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

March 15, 2008, Saturday, 2:30 p.m.

Greenwich, Connecticut.

A black Mercedes-Benz S-Class sedan drove across the Long Island Sound Bridge and headed north along the winding coastal highway.

Outside the car window, the early spring sky was as gloomy as a crumpled lead-gray curtain, and the sea breeze blew through the bare branches, making a low, mournful sound.

Isabella sat in the passenger seat, holding the invitation that had been delivered to the W Hotel that morning, and read it over and over again.

It was a thick sheet of yellowed paper with a faint tobacco scent.

There was no printed text above, only two lines of extremely neat handwritten text in black pen, with an old-fashioned English calligraphic style:

Mr. Walker:

I'll be waiting for you at my humble abode tomorrow afternoon at 2 PM. I have important matters to discuss.

——NG

There was no stamp or tracking number on the envelope.

An elderly man in a crisp butler's uniform knocked on the hotel room door at exactly eight o'clock in the morning, respectfully handed over the letter, and then left without asking any questions.

"Boss,"

Isabella looked out the window at the increasingly sparse buildings and couldn't help but speak.

"Why would Greenberg send you a letter in this...this outdated way? Couldn't he just make a phone call?"

Lu Ze leaned back in the back seat, his eyes closed, his voice calm:

"Because in his time, truly important things were never said over the phone."

"Phone calls can be tapped, emails can be intercepted, and text messages can be copied. But a handwritten letter, once read and burned, leaves no trace in the world."

Isabella paused, then asked, "Who is he guarding against? The FBI? Or the SEC?"

"Neither."

Lu Ze opened his eyes and looked out the window at the private estate that was gradually approaching, surrounded by high walls and wrought iron gates.

"He's guarding against his own kind—the other old monsters on Wall Street."

The car stopped in front of a huge black iron gate.

A bronze plaque is inlaid on the gatepost, engraved with three very simple letters: NG.

There was no "Hammer Capital" logo, and no unnecessary decorations.

The security guard at the gate glanced at the license plate number and silently pressed the button.

The heavy iron gate slowly opened to both sides.

……

The car drove along the gravel driveway into the heart of the estate.

The road is lined with meticulously trimmed holly hedges, and further in are large lawns and bare oak groves.

In the distance, a three-story Victorian manor house stands on a small hill, its gray-white stone walls exuding a cold solemnity under the gloomy sky.

There were no fountains, no sculptures, and no ostentatious decorations.

The entire manor exudes an air of extreme restraint, almost asceticism, that of an old-money aristocrat.

The car came to a stop on the circular driveway in front of the main building.

A butler, around sixty years old, was already waiting at the bottom of the steps, dressed in an impeccable black tailcoat and with spotless white gloves.

"Good afternoon, Mr. Walker."

The butler bowed slightly, his voice low and respectful.

"The master is waiting for you in his study. Please follow me."

Lu Ze got out of the car. Isabella wanted to follow, but the butler politely extended his hand, gesturing for her to wait.

"I'm sorry, miss. The gentleman only saw Mr. Walker today. I've prepared afternoon tea for you in the side room."

Isabella looked at Lu Ze.

Lu Zechong nodded to her: "It's okay. Wait for me."

……

Walking through the long corridor covered with a deep red carpet, the walls were not adorned with famous oil paintings, but rather with yellowed, beautifully framed old newspaper front pages.

Isabella glanced at it and gasped—

The Wall Street Journal, October 20, 1987: The Dow Jones plunges 22.6% in a single day, Black Monday.

The New York Times, September 24, 1998: Long-Term Capital Management goes bankrupt, Federal Reserve provides emergency bailout.

Financial Times, March 10, 2000: Nasdaq peaks at 5048 points, internet bubble bursts.

This is not a collection.

This is a hunter's trophy display room.

Each newspaper represents Greenberg's glorious achievement of escaping unscathed, or even reaping huge rewards, during that massacre.

The butler pushed open the heavy oak door at the end of the corridor.

"Sir, Mr. Walker has arrived."

"Let him in."

A deep, hoarse voice came from inside.

……

The study is very large.

The walls were lined with dark bookshelves from floor to ceiling, filled with yellowed books on financial history, old documents like parchment scrolls, and rows of rare transaction records preserved in glass cases.

The flames danced in the fireplace, and the firewood crackled softly as it burned.

Nathaniel Greenberg sat in a Victorian leather armchair, his back to the door, staring intently at the flames in the fireplace.

He wore a dark gray cardigan and well-tailored black wool trousers. His gray hair was neatly parted in a side part, with meticulous care.

"sit."

The old man didn't turn around, but simply gestured towards the chair opposite him.

Lu Ze walked over and sat down on the equally old sofa chair that exuded a faint smell of tobacco and leather.

On the table were two crystal glasses and an opened bottle of 1975 Macallan single malt whisky.

