The Weight of 1.2 Billion

The air conditioning in the bank’s VIP room was cranked up way too high.

Chen Guohao sat on that leather chair, feeling a chill spread through his ass—like he was sitting on a block of ice. He was wearing a gray T-shirt with a collar that had been washed loose, a pair of gym shorts from the market, and blue-and-white flip-flops. Before he left, he’d thought about dressing up, then decided against it—if he got robbed, at least he’d look like he had nothing worth taking.

The teller across from him wore gold-rimmed glasses and looked like he’d graduated not long ago, his uniform crisp and pressed. The teller glanced at Chen Guohao’s clothes, and his eyebrow twitched—just a flicker, but Chen Guohao caught it.

“Mr. Chen, please show me your original lottery ticket and your ID.”

When he pulled the ticket from the tin box, his hands were shaking. Not from nerves—it was the feeling of finally opening a package you’d been waiting thirty-five years for. The numbers on that ticket he’d memorized cold—38, 12, 7, 25, 19, 4, and the second zone number 5. Every fucking set of digits was carved into his brain.

The teller took the ticket, and his expression changed.

It was a subtle shift. First his pupils dilated, then the corners of his mouth lifted a little, and his shoulders switched from “I’m at work” mode to “I’m hosting a VIP client” mode. Chen Guohao watched the transformation, and only one thought ran through his head: Fuck, this is the power of money.

“Please wait a moment—we need to run a verification.”

The teller got up and walked into a small room in the back. Chen Guohao sat alone in the VIP room, staring at a painting on the wall—he didn’t know what kind of art it was, but it looked expensive. A bottle of water and a small plate of cookies sat on the table. He didn’t touch them—afraid they’d charge him.

About five minutes later, the teller came back, followed by a middle-aged man in a suit.

“Mr. Chen, this is our branch manager.”

The manager reached out his hand. Chen Guohao shook it, feeling the man’s thick palm and firm grip. He thought about the time he’d gone to open a bank account—the tellers wouldn’t even look at him. Now even the manager had come out.

“Congratulations, Mr. Chen. Are you sure you want to wire the full amount to your new account?”

“Yes.”

“We recommend considering some asset allocation—for example—”

“No need. Just leave it there. I want to see it.”

The manager gave a small smile—not a mocking one, but the kind that said “I understand.” Chen Guohao suddenly felt amazing—just one “no” could shut up a bank manager.

When he signed his name, his hands were still shaking. The pen dragged a crooked line across the paper, like a grade-schooler’s homework. He looked up at the teller, who smiled and nodded without saying a word. He finished signing, put the pen down, and felt as if that piece of paper weighed a thousand pounds.

“Mr. Chen, after tax deduction, the net amount is 955,200,000 NTD. We’ll complete the transfer before 3 PM today.”

Nine hundred fifty-five million, two hundred thousand.

Those words came out of the teller’s mouth like some kind of incantation. Chen Guohao sat there, feeling the whole world suddenly go quiet. The hum of the air conditioner, the teller’s breathing, the sound of his own heartbeat—all blended together.

“Mr. Chen?”

“Huh?”

“Is there anything else we can help you with?”

“No.”

He stood up. The teller and the manager stood up too. The three of them bowed to each other, like some kind of ritual. As he walked out of the VIP room, the teller held the door for him and said, “Take care, Mr. Chen.” He crossed the bank lobby, passing the people waiting in line, passing the office workers waiting for their numbers to be called—no one knew he’d just taken out nine hundred fifty-five million.

He walked out of the bank and stood under the arcade.

The sunlight was strong, making him squint. People flowed past—businessmen in suits, students with backpacks, mothers pushing strollers—everyone busy with their own business, no one looking at him.

He looked down at himself: gray T-shirt, gym shorts, blue-and-white flip-flops. He still looked like the same Chen Guohao—the one who handed out flyers at the MRT station, the one who lived in a tin-roofed rooftop extension.

But the debit card in his pocket, freshly opened, held nine hundred fifty-five million.

Suddenly he wanted to laugh.

Not out of happiness—it was that “Motherfucker, it’s finally my turn” kind of laugh. He remembered his landlord Lin Shufen calling him last week to collect three thousand for the air conditioner repair—he’d put it off for two weeks. He remembered his ex-girlfriend Zhuang Yating breaking up with him, saying, “You can’t give me the life I want.” He remembered that bastard A-Kun snatching his spot at the MRT station to hand out flyers, saying, “Standing here won’t help—people see your face and don’t want to take one.”

He pulled out his phone and scrolled through his contacts.

Zhuang Yating’s name was still there—he hadn’t deleted it after the breakup. He tapped it, his thumb hovering over the call button.

“Hey, Yating? It’s me, Chen Guohao.”

Three seconds of silence on the other end.

“How do you have my number?” Her voice sounded guarded, like she was about to hang up.

“I have something really important to tell you. Are you free? Let’s meet up.”

“What is it?”

“I’ll tell you when we meet.”

“Chen Guohao, what do you want? I’m doing fine now, don’t—”

“It’s really important. Just come and you’ll see. You won’t regret it.”

