I never thought I’d spend New Year’s Eve playing cards and walk away owning a teahouse. It started simple — low stakes, lazy talk, and Wann Sun, the old turtlekin, puffing on his shisha like the night was already his. Then he sat down — Yuri, a stranger with eyes like loaded dice and a smile that dared fate to play along. We played like we’d never met, but when the final hand came, we moved as one. Two „full houses“ against Wann Sun’s supposed „straight flush „— pure miracle. I’ve never seen someone lose so slowly. We stepped into the new year with the deed, the name, and a pot of Wann Sun’s last, best tea.