Greenberg picked up the bottle and poured about two fingers' width of wine into each of the two glasses.

The amber-colored liquor swirled gently in the glass, reflecting the firelight from the fireplace.

"Try it."

The old man picked up his cup, took a sip,

"I bought this bottle of wine after Black Monday in 1987. It cost me $12,000. That year, I earned my first $20 million."

Lu Ze picked up his wine glass and took a small sip.

The wine explodes on the tongue, with an extremely strong peat flavor and the smoky aroma of oak barrels, followed by a long, almost endless aftertaste.

"Good wine."

"Good wines are all expensive."

Greenberg put down his cup, finally turned around, and looked directly at Lu Ze.

Those eyes remained extremely sharp, like a scalpel, peeling away the young man's disguise layer by layer.

"But do you know what's more expensive?"

Lu Ze did not speak.

"They bet on the right direction, but stopped just one meter from the finish line."

Greenberg leaned back in his chair.

"Walker, Bear Stearns closed at $24 on Friday. Your put option with a strike price of $25 is now theoretically worth over $50 million. Goldman Sachs is willing to give you that money on the spot and let you close out your position."

But you refused.

The old man stared at Lu Ze:

Tell me, what exactly did you see?

Lu Ze did not answer immediately.

He held his wine glass, looked at the flickering flames in the fireplace, and remained silent for a few seconds.

Then he spoke.

The voice was very soft, yet extremely firm:

"What I saw was the same thing you saw on the night of October 18, 1987."

Greenberg's eyes narrowed.

"The collapse isn't over yet."

Lu Ze turned his head and looked directly into the old man's eyes.

"$24 is not the end. It's not even the midpoint."

"A bold judgment."

Greenberg gave a cold laugh.

"But what supports this judgment? The Federal Reserve has already intervened, providing $290 billion in liquidity support, with JPMorgan Chase as a guarantee. Half of Wall Street is betting on a rebound next Monday."

"And what about the other half?"

Lu Ze asked.

Greenberg paused for a moment.

What is your partner doing?

Lu Ze put down his wine glass and leaned forward slightly:

"The other half is frantically shorting. Goldman Sachs' proprietary trading desk, Morgan Stanley's trading desk, and even those European vulture funds—they say 'the Fed will bail out the market,' but they're desperately building up short positions."

"Do you think the analysts shouting 'Great buying opportunity' on CNBC are smarter, or the trading desks quietly shorting the market are smarter?"

Greenberg remained silent.

Lu Ze continued, his voice extremely calm:

"The Fed's $290 billion sounds like an astronomical figure. But Mr. Greenberg, you know better than I do—this isn't a free gift; it's a 28-day loan with full collateral."

"What collateral would Bear Stearns offer? Those rotten subprime CDOs that even Goldman Sachs wouldn't accept?"

Would JPMorgan Chase dare to take on this junk?

Lu Ze paused for a moment, looking at Greenberg:

"No, they didn't dare. So this money was never intended to save Bear Stearns in the first place."

"What was the purpose of that?"

Greenberg asked, a hint of obvious interest appearing in his eyes for the first time.

"To give Wall Street an explanation that 'we tried.'"

Lu Ze leaned back in his chair.

"The Federal Reserve needs to prove that they haven't stood idly by. But the real goal is to find a buyer before Bear Stearns completely explodes and triggers systemic panic, thus achieving a dignified and controlled euthanasia."

"And this sucker..."

JPMorgan Chase.

Greenberg picked up the conversation, his eyes instantly becoming extremely sharp.

"You mean the Federal Reserve will force JPMorgan Chase to acquire Bear Stearns?"

"It's not a threat."

Lu Ze shook his head.

"It's a trade. The Federal Reserve will offer JPMorgan Chase enough sweeteners—such as assuming most of the bad debts and providing unlimited liquidity guarantees—in exchange for them swallowing this corpse."

"In this way, Bear Stearns' collapse wouldn't trigger market panic through 'bankruptcy liquidation,' but rather through 'acquisition,' allowing for a dignified exit."

Greenberg stared at Lu Ze for a long time.

After a long while, he picked up his wine glass and drank it all in one gulp.

"Okay. Even if you're right."

The old man put down his cup.

"What will the acquisition price be? $30? $20?"

Lu Ze did not speak.

He simply reached out, picked up the bottle of Macallan whiskey, and poured himself another glass.

Then he looked up at Greenberg.

A chilling smile curved his lips.

"Much lower than it is now."

Greenberg's pupils contracted sharply.

How low?

"So low that it sent shivers down the spines of the entire Wall Street."

Lu Ze picked up his wine glass.

A deathly silence fell over the study.

"You're a madman," Greenberg laughed.

"On Wall Street, those who know when to quit while they're ahead survive. But those who rewrite history are always the madmen who push their bets to the limit."

Lu Ze smiled too.