing a conscious but physically habituated user sink deeper into despair.
The drug’s effects were not just perverse—they were insane, cruel beyond words. For Qi Ji, the only slight benefit was that it affected brain neurons and memory cells, allowing him to forget everything after waking.
The remaining question was whether Qi Ji could endure this, survive, and fully regain consciousness. Li Xinjie, overseeing the treatment, noted that individual responses varied, so no conclusion could yet be drawn. But judging by Qi Ji’s recent performance, his autonomous consciousness was strong, making internal recovery more likely.
This was at least a positive sign—doctors were not omniscient and could never be completely certain. Still, Pei Yusheng experienced the agony of caregiving firsthand: desperately seeking reassurance from the doctor, yet even positive feedback couldn’t stop his mind from racing.
Moreover, Li Xinjie insisted Pei Yusheng not be too close to Qi Ji—the caretaker was the safety zone’s anchor, but too much contact could affect Qi Ji’s perception of reality, disrupting his recovery.
After several interventions preventing prolonged bedside presence, Pei Yusheng almost questioned Li Xinjie’s professional judgment. Zhao Mingzhen could only watch, exasperated and amused. Even someone as composed as Pei Yusheng could lose perspective when deeply concerned.
Fortunately, the ongoing matters with the Jiang family distracted him somewhat. The next day, after obtaining the declassified drug formula, Zhao Mingzhen received updates on major anti-gambling operations in S City. Media outlets reported on raids of underground casinos and illicit drug labs, even featuring the city police chief in interviews.
The news caused a stir, even among hospital staff. Everyone understood the crackdown was serious, yet some people still dared defy the law. Well-informed sources suggested that sweeping investigations were imminent.
The operation’s success owed much to the authorities’ determination and force, but Pei Yusheng had also openly challenged the Jiang family. While the tide favored him, the family’s long-standing entanglements in S City made them a formidable obstacle. He had to remain fully occupied.
Because of this, Pei Yusheng was temporarily pulled away from the hospital, leaving Qi Ji in the care of two doctors and a professional medical team.
Even so, Pei Yusheng continued monitoring Qi Ji via cameras and sometimes checked in quietly at night to watch him sleep.
While handling the Jiang family, Pei Yusheng never reduced his attention to Qi Ji. The drawings Qi Ji made during the drug period remained with him, full of diverse themes and styles—meticulous, rough, bold in color.
Though Qi Ji was usually cold in demeanor, his art was strikingly expressive, showing remarkable talent. Pei Yusheng, though unversed in art, could sense the boy’s potential through these informal works.
Art required personal expression. Perhaps the pain Qi Ji endured had gradually honed his extraordinary talent.
Looking carefully, Pei Yusheng could communicate with him through the art. Qi Ji’s simple sketches, often of a family of four, revealed his memories and emotions through childish, uneven lines, sometimes crooked like a beginner’s crayon drawings. From these, Pei Yusheng retrieved the cherished bracelet that Qi Ji never forgot, recovered from evidence seized at Shanhai Estate.
Another recurring element in Qi Ji’s work was eyes. Many pieces were filled with eyes, some entirely dominated by them. Dense and intense, the eyes seemed to pierce through the paper, giving viewers a sense of being watched, evoking chills.
Those works were in black and white, unlike Qi Ji’s usual bold color palette. Pei Yusheng sensed hidden secrets in them, but when asked, Qi Ji would only bury himself in Pei Yusheng’s arms, silent, refusing to answer.
Now, Qi Ji had slipped into unconsciousness again. When he awoke, more challenging questions would await, and Pei Yusheng would have to solve these mysteries on his own.
Pei Yusheng had investigated many aspects of Qi Ji’s life, including his own experiences and his family background. For an ordinary person, no matter how cautious, as long as there wasn’t professional interference erasing traces, it wasn’t difficult to investigate. Pei Yusheng quickly obtained a detailed report.
