The Golden Ticket
Part I: The Dragon’s Vow
The year was 1990. The sea was a vast, unforgiving blackness, the air thick with the smell of diesel and fear. We were Ly’s four brothers—Dà Lóng (28), Èr Hǔ (25), Sān Yīng (22), and myself, Sì Hǎi (18)—crammed onto a rust-pitted fishing trawler, chasing the mythical “Golden Mountain” (America). Our parents had vanished during the political turmoil back in Fujian, leaving us with nothing but each other.
Dà Lóng, the eldest, was our rock, strong as the mythical Dragon in his name. He gripped my hand during a brutal storm: “Sì Hǎi, listen. We survived the ocean’s teeth. In America, we will never lose each other. Our golden chain cannot be broken.”
Seven long weeks later, having witnessed countless souls swallowed by the waves, we landed in a small, bustling corner of San Francisco’s Chinatown. We lived like phantoms, working eighteen-hour shifts in dim restaurants, sleeping stacked in a damp apartment. But the vow remained our compass: “For each other.”
Part II: The Blinding Light
Everything changed in 2016 with a piece of paper.
Dà Lóng, driven by an obsession to reclaim the family honor and wealth that was lost, stopped at a gas station after his night shift. A Powerball ticket.
He called me at 4 a.m., his voice a shattered whisper: “Sì Hǎi… two hundred million dollars. We won! This money could rebuild the Great Wall!”
Overnight, we were no longer poor refugees. Dà Lóng bought a sprawling, columned mansion in Beverly Hills, acquired luxury cars, and—true to his nature—gave generous shares to his brothers, while retaining the largest portion to “manage investments” and set up various charities.
Èr Hǔ (Second Tiger) opened a chain of high-end Cantonese restaurants. Sān Yīng (Third Eagle) dove headfirst into the volatile stock market. I used my share to open a modest gallery specializing in East Asian art.
We still gathered every Sunday, but the humble electric hotpot was replaced by opulent catering. Dà Lóng’s smile was endless, a man who had finally brought the golden chain ashore.
Part III: The Corroded Chain
Wealth, however, is not a metal; it is an acid. It slowly corroded the strong link forged by shared suffering.
The first crack appeared when Èr Hǔ, perpetually jealous of Dà Lóng’s leadership, suffered heavy losses. He demanded Dà Lóng inject capital from the shared fund.
Dà Lóng refused: “This money is for freedom, not for gambling. You must stand on your own.” Èr Hǔ smashed a crystal glass: “You just want to hoard it all! Have you forgotten how we escaped China together?”
Then, Sān Yīng—the more calculating brother—claimed Dà Lóng had cheated him on the initial stock allocation, demanding an extra $10 million.
The Dragon’s Vow turned into a serpent’s hiss.
Dà Lóng began making large, anonymous donations to refugee camps and orphanages, searching for a peace his own family had stolen from him. He became isolated in his golden cage. He often sat alone in his office, beside a heavy black ebony box carved with a powerful dragon, staring out at the empty gardens.
Part IV: The Cold Death
In December 2017, a cold front swept through California.
Dà Lóng invited only me for dinner. He cooked our mother’s traditional steamed fish. “Sì Hǎi,” he said quietly, “I’m selling everything. I’m going somewhere no one knows my name, where there are no dollars. This golden chain… it is choking me.”
Three days later, the police called. Dà Lóng was found in his garage, dead from carbon monoxide poisoning. The case was quickly labeled suicide. His estate was transferred to a mysterious “business partner.”
At the funeral, Èr Hǔ wept violently, but his eyes constantly scanned the expansive property. Sān Yīng didn’t show up. I felt the last piece of our brotherly bond snap.
Part V: The Ebony Box Twist
Years passed. I was haunted. Èr Hǔ and Sān Yīng lived in suspicious, immediate opulence.
Then, in 2025, an anonymous lawyer sent me a small package. Inside was a digital memory card and an old photograph of Dà Lóng, Èr Hǔ, and Sān Yīng drinking together in the mansion’s living room, taken the night before Dà Lóng died.
On the memory card, there was a video file, recorded by a small security camera hidden inside Dà Lóng’s office. My hands trembled as I clicked Play.
The video showed Dà Lóng sitting alone. Then, Èr Hǔ and Sān Yīng walked in. “Brother, sign this,” Èr Hǔ demanded, pushing a document forward. “Have you forgotten the vow?” Dà Lóng asked, his voice strained.
Sān Yīng approached the desk, carrying the ebony dragon box—where Dà Lóng always kept his most prized documents. “Big Brother,” Sān Yīng sneered, “we haven’t forgotten. You taught us: survival first. But now you are in our way.”
Èr Hǔ used a cloth, clearly soaked in a powerful sedative or something worse, to subdue Dà Lóng.
As Dà Lóng collapsed, Sān Yīng opened the ebony box. It didn’t contain documents; it contained an ancient, rolled-up silk parchment. Sān Yīng swiftly took the parchment and replaced it with an empty liquor bottle before closing the box.
THE TWIST: The video continued. Èr Hǔ and Sān Yīng quickly left, assuming Dà Lóng was dead or dying. But ten minutes later, Dà Lóng stirred. He struggled to sit up, his face contorted—not by suffocation, but by betrayal.
He crawled toward the hidden camera, whispering in Cantonese: “They didn’t want the money. They wanted what was in the box. The parchment… the map to the family’s true treasure.”
Dà Lóng looked directly into the lens. He tried to speak more, but his eyes shifted to a cold, final realization.
He stumbled out of the office and into the garage. The video feed ended with the faint sound of a car engine starting, then silence.
Conclusion: The Secret Behind The Golden Ticket
I turned off the video, my body shaking. Dà Lóng was not murdered by his brothers; he chose to kill himself to conceal the ultimate truth and punish their greed. He realized that what they truly craved wasn’t the $200 million, but the secret inheritance—the lost family fortune or power—recorded on that parchment. The lottery was just a façade.
I had the truth. But I couldn’t go to the police. That family secret was more dangerous than all the wealth. It caused two brothers to betray the eldest, and it forced the eldest to sacrifice himself to protect the secret from them.
I never spoke a word of it. I continued my quiet life. Every year, I send an anonymous donation to a remote temple in Fujian. I know that somewhere, Èr Hǔ and Sān Yīng are desperately following the trail of the parchment.
I still hear Dà Lóng’s final whisper in my dreams: “They didn’t want the money. They wanted what was in the box.”
Our golden chain was broken. And it was forged anew in my silence.