He heard her sigh on the other end.

“Fine. Tomorrow at 2 PM, the coffee shop near my place. You know where it is.”

She hung up.

Chen Guohao put his phone back in his pocket and looked up at the sky. Taipei’s sky was gray, same as every day. He stood under the arcade, watching the crowd pass, and suddenly felt the world had changed.

It wasn’t the world that had changed—it was him.

He walked into a convenience store, stood in front of the chilled section, and looked at the imported bottled water—eighty bucks a bottle. He hesitated, then grabbed the thirty-five-dollar one. At the register, he saw the rows of cigarettes behind the counter, thought for a second, and bought a pack of Sevens. When the clerk scanned them and said, “Total: one hundred fifteen dollars,” he pulled a thousand-dollar bill from his pocket and said, “Keep the change.”

The clerk froze, staring at him.

“Keep the change?” the clerk confirmed again.

“Yeah, keep the change.”

He walked out of the convenience store, opened the bottle of water, and took a sip. The water was cold, but his whole chest felt hot.

It was a weird feeling—you finally get the thing you’ve fantasized about ten thousand times, but you don’t know what to do next. He thought after he got the money he’d be happy, want to scream, want to call everyone and show off. But now, standing under the arcade with a bottle of water and a pack of cigarettes, he suddenly felt empty.

Not unhappy—just not knowing how to be happy.

He lit a cigarette, took a drag, and coughed. He hadn’t smoked in a long time—the last time was probably three years ago, waiting downstairs at Zhuang Yating’s place for her to change her mind. He’d waited until 3 AM, she never came down, he smoked half a pack, then swore he’d never smoke again.

Now he was smoking again.

His phone vibrated. A text from the bank: “China Trust Commercial Bank notification: Your account has been credited with NTD 955,200,000 at 14:23 today. Balance: NTD 955,200,000.”

Nine hundred fifty-five million, two hundred thousand.

He read the message three times, then took a screenshot and saved it in his phone. He wanted to send it to someone, but he scrolled through his contacts and realized there wasn’t a single person he could share this with.

He thought about that dog—the mangy mutt he’d fed once, never even given a name. Suddenly he wanted to go back and see it. At least that dog wouldn’t ask him for money.

He stubbed out the cigarette and walked back toward his rooftop extension. On the way, he passed the lottery shop where he’d bought the ticket. A red banner hung at the entrance: “Congratulations! Our shop sold the winning Powerball jackpot of 1.2 billion!” The owner stood at the door, grinning like he’d never see another day like this.

Chen Guohao walked past. The owner glanced at him but didn’t recognize him.

Well, that day he’d been wearing a different T-shirt.

He kept walking. When he reached the alley, he saw the dog crouched against the wall, tail tucked, looking hungry. He squatted down and held out his hand. The dog backed up two steps, then sniffed his fingers.

“I got rich,” he said to the dog.

The dog didn’t react—just kept sniffing his fingers.

“Seriously, I’ve got nine hundred fifty-five million now. I could buy this whole street.”

The dog yawned, tongue flopping to the side, then lay down and licked its paw.

“You don’t fucking believe me?”

The dog turned around, walked over to a nearby drain cover, lay down, and kept licking its paw.

Chen Guohao stared at the dog and suddenly laughed. Not a bitter laugh—the kind of laugh you let out when you finally understand something. He remembered the first time the dog saw him: it had stepped back first, stared at the half piece of bread in his hand, and only came closer after he tore it up and put it on the ground. Now he had no bread, so the dog just sniffed his fingers and went back to sleep.

“You’re just the same,” he said to the dog.

The dog ignored him.

He stood up and walked back to his rooftop extension. Climbing those five flights of stairs, he realized the steps no longer felt so long. He opened the door and stepped into the five-ping tin-roofed room. The air conditioner was still running, the drainpipe still dripping—drip, drip, drip against the tin.

He sat on the bed, picked up his phone, and looked at the screenshot again.

Nine hundred fifty-five million, two hundred thousand.

He set it as his phone wallpaper.

Then he lay down, staring at the water stains on the ceiling—shaped like Taiwan. One thought hit him: he had nine hundred fifty-five million, but he was still sleeping in this rooftop extension, the air conditioner still dripping, the ceiling still leaking, the neighbor’s dog still barking.

He should move.

But he didn’t know where to go.

He should buy a car.

But he didn’t even have a driver’s license.

He should do something rich people do.

But he didn’t know what rich people did.

The only thing he knew was that tomorrow at 2 PM he was going to see Zhuang Yating. He was going to make her realize she’d been wrong about him back then. He was going to make her regret it, make her cry, make her get on her knees and beg his forgiveness.

Thinking about it, his chest burned again.

He picked up his phone, opened his contacts, found Zhuang Yating’s name, and stared at it for a minute. Then he turned off the screen and placed the phone next to his pillow.

The air conditioner’s drip was still going.

He closed his eyes and imagined Zhuang Yating’s face tomorrow when she saw that bank screenshot.

He forced a smile.

A big, happy smile.

But in the dim room, it looked more like crying.