Qi Ji was born in L Province. Because his parents were away when he was very young, he was left without supervision and was sent to kindergarten early. He entered first grade before he was five. At that time, residency policies were lax, and it was possible to start school before the usual age. He later experienced the elementary school system reform, and when he went to college, he was still not yet seventeen.
In his freshman year, Qi Ji’s parents were tricked by a local business partner, leading to the company’s bankruptcy. In his sophomore year, his parents died in an accident, and debt collectors showed up at his doorstep.
He could have abandoned the inheritance and refused to repay the debts. But Qi Mingyu, his younger brother, needed proof of residency and a household registration to attend high school. Combined with the ruthless methods of the debt collection company, Qi Ji had no choice but to inherit the estate alone to ensure his brother could continue studying and to avoid harassment or revenge.
For nearly two years afterward, Qi Ji took on all sorts of part-time jobs. With his design skills, freelance work could have been enough to support himself and his brother, but the massive debts forced him to squeeze every spare moment to earn money.
In public, Qi Ji always seemed gentle, but privately, the pressure of debt weighed heavily on him, giving rise to his dual personality. This was exactly why Pei Yusheng had been intrigued the first time he met Qi Ji.
He had thought the boy was interesting—a child who hid his claws yet could strike when necessary, a delicate appearance masking an underlying ferocity. Looking back, Qi Ji’s aggressiveness had merely been a defensive response forced upon him by circumstances.
The truly vulnerable, tender side was his real self.
Through a high-definition camera, Pei Yusheng watched Qi Ji in the hospital room. The boy was still asleep, lying on his side in the neat, soft bed, cheeks smooth, face serene. He looked entirely delicate, like a curled-up cub, making Pei Yusheng ache to hold him in his hands.
It was hard to imagine that such a soft, gentle child had endured so many hardships.
Qi Ji’s sleeping posture was typical. He often curled up unconsciously, burying himself in blankets, forming a small ball. Even when unconscious before, he instinctively curled up in someone’s arms, clinging tightly, only calming down when completely enclosed. This was a classic sign of lacking a sense of security.
Since Li Xinjie had forbidden Pei Yusheng from staying too close for too long, he bought Qi Ji a body pillow. Each night, the boy hugged it tightly as he slept.
At first, Pei Yusheng had been reluctant even about the pillow, but it was better than having Qi Ji cling to the hospital staff. He comforted himself, enduring it.
Yet, no matter how soft Qi Ji appeared while sleeping, once awake, he would likely still carry the cold, piercing gaze he was known for. Pei Yusheng could predict that without thinking.
He had studied Qi Ji’s life over the past two years. After the bankruptcy and his parents’ funeral, Qi Ji had cut off contact with relatives back home. He never mentioned his debts to friends, nor did he borrow money—he bore it all alone.
Even Pei Yusheng couldn’t help feeling a sense of how daunting this was. Twenty million might be a trivial sum for him, but for Qi Ji, it was nearly a lifelong burden. Even after two years of ceaseless part-time work and prize money from underground fighting arenas, Qi Ji had repaid only a little over one million.
If Qi Ji continued pushing himself like this, even ignoring the dangers of the fight arenas, his body would collapse under the strain.
He could no longer be left to struggle alone.
From the moment Pei Yusheng had rescued Qi Ji from the auction, he had considered dozens of plans to pull him out of the ever-deepening debt trap. The real difficulty wasn’t in helping, but in making Qi Ji accept that help.
The report also recorded an incident from university. A well-off girl had tried to court Qi Ji. At the time, his parents had just passed, and he was financially strained. The girl bought gifts for him, but Qi Ji returned everything, untouched. Later, she tried to covertly offer a high-paying design project; Qi Ji completed it but returned the surplus money once he discovered the ploy, never accepting her work again.
In group projects or lab work, Qi Ji helped as needed, but never accepted any gifts. He never had a relationship with anyone, rejecting all forms of affection.
