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

2008年3月1日，上午9点27分。

1140 Broadway, Lower Manhattan, 23rd floor.

The offices of Farstar Capital should be noisy. The clatter of keyboards, the ringing of telephones, and the suppressed shouts of traders—these sounds constitute the background noise of a hedge fund operating normally.

But at this moment, there was only deathly silence.

Of the twelve employees, nine left last night. The remaining three are now huddled in a corner workstation, as if waiting for a verdict they already know the outcome of.

Lu Ze was the only person in the conference room.

He leaned back in the main seat, legs crossed, his right hand toying with a pure silver Dupont lighter.

"Click...click..."

The sound of the metal lid opening and closing echoed in the empty conference room, like a calm countdown.

"Boss."

The glass door was gently pushed open.

Isabella peeked in, wearing a black business suit and impeccable makeup, but the dark circles under her eyes were unmistakable—she clearly hadn't slept last night.

"The Goldman Sachs car is downstairs. Richard Kleiman, along with two legal counsel and a risk management director—four people in total."

She paused for a moment.

"Also, there are two police cars parked on the street corner across from the building. They should be from the FBI Economic Crimes Unit."

Lu Ze did not open his eyes, but simply nodded slightly.

"Let them come up."

9:49 AM.

The elevator doors opened, and Richard Kleiman stepped out.

A dark gray three-piece suit, Hermès cufflinks, and hair wax that meticulously combed his blond hair. Thirty-seven years old, Vice President of Goldman Sachs' Structured Products Division, managing an eight billion dollar department.

He had a deceptively charming face—gentle, sincere, with faint crow's feet at the corners of his eyes when he smiled. It was this face that made countless people believe he was a trustworthy friend before even signing his name.

Three people followed behind him.

John McLeish, Goldman Sachs' chief legal counsel, a Harvard Law School graduate, wore wire-rimmed glasses, carried a black briefcase, and had no expression on his face.

Emilia Walker, senior director of risk control, holds a PhD in mathematics from MIT, has a chestnut-brown bun, and carries a ThinkPad and a stack of financial statements in her hand.

Matthew Hawkins, Richard's assistant, is carrying an aluminum combination lock case.

Four people, a standard Wall Street harvesting team.

They walked into the office area, and the remaining three employees stood up in unison.

Richard glanced at the bleak office, sighed, and wore his signature warm smile.

"Good morning, everyone." He nodded to Isabella. "Last night wasn't a good one for anyone. I understand."

He lowered his voice, as if he were talking about a regrettable personal matter:

"His parents had a deep connection with Goldman Sachs. We don't want to make things too ugly."

Isabella bit her lip, her nails digging into her palms.

She wanted to say something, but didn't.

Because she knew that saying anything would be meaningless.

"Lance is in the conference room." She stepped aside and pointed to the frosted glass door.

Richard straightened his cuffs and winked at the three people behind him.

"Let's go see our poor brother."

9:52 AM.

The frosted glass door was pushed open.

The aroma of cigar smoke and whiskey filled the air. The air conditioning in the conference room was set to sixteen degrees Celsius, and Richard felt a chill run down his neck the moment he stepped inside.

He opened his arms, ready with that familiar, enthusiastic hug.

Then he saw Lu Ze.

The black silk bandage was wrapped around his temples and forehead, with dark red bloodstains faintly visible beneath it. He leaned back in his chair, legs crossed, toying with the lighter in his right hand, neither standing up nor speaking.

Just looking at him.

Those eyes made Richard stop in his tracks.

It wasn't anger, it wasn't despair, it wasn't the emotion anyone on the verge of bankruptcy should have.

It was just cold. Cold as if I were looking at an insect pinned to a specimen box.

Richard's outstretched arms froze in mid-air for two seconds before he casually lowered them.

"Lance, your head..." He strode to the conference table, his face showing concern. "What happened? I called you over a dozen times last night, and you didn't answer a single one. I thought you—"

"Shut up."

Two words, without any extra emotion.

Richard's smile froze.

Lu Ze raised his head and locked his gaze on him.

"Put away your acting, Richard. There's no executive committee here, and no audience who enjoys your performances."

He tapped his fingers lightly on the table.

"It's almost ten o'clock. Bring out the execution warrant."

The temperature in the conference room seemed to drop a few degrees.

Richard stared at him for a full five seconds.

He suddenly had a delusion that the person sitting in front of him was not the naive rich kid he had been manipulating.

He took a deep breath, pulled out a chair, and sat down. John, Emilia, and Matthew took their seats in turn, surrounding Lu Ze opposite him.