New York, Tunnel nightclub.
This underground palace, converted from an old freight tunnel, was the brightest jewel in Manhattan's nightlife crown in the summer of 1999.
Heavy metal industrial aesthetics and psychedelic electronic music coupled here, giving birth to an apocalyptic carnival atmosphere.
At this moment, that carnival spirit was being pushed to its peak.
The Knicks had booked the nightclub's prime VIP section.
On the massive U-shaped couch, Larry Johnson had already taken off his shirt, revealing muscles impressive enough to shame a bodybuilder. Hugging a bottle of Dom Pérignon, he sang wildly off-key at the spinning disco ball on the ceiling.
Latrell Sprewell, meanwhile, was like a wild horse freed from its reins, writhing madly with several hot-bodied models in the middle of the dance floor, sweat soaking through his Versace silk shirt.
Li Fei did not join them. He lounged deep in the soft couch, a freshly lit Marlboro between his fingers, his gaze calmly sweeping over the debauched spectacle before him through the curling smoke.
The joy of victory was like the finest liquor, with a powerful aftereffect. It was slowly numbing every nerve in his body, leaving him utterly relaxed.
On the low table beside him, his flip-phone Nokia 8810 was vibrating restlessly.
He picked it up and flipped it open. The screen's ghostly blue glow illuminated the sharp contours of his face.
A string of unread text messages.
The first was from Larsa Pippen.
It was direct, entirely in keeping with her style: "Mr. Champion, I heard you're at Tunnel? I just happen to be nearby. Want me to come celebrate with you? I brought a new bikini." A playful winking emoji followed.
The second was from Angelina Jolie. Her message was full of mystery and provocation: "I smelled victory and hormones. They guided