Though Pei Yusheng felt a quiet, unspoken joy at this, he also understood that if he were to directly confront Qi Ji with help, even someone as accomplished as himself might fail.
While managing the Jiang family situation and contemplating plans, Pei Yusheng received news: Qi Ji had awakened.
Qi Ji didn’t wake up fully all at once. The first time he regained consciousness, sensing someone about to touch him, he restrained them before they could act.
Though his strength wasn’t fully recovered, his aim was precise—he immediately blocked the person’s airway. Only a tall, brown-haired man intervened to prevent suffocation.
Qi Ji briefly regained partial consciousness a few more times but couldn’t fully control his body. After roughly ten more hours, he finally broke free from the drowsiness and opened his eyes.
He saw a room of pristine whiteness. Blinking and pausing to adjust, he gradually took in his surroundings.
The room was unfamiliar but elegantly simple, furnished with clearly expensive pieces. Though he had never been there, he felt an inexplicable sense of familiarity.
A sudden headache struck him, and he pressed his hand to his temple. Only then did he realize his memory ended at the auction—everything that had happened afterward was gone.
His first instinct was to examine the room, but there was nothing to identify where he was. Weak as he was, leaving the bed was out of the question.
After confirming no one was around, he checked himself. Apart from weakness, he felt fine. Even injuries from previous exhibitions had mostly healed, and post-concussion effects had eased considerably.
Seeing the bruises on his arms nearly gone, Qi Ji frowned. How long had he slept?
More perplexing was the question of why he was there. If he had really been “purchased,” why did he have no memory or sensation of it?
As he pondered, a slight noise came from the doorway. Qi Ji looked up, alert, and saw a young, refined man enter.
The man wore silver-rimmed glasses, a white shirt, and had a slim frame with little muscle—he appeared harmless.
Qi Ji was scrutinizing him when the man spoke gently: “Hello. My name is Zhao. I’m the doctor responsible for your care. How are you feeling?”
Qi Ji noticed a mark on the man’s neck, instinctively comparing it with his own grip habits. The depth and pattern matched his own style.
“…I’m okay,” Qi Ji said, pressing his lips together. Then softly added, “Sorry.”
Doctor Zhao looked surprised: “What’s wrong?”
Qi Ji pointed to his neck.
“Oh, this,” Zhao said, touching the mark on his own neck with a smile. “It’s fine—I was careless.”
Holding an electronic thermometer, he asked in a consulting tone, “May I check your vitals? You just woke up, and your body might not be stable.”
Qi Ji consented.
After measuring, he asked, “Where am I?”
“This is Rose Villa on Hunan Road. You’ll be resting here temporarily,” Zhao replied.
Though detailed, this wasn’t the answer Qi Ji truly wanted. Hunan Road? This wasn’t downtown S City—why a villa here?
Frowning, Qi Ji asked, “Why am I here?”
Zhao repeated, “You’re resting here.”
Qi Ji realized the doctor was evading a direct answer. He asked another question: “How much does the treatment cost?”
Zhao hesitated, clearly unprepared for the question. Finally, he answered: “The bed is one hundred per day, treatment fees…”
He listed the fees. Qi Ji memorized them, even the low, somewhat unreasonable amounts.
Then he asked, “What’s today’s date?”
When Zhao answered, Qi Ji was genuinely shocked. How much time had passed? The October holiday was ten days—by now, it had long ended, and even Qi Mingyu’s competition was over.
Then what about all the days he had missed…?
Qi Ji didn’t need to calculate to feel a sharp ache in his body.
He was eager to leave, but his current physical condition wouldn’t allow it. He had no memory of the past several days and couldn’t recall what he had done during this half-month, but moving now felt unusually strenuous, as if he had been lying down for days on end.
After the initial medical check, Doctor Zhao began rehabilitation exercises. The villa was spacious and fully equipped—even a wheelchair was available. Qi Ji was led to a large room with soft foam mats on the floor, and his rehabilitation took place there.
