A $50 million margin call? I'll short Wall Street.

Below the terminal, Bear Stearns' closing figures lay quietly on the screen:

The closing price was $63.47, with a market capitalization of approximately $110 billion.

Lu Ze stared at the number, his deep pupils suddenly contracting.

As a top hedge fund manager who traveled back from 2024, no one knows better than him that this 85-year-old Wall Street's fifth-largest investment bank is currently sitting on a volcano about to erupt.

Analysts are still touting the myth of real estate, and CNBC hosts are still chanting "The American Dream will never be shattered."

Little did they know that a global financial tsunami, which would destroy trillions of dollars of wealth worldwide, was just a spark away from fully unfolding.

He remembered the day the spark was ignited perfectly—

2008 3 Month 14 Day.

There are less than fifteen days left.

Just as Lu Ze was immersed in the vast historical data network, the door suddenly beeped urgently with the combination lock beeping.

Immediately afterwards, an anxious female voice rang out, accompanied by the sound of keystrokes: "Damn it, the password is wrong... no, it should be..."

"Click."

The lock was finally opened. The door was pushed open roughly, and a blast of cold air, carrying with it icy rain and night wind, rushed in.

A young woman in a beige Burberry trench coat rushed into the entryway, not even bothering to put away her umbrella. Rain dripped from the hem of the coat onto the expensive floor, leaving a trail of water stains.

Isabella Chen. The only employee in the company who didn't immediately pack her bags and jump ship after the incident.

"Boss! I've called you over a dozen times and you haven't answered! Goldman Sachs' ultimatum is already here—"

Her voice stopped abruptly.

By the dim light of the motion-sensor light in the entryway, she witnessed the most terrifying scene of her life.

The living room, which is usually filled with Jo Malone's premium fragrance, is now filled with the pungent smell of gunpowder, as if a gunfight has just taken place.

Her boss, a young rich kid who was arrogant but actually cowardly and prone to smashing things and throwing tantrums when faced with setbacks, was standing quietly in front of the Bloomberg terminal.

His custom-made white Egyptian cotton shirt was splattered with shocking dark red bloodstains, and the flesh on his right temple was torn open, a bloody mess. His right hand was casually toying with the heavy M1911 revolver.

What's most terrifying is the look in his eyes right now. The rich second-generation heir who used to throw his tie in a panic when faced with a bail call is gone. In his place, he looks more like a predator lurking in wait after spotting its prey.

"ah--!!"

Isabella's Hermès Birkin bag fell to the floor with a thud, scattering documents everywhere. Her legs went weak, and she pressed her back against the entryway wall, her trembling hands frantically reaching for her phone in her pocket.

"Boss... don't be impulsive! I'll call an ambulance right away!"

"Quiet."

The sound wasn't loud, but it carried an undeniable sense of oppression, forcefully silencing her scream that was about to crack.

"Click... Splash."

Lu Ze walked to the sofa, flicked his left hand, and the M1911's magazine slid out.

He ejected the remaining five bullets and tossed them, along with the gun, into the nearby crystal trash can with a series of dull thuds.

"Just a minor scratch. No need for an ambulance, and certainly no need for those NYPD idiots to dirty my carpet."

Lu Ze tore off an Armani silk tie and wrapped it around the wound on his forehead, tying it into a tight knot.

Then he walked to the bar, poured himself a wild turkey bourbon, and poured one for Isabella as well, pushing it to the edge of the marble countertop.

"Drink it. Then control your facial expression."

Isabella was stunned. But faced with Lu Ze's overwhelming aura, she subconsciously walked over, picked up her wine glass, and obediently took a big gulp.

After drinking the 50.5-proof liquor, a trace of color finally returned to her pale face, but her body was still trembling slightly.

"Boss... what should we do now?"

Her voice was low, as if she were asking or pleading.

"Or... you could contact a private jet and return to Asia immediately. Leave the shell of Farstar Capital here for them to liquidate. As long as you're not in the US, the FBI's international extradition process will take several years..."

