After tasting the sweetness, the door named "Desire" in Oliver Smith's heart was abruptly pushed open. That unexpected five francs, like a tiny spark, landed on the dry tinder deep within him, long suppressed by the hardships of life. This money came so easily, a stark contrast to every franc he earned by sweating and exhausting himself on the construction site. He tightly clutched the greasy banknotes, his fingertips feeling their unreal weight, and an unprecedented, addictive thrill quietly sprouted in his heart. He began to occasionally join his co-workers' card games. At first, he cautiously controlled himself, betting only a few francs each time, with wins and losses within an acceptable range. He told himself it was just for relaxation, to pass the time, to add a little color to his monotonous life, and he would never get addicted.
However, he soon discovered that the thrill of winning, like a raging fire, once ignited, was difficult to extinguish. Every time a card was flipped, every time chips were added or removed, it was accompanied by an accelerating heartbeat and a surge of adrenaline. That momentary tension and the subsequent ecstasy made him temporarily forget the fatigue of the construction site, the heavy pressure of life, and his longing for Isabelle. This brief "release" numbed his nerves more effectively than any cheap tobacco or alcohol. He began to anticipate bigger victories, craving the thrill of getting rich overnight, fantasizing about using gambling to quickly change his fate. The world at the card table seemed to become his only refuge, an illusion where he could temporarily escape the difficulties of reality. There, he was no longer the farmer's son suffocated by tuition fees and tormented by physical labor, but a "winner" who could turn his fortunes around at any moment and control his future.
Even more terrifying was the unwillingness to lose, which, like an invisible hand, constantly pushed him to win back everything he had lost. The first ten francs he lost caused him pain; the sting of that loss far outweighed the pleasure of winning, and he swore to win it back. The second twenty francs he lost kept him awake all night, his mind filled with images from the card table, every detail magnified infinitely. He regretted every wrong decision, imagining how he would play if he had another chance. This obsession with "breaking even," like a bottomless pit, continuously devoured his reason, dragging him into a vicious cycle. He began to believe that if he just played one more hand, if his luck was just a little better, he could make up for all his previous losses, and even have a surplus.
His bets grew larger, and his participation in games became more frequent. He was no longer content with merely "relaxing," but began to view gambling as a quick way to accumulate wealth, a "shortcut" that would allow him to quickly gather enough tuition fees, and even give Isabelle Lebrun a huge surprise when he returned to Evans Village. He became obsessed with various so-called "techniques" and "patterns," secretly observing old gamblers' betting habits like a man possessed, simulating card games in the barracks day and night, forgetting to eat and sleep. He would quietly write down card combinations on paper, calculating probabilities with trembling hands, trying to find some "sure-win" pattern, as if it were a profound discipline that, once mastered, would unlock the code to wealth. He forced himself to believe that by mastering these "secrets," he could defy probability, control his destiny, and quickly escape poverty. A voice deep within him screamed: this was the true shortcut, and he had to seize it, even if that "confidence" was as thin as a cicada's wing, ready to be pierced by reality at any moment.
However, casinos, big or small, are like meticulously woven traps, full of temptation and deception. Oliver Smith's "good luck" did not always favor him. He began to lose more than he won; the money he won quickly disappeared, and even his principal was lost. Each loss was like a blunt knife cutting into his heart, making him anxious, breathless, and sweaty-palmed. He desperately tried to win it back, but like someone caught in a vortex, the more he struggled and increased his bets, the deeper he sank. He started avoiding his co-workers, his eyes darting, afraid to meet anyone's gaze, fearing that his secret would be discovered. Every time he secretly drew his wages from the foreman, his heart felt like it was being torn apart. That hard-earned money, smelling of earth and sweat, which should have been sent home, was now thrown, stack by stack, onto that sinful gambling table with his trembling hands. Each bet was like tearing apart his own conscience, abandoning his parents' and Isabelle's hopes little by little.
To "break even," he became increasingly irrational, even starting to borrow money to gamble. He first borrowed from his co-workers, falsely claiming urgent family needs, fabricating one clumsy lie after another. Later, when his co-workers began to avoid him, he took a desperate gamble, borrowing money from strangers who lent at exorbitant interest rates. These people's eyes were cold and greedy, their interest rates terrifyingly high, but he no longer cared; he had only one thought in his mind: win it back! He fantasized that if he could win a large sum, he could pay off all his debts, and then return to Evans Village gloriously with ample savings, resuming his peaceful life. But he didn't know that in a casino, the house always wins, and he was merely a puppet driven by desire, ruthlessly manipulated in the dealer's hands, sinking deeper and deeper into the abyss.
Gradually, Oliver Smith's mind was completely off work. He was distracted and absent-minded all day. On the construction site, he often zoned out, the tools in his hands feeling impossibly heavy. His gaze always drifted into the distance, his mind constantly revolving around the wins and losses at the card table, and strategies for "recovering his losses." His body also began to change; his eyes were sunken, his complexion sallow, and his once upright posture became somewhat hunched, as if crushed by an invisible burden. He started shouting at his co-workers at the slightest provocation, slamming his tools to the ground, and even getting into fights over trivial matters, his eyes filled with the uncontrollable frenzy of losing money. The once honest, cheerful, and optimistic Oliver Smith was completely transformed; the intelligence and yearning for the future that once sparkled in his eyes were now replaced by a pathological fanaticism and anxiety, as if possessed by some demon, leaving only a morbid obsession with the gambling table.
His letters to Isabelle Lebrun also became fewer and fewer, filled with hollow excuses and an ill-concealed restlessness. The loving and hopeful words of the past were now replaced by hastily woven lies. He said that work on the construction site was too busy and tiring, telling her not to worry, that he was fine, and to wait for him at home. He dared not mention gambling; it was like a forbidden word that, once touched, would plunge him into immense fear—he knew it was what Isabelle detested most, and it was his deepest guilt. He was afraid to face the disappointment in Isabelle's clear eyes, and even more afraid of losing her, losing the last bit of light and hope in his life. However, the denser the web of lies, the greater the risk of it tearing, and every breath felt like waiting for that piercing rip. He knew that once the truth came out, he would lose everything, including his most cherished love and the beautiful future he had envisioned with Isabelle.