At first, Qi Ji remained cautious. But Doctor Zhao’s approach was measured and professional; he didn’t touch him, merely guiding and correcting Qi Ji’s movements verbally, step by step.
Even when Qi Ji stumbled onto the mat, eager to move too quickly, Zhao didn’t step in to support him, only casting a brief glance toward the corner of the room.
Having learned from experience, Qi Ji carefully observed the corner when Zhao looked away. The area was smooth and pristine, showing no sign of a hidden camera.
The rehabilitation lasted roughly half a day. By the end, Qi Ji could move freely, though strenuous activity was still off-limits.
By the time he left the rehab room, it was evening. He hadn’t encountered anyone else in the villa. Dinner was prepared by Zhao. Initially uneasy, Qi Ji watched the process closely in the open kitchen. When the two plates were served, he had chosen the bowls and utensils first. Only after Zhao started eating did he take a small bite.
Truthfully, Zhao’s cooking skills were ordinary, but the meals were plain, appropriate for someone recovering—enough to sustain him.
Afterward, Zhao conducted more checks, including mental evaluations and a long remote consultation with another doctor. Qi Ji felt dizzy from the questioning and was exhausted. Returning to the bedroom, he quickly fell asleep.
This strange, peaceful routine lasted a day and a half. Zhao was always present, except when occasionally taking phone calls. Qi Ji felt that his body had largely recovered. The medication’s effects lingered slightly, heightening sensitivity, which sometimes caused reactions upon waking. This irritated him, but thankfully, no one approached, and Zhao didn’t make physical contact, giving Qi Ji some space to adjust.
Still, Zhao repeatedly forbade him from taking cold showers. His fever had only just subsided, and his body couldn’t handle more strain.
When Qi Ji awoke, he wore new, loose loungewear. His previous clothes remained at the fighting arena, whereabouts unknown. Yet the bracelet removed before the match had returned to his wrist. He didn’t know when it had been put back on, but it gave him some sense of security.
His phone had stayed at home. He hadn’t brought it to the exhibition match. Zhao lent him a cheap phone temporarily, claiming it came with a prepaid plan. Qi Ji used it to handle some emails. Luckily, he had just completed a batch of freelance work before the match and hadn’t taken on new assignments, so nothing important was delayed.
Even with communication tools, Qi Ji could only manage professional matters. He had no one to explain his situation to.
At work, he had filed sick leave, and colleagues’ messages expressed concern without suspicion—they assumed he was recovering. Qi Mingyu had also messaged a few days earlier, reporting that they had won first place. The team would stay in Argentina a few more days before returning. The international connection was spotty, so Qi Mingyu warned he might not respond promptly but reassured Qi Ji of their safety.
Everything appeared orderly, as if nothing had gone wrong during his absence. It seemed incredibly fortunate, as though every variable had aligned perfectly.
Yet precisely because of this, Qi Ji felt something was off.
He never trusted luck, having endured too many misfortunes. And now, he alone couldn’t leave this place. Zhao said other matters would be discussed after he fully recovered. Any further questions were met with silence; even coaxing revealed almost nothing.
Qi Ji was well aware that whoever had brought him out of the auction was not a “good person.” No matter what, they were one of the spectators; there was no reason to “buy” him only to let him recover in peace. Auctions were not acts of charity.
He had a vague premonition.
Setting aside the location and size, the villa was fully furnished, stylistically cohesive, with intricate designs, clearly costly. Yet there were few traces of daily life—either meticulously cleaned or rarely lived in.
Still, Qi Ji noticed a clue on a screen divider.
The villa was decorated in a Chinese style, with the screen made of rosewood, matching other furniture. Qi Ji had seen similar designs during his freelance work. Unlike mass-produced online projects, this screen appeared custom-made, hand-painted with inscriptions by invited artisans, finally framed in expensive rosewood.
And the signature on the inscription… was “Pei.”
