The morning sun slipped past the cheap plastic blinds, scattering striped patterns across the worn beige carpet of a narrow apartment in Dongcheng District, Beijing. Lin Wei stirred under a pile of mismatched blankets, the distant hum of city traffic filtering through a cracked window, blending with the sharp buzz of his phone vibrating on the nightstand. He winced as the sound cut through his dream like a blade.
Grunting, Lin Wei reached out and grabbed the phone. The screen was cracked at the corners, the battery barely holding on. It lit up to show the time: Monday, 8:03 AM.
"Shit," he muttered in Mandarin. He was supposed to be at the repair shop at eight sharp. Boss Huang was not a forgiving man.
He threw off the covers and stood, bare feet brushing against a cold floor littered with yesterday's socks and greasy takeout containers. The scent of old dumplings and stale instant noodles filled the cramped air. As he made his way toward the bathroom, he passed a pile of unopened letters—mostly bills and bank warnings—and a small stack of rejected job applications sitting beside a broken rice cooker.
Lin Wei looked into the mirror, wiping the fog from the glass with a tired hand. At twenty-four, he looked closer to thirty. His short black hair was unruly, and shadows had permanently settled under his eyes. He splashed cold water on his face and dressed in his usual outfit—an oil-stained blue work uniform with "Lin Wei" sewn onto the chest in peeling white thread.
With no time for breakfast, he grabbed his bag and swung the door open. That's when he noticed it.
A sleek, black envelope sat on his doormat.
It was matte, heavier than regular paper, with no return address. Just his name in elegant silver calligraphy:
Lin Wei
No title. No explanation.
He frowned, glanced up and down the hallway. No sign of anyone. He picked it up, felt the weight of it, and stepped back inside.
At the kitchen table, he opened the envelope with cautious fingers. Inside was a single, black card. It looked like a credit card—no numbers, no chip, just a polished obsidian surface with a single silver symbol etched into the center: ∞.
A folded note came with it. Written in perfect Chinese characters:
"Dear Lin Wei,You have been selected.This card has no limit. No expiration. No balance due.Use it freely. Spend without fear.But remember: how you spend it will shape who you become."— The Custodian
He blinked. Once. Twice. Then laughed.
"Right. This must be a scam," he muttered. He held the card up to the light—no bank logo, no chip, no magnetic stripe. Nothing. He flipped it over. Still blank. It was warm to the touch, like it had been sitting in sunlight, though the envelope was cool.
His stomach growled, and the clock now read 8:23. He was late. Again. Stuffing the card into his wallet for no good reason, he rushed out the door, sprinted down the stairs, and caught the last possible bus to work.
The repair shop, Zhengxing Motors, was already alive with the clatter of metal and the scent of motor oil by the time Lin Wei arrived. Boss Huang stood with arms crossed, a scowl painting his weathered face.
"You're late again," he barked.
"Sorry, sorry, the bus—"
"Spare me. Just get to Bay Three. The Audi's overheating."
Lin Wei ducked his head and hurried to his station. It was the same routine every day—busted radiators, misfiring engines, and customers who treated mechanics like servants. Hours passed in a haze of grime and noise. By noon, he hadn't eaten, and his stomach felt like it was trying to digest itself.
During his short break, he wandered across the street to a dingy noodle shop. He ordered the cheapest thing on the menu—sour noodle soup, 12 yuan—and waited with his back against the counter.
The cashier, a teenage girl with a pierced eyebrow, tapped her pen against the register. "Card or cash?"
Lin Wei patted his pockets. Nothing. He'd forgotten he was nearly broke. Embarrassed, he mumbled, "Sorry, let me check."
Then he remembered the black card. Almost as a joke, he pulled it out and handed it to her.
She examined it, puzzled. "There's no chip."
"Just swipe it, I guess," Lin Wei said, half-expecting it to be declined.
She swiped it through the ancient terminal. The screen lit up green. Approved. Transaction complete.
Lin Wei stared.
"Your order will be ready in five minutes," she said, already turning to the next customer.
He stepped back, stunned. A dozen thoughts rushed through his mind. It worked? But how? No numbers. No account.
He ate in silence, trying to stay calm. After work, curiosity overtook him. He went to an electronics store and pointed at the most expensive smartphone on display—a 15,000 yuan model with a triple camera setup and more power than he could ever need.
At the register, he handed over the card.
Approved.
He bought new shoes. A watch. Paid the rest of his month's rent. Every transaction—approved.
No questions. No calls. No limits.
That night, back in his apartment, Lin Wei sat on the floor, surrounded by bags and boxes. The black card lay on the table, catching the dim light like polished stone.
"What the hell are you?" he whispered.
He turned on the new phone and searched every corner of the internet for cards like it—no results. No record of a black card with no number. No issuer. No contract. Nothing.
Then his phone buzzed. A new message, from an unknown number:
"Welcome to a life without limits.Chapter One has begun."
Lin Wei stared at the screen, heart pounding. He wasn't dreaming. This was real.
But somewhere, deep in his chest, a whisper of doubt crept in. He had everything he wanted—money, freedom, power—but the note in the envelope lingered in his mind:
"How you spend it will shape who you become."
He didn't know what that meant. Not yet.
But he was going to find out.