"run?"

"It's too late. And there's no need."

He downed the bourbon in his glass in one gulp, put down the glass, and his voice suddenly became extremely calm:

Answer two questions for me.

Isabella instinctively straightened up.

"First, what is the company's maximum readily available liquidity in its offshore escrow accounts with Citibank and JPMorgan Chase? Down to the cent."

Although Isabella didn't understand why her boss was asking this, her professional instincts kicked in, and she immediately pulled up the latest financial data in her mind:

"If we don't count the collateral that's already frozen by Goldman Sachs... the maximum cash we can use is only $5,124,782.33. But boss, that's nothing compared to the $50 million margin call—"

"Five million one hundred and twenty thousand."

Lu Ze repeated the number in a low voice.

He paused for two seconds, then tapped his finger lightly on the marble countertop.

Then he asked the second question:

When is Richard coming?

Isabella was taken aback: "What?"

"Goldman Sachs' margin call is tomorrow at 10 a.m. Richard won't just send an email and wait for the result. He'll come in person."

Looking out the floor-to-ceiling windows at the storm-swept Manhattan skyline, Lu Ze's voice held no anger, no fear, only a calm certainty:

"He would bring his legal and risk control teams, along with a pre-prepared liquidation authorization letter, and personally sit in my conference room, watching me sign it."

"Because for him, this isn't just a business deal. It's a performance. He needs to see me kneel down."

Isabella's expression changed.

She wanted to argue, but recalling Richard's "friendly" pats on the shoulder and his "sincere" smiles over the past few months, and the 173-page contract her boss had signed without even reading it...

She opened her mouth, but ultimately said nothing.

Because she knew that every word Lu Ze said was true.

"He... should be here between 9:30 and 10:00 tomorrow morning." Isabella's voice was a little hoarse.

"If he really is going to come."

"He will come."

Lu Ze turned around.

"Now, go and find the original copy of that option agreement."

Isabella paused for a moment, then asked, "Which one?"

"The copy Richard gave us. The one with 173 pages. It should be in the company safe."

"Boss, it's almost midnight, and the company is—"

"Let's go now."

Lu Ze's tone left no room for negotiation.

"I need to read that contract from beginning to end before dawn. Every page, every line, every footnote."

Isabella looked at him.

She didn't know what her boss was looking for in that contract. But from those cold, expressionless eyes, she sensed something she had never seen in this young, rich kid before.

That was not a struggle born of despair.

It was an extremely restrained, dangerous silence, as if a ferocious beast had caught a scent in the darkness.

"...I'll go right away."

Isabella put down her wine glass, bent down to pick up the documents and handbag scattered on the floor, and turned to walk towards the entrance.

The moment she opened the door, Lu Ze's voice came from behind her:

"Also, contact my personal tailor. Have a brand new suit delivered to me by eight o'clock tomorrow morning. Tom Ford, navy blue, no tie."

Isabella's hand stopped on the doorknob.

She turned around and looked at Lu Ze standing in front of the floor-to-ceiling window. The Manhattan night view, with its torrential rain, unfolded behind him, and his figure seemed to blend into the darkness of the city.

"Boss... what exactly do you want to do?"

Lu Ze did not answer.

He picked up the blood-stained Dupont lighter from the table and lit a Cohiba cigar with a "snap." He took a deep drag, exhaled a thick cloud of smoke, and completely obscured his face.

"Go get the contract."

The door closed behind Isabella.

The living room fell silent once more.

Lu Ze stood in front of the Bloomberg terminal, the glow of his cigar flickering in the darkness like the eye of a beast in the abyss.

He looked at the closing price of Bear Stearns at $63.47 on the screen.

fifteen days.

Five million one hundred and twenty thousand.

A contract he hadn't finished reading yet.

These three things are all the chips he has.

Whether it's enough or not, we'll know after dawn.