Chapter 1 — Lottery Ticket Without Name

Quan knew he won the lottery when the welding machine stopped beeping.

He was repairing the motor at the industrial park's mechanical workshop when his phone vibrated continuously. The screen showed six missed calls from an unknown number and a text message from Ms. Sau of the cafeteria: "Come here now. Don't tell anyone."

Ms. Sau placed a ticket on the stainless steel table, next to the unsold lunch box. The ticket had numbers that matched that day's special prize: fifty-two billion VND.

"Whose?" Quan asked.

"Of the group."

"Which group?"

Mrs. Sau looked towards the door. "People contributed money to buy tickets during the night shift. Lam kept the tickets. But Lam has been missing since last week."

Quan recognized the ticket. He bought it at the factory gate at the request of Lam, his roommate. Lam gave money and told Quan to choose any number. Quan remembers holding the ticket, but doesn't remember when he gave it back to Lam.

The back of the ticket had a streak of blue ink and a finger print that had not yet dried. No name, no employee code.

"If Lam is missing, why is the ticket here?"

"Someone put it in my lunchbox this morning."

Ms. Sau gave Quan her phone camera. Footage from the cafeteria shows a person wearing a protective vest passing by, stopping next to the table and then leaving. His face was covered by a mask, but in his hand was a hook-shaped ring.

Before Quan could finish watching, his phone vibrated. A text message from Lam's number: "Don't accept money. It's not yours."

Quan called back. Subscriber cannot be contacted.

Ms. Sau told me to put the ticket in a moisture-proof bag. Quan wanted to take the matter to the police, but she said the group of workers had reported the loss of support funds without any resolution. They needed someone who knew the mechanics and paperwork.

Quan is not that person. He only knew how to fix the machine and hide from creditors.

In the motel room, Quan's phone reported that his bank account was locked. The pawn shop owner sent a photo of the debt note, asking him to pay it within three days. A social network account posted a photo of his ID with the words: "The one who stole the worker's ticket."

Quan looked at the ticket in his pocket, then looked at Lam's photo on the wall. His friend disappeared on the same day the union fund was withdrawn a large amount.

Nhi, a union legal officer, came over. She did not ask Quan if he won the lottery. She asked: "Was the ticket in your hand before Lam died?"

Quan spoke the truth. Nhi placed a list of ticket donations on the table. Seven names, one hundred thousand each. Lam is marked as having received the ticket.

"But Lam's signature was recorded after he disappeared," Nhi said. "Someone is trying to make you the last ticket holder."

Outside the door, the sound of a motorbike stopped. One person called Quan's name, his voice loud enough for the neighbors to hear.

Nhi turned off the light. Quan held the ticket in his hand, feeling it was lighter than a bolt but heavier than the whole room.

Outside the door, the sound of a motorbike turning off but no one got off yet. Quan heard the sound of shoes hitting the cement floor, then the sound of a metal object gently hitting the gate. Nhi signaled not to breathe heavily.

“There are two people in this house,” a man's voice called. “We just want to ask about Lam.”

Quan recognized the foreman's voice, but his words were calmer than usual. The person accompanying him said nothing. Nhi took her phone and took a photo of the ticket, transferring the photo to a storage account where only she knew the password.

“If they come in, I'll turn on the recording,” she whispered.

Quan nodded. He looked at the ticket again. The back has a finger-shaped blue ink stain, as if someone had pressed hard on the paper while it was still wet. There was no name, but under the flashlight, he saw a row of small dots arranged arc.

Lam used those dots to mark components in the workshop. Three dots means the device has been disassembled, four dots means someone lied about the error. There are seven dots on the ticket.

Quan pulled his sleeve to cover it. “Lam didn't buy a ticket for him alone,” he said very quietly. “He bought it for the whole shift.”

Nhi asked how many people contributed. Quan named each person: Phuc the lathe, Hanh the packer, Tai warehouse, Mrs. Sau of the canteen, Khanh the night shift and five others. One hundred thousand for each person, contributed during the break between shifts. Lam is the one who keeps the money because he can read words and doesn't drink alcohol.

Outside the gate, the foreman called. Screen light peeked through the door. The other person walked over, placed an envelope at the foot of the gate and left. The sound of a motorbike starting, sliding through the alley.

Nhi waited five minutes before using an iron hook to pull the envelope in. Inside is a photo of Quan at the factory, the exact moment he picked up the ticket to buy it for him. On the back of the photo is written: "You were the last person to touch it."

Quan remembers the afternoon. Lam called him to the water vending machine, gave him money and told him to choose any number. When the end-of-shift whistle sounded, Quan was called to repair the motor. Lam may have held the ticket back, or maybe he just thought so because his hands were full of oil at that time.

“You have to tell the truth,” Nhi said. “One minute of misremembering can turn you into a usurper.”

“I don't remember.”

“So don't make it up.”

Nhi called the provincial attorney, but did not talk about the amount of money. She only said there was a missing person, a disputed lottery ticket and signs of extortion. The lawyer asked them to keep the tickets in a moisture-proof bag, not to fold them, and not to take additional flash photos.

Quan walked to the back of the house and checked the motorbike. The rear tire has a short cut. Under the seat there is an employee card broken in half, leaving only the code "K-17". He realized that the code belonged to the old spare parts warehouse, where Lam had reported missing goods.

Nhi looked at the card and said nothing. She just took it with her gloves and placed it next to the ticket.

Quan's phone vibrated again. So Lam sent a new photo: a dark room, on the table is a deposit book. The last page has a hastily written line: "If I disappear, don't believe the person who says the ticket has no name."

This time, the message included the GPS location of the old factory. The location only lasts for sixty seconds and then deletes itself.

Quan looked up. The people outside the gate may have left, but they knew the exact room he was hiding in. The ticket wasn't the only thing being sought after; The person who left the clue is also racing against time.