Qi Ji could guess something but dared not dwell on it. He wanted to keep matters within his control. Some things he could manage, others were insurmountable in his lifetime.
After a day and a half, with his mobility fully restored, Qi Ji resolved to leave.
Zhao had stepped out during his nap, saying he had tasks to handle and would return to prepare dinner. Qi Ji packed lightly and waited in the living room to announce his departure.
He had little to pack—just a note itemizing the costs of his care, meals, and the deliberately unbranded, simple clothing he wore now. He planned to ask for Zhao’s bank account to settle the bill before leaving.
Zhao returned later than expected. Hearing the door, Qi Ji stood, intending to approach and speak.
But after two steps, he froze.
The person entering wasn’t the ever-smiling Zhao.
It was his direct superior.
Pei Yusheng.
At the sight, Qi Ji’s throat tightened, a chill ran down his neck, and his body involuntarily shivered, a faint electric shock-like sensation running through him.
His first instinct was to retreat, but as he lifted his foot—bam!
His calf struck the solid rosewood sofa behind him. Too fast to react, pain surged through his body.
His eyes reddened instantly, but he forced back tears. He didn’t even cry out, swallowing the pain and grinding his teeth into his pale lips, leaving a shallow pink mark.
He drew in a deep breath, steadying the tremor, then spoke in a low voice: “I’m sorry for staying so many days and troubling you, President Pei.”
He used the polite, flawless tone he employed with outsiders. But Pei Yusheng, who knew his true nature, detected the nasal edge he couldn’t suppress.
Pei Yusheng’s gaze swept over Qi Ji’s neatly prepared clothing intended for departure. Without responding to his words, he asked, “Where are you going?”
Qi Ji shivered at the sound of his voice, clenching his palms, trying to stay calm: “I should return… I have to go back to work tomorrow.”
Pei Yusheng’s tone wasn’t harsh, not even imposing as it had been when they first met. Yet Qi Ji couldn’t help recalling the nightmare of the auction—the glaring lights, the piercing gazes.
He didn’t know what Pei wanted. All he knew was that Pei had “purchased” him… in a place beyond legal remedy.
He couldn’t escape. Qi Ji understood.
So he bit the bullet and spoke first: “I’m truly sorry for the inconvenience these past days. Could you please tell me the total cost of lodging?”
Qi Ji’s voice had been hoarse after waking, soothed slightly by pear-flavored syrup Zhao had provided throughout the day. But now, after only a few words, it had become rasping again.
“And… regarding the auction—I wasn’t aware. How much was spent in total? I’d appreciate it if you could let me know.”
Qi Ji’s face was pale as paper, his lips colorless, with only his eyes still holding faint glimmers of light.
“I apologize for the trouble I’ve caused. I hope we can resolve this matter through proper channels.”
His condition was visibly poor. Cold sweat, triggered by the pain in his calf, seeped from his forehead and slowly trickled down his slender, pale jaw.
Pei Yusheng suddenly entertained an unbidden thought.
That hard-earned pound and seven ounces of weight he had painstakingly gained… surely gone again.
What a shame.
And now, regaining it would probably be even harder. Qi Ji would not be allowed to get close again, nor would anyone cling to him. He would be watched with the same cautious, appraising gaze as the bidders on that auction day.
The room fell into a heavy silence. The atmosphere seemed frozen. After Qi Ji finished speaking, no sound followed.
After an indeterminate stretch of time, a faint rustling emerged.
Pei Yusheng reached to the wooden shelf beside him and took down a square box.
The packaging was exquisite, still sealed. Pei opened it with two careful movements and took out an intricately designed platinum item.
Inside the box was a small vial of liquid. Pei poured it through a small hole, then tossed the tube back into the box. With his thumb, he flicked open the metal cap. Click. A flame sparked.
It was… a brand-new, unopened lighter.
Lighting it, the smoke was improvised on the spot. Pei had no cigarette on him, so he grabbed one from a decorative limited-edition pack on the shelf, peeled back the gold wrapper, drew one out, and lit it.
Throughout the process, he said nothing, but the impatience etched in his brows and eyes crystallized into an almost tangible aura of pressure.
Yet judging by his lack of a personal cigarette or lighter, he didn’t seem like the kind of old smoker who became irritable without a smoke.
Only after the cigarette was lit and a wisp of white smoke drifted up did Pei turn toward Qi Ji.
The subtle, unintentional intimidation he exuded receded. As he expertly drew on the cigarette and exhaled, the lazy, nonchalant demeanor, seemingly innate, returned—just like Qi Ji’s practiced politeness: a flawless disguise.
Holding the lit cigarette between long fingers, Pei Yusheng looked at Qi Ji, a hint of amused interest curling at his lips.
“Qi Ji, right?”
He toyed with the lighter in his hand, movements fluid and practiced. “I didn’t know you had so many secrets.”
Qi Ji’s throat itched, the cigarette’s lure stirring—whether from the nearby smoke or from his own anxiety, he couldn’t tell.
Pain kept him painfully alert. He lowered his gaze, and with the topic laid bare, his voice grew steadier. “President Pei, those are just side jobs.”
From nearby, Pei chuckled softly.
“The pay from Yuntu isn’t low. So… you still need all these side jobs just to get by?”
Before Qi Ji could respond, a sharp snap echoed. Pei Yusheng, seemingly unconcerned, tossed the expensive platinum lighter back into the box.
“You can barely support yourself. Could you have paid for the money spent on you that day?”
The question drained Qi Ji of all blood. His face went ashen, his frail shoulders trembled, and pain from the earlier bruised calf crawled upward, making it almost impossible to stand.
This should have been the perfect moment to press the advantage, to strike decisively, but seeing Qi Ji’s evident suffering, Pei’s words faltered, unsaid.
He drew another drag of the cigarette, like a rough teenage boy who had meticulously prepared a gift for his secret crush, only to see them cornered and hurt, suddenly terrified—fumbling to hide his unease with the smoke.
Exhaling the pale smoke, it blurred his otherwise sharp features. He brushed his thumb along his nose and clicked his tongue softly.
“That auction… it wasn’t for you.”
His words quickened, redirecting Qi Ji’s focus away from his own pain.
“I have history with Jiang Duo. I went that day to settle things with him. Running into you was an accident. I recognized you because your movements looked familiar.”
What the hell foresight—there was no way to anticipate this. He saw Qi Ji suffering and couldn’t think of anything else.
“The police needed time to set things up. Once they intervened, the scene would be chaotic. If someone else had taken you, they might have whisked you away. You’re my employee, after all—that’s why I set the bid.”
Even having experienced crises measured in milliseconds, Pei’s voice now betrayed a slight tension.
Because his previous misjudgment had caused Qi Ji pain, even the best-laid plans he had calculated countless times now wavered.
Pei could read opponents’ scheming, distinguish colleagues’ intentions, yet he couldn’t predict Qi Ji’s reactions in advance.
He couldn’t bear to see this young man suffer further.
He winced at the thought of inflicting another wound. Applying bandages and ointments already made his chest ache.
Pei drew a deep breath, his face emotionless, cold, merciless—the epitome of a ruthless capitalist: “But the money was spent. Thirty-seven million. Excluding my quarrel with Jiang Duo, and splitting it in half, that’s thirteen million.”
His voice remained low, magnetic, detached: “I know you can’t pay that. So we’ll find another way.”
Qi Ji frowned, looking at him, bewildered yet clearly anxious, long lashes fluttering like butterfly wings, brushing at his nerves.
“How… another way?”
The rising smoke between them concealed Pei’s pale, predator-like irises, normally so sharp, so treasured.
“I can offer you a long-term side job.”
Qi Ji only heard the man’s low chuckle, arrogant, self-assured, reckless—a tone that brooked no objection.
“Accompany me. Fifty thousand a night.”