By the time the sun slipped behind the crooked roofs of our little neighborhood and the tuk-tuks sounded like metal beetles chirping in the streets, Bima Santoso had already taken his seat on the throne no one could see: the swiveling plastic chair in front of his battered laptop. King of online gambling—at least on our block, maybe in the district, definitely in his own mind—he ruled a glowing empire of virtual slot machines whose cherries spun like possessed marbles, and digital cockfights where pixelated roosters flared their neon hackles with a drama that would have made a soap-opera director proud. His fingers fluttered over the trackpad as if he were conducting an orchestra that only played a single, relentless note: bet, bet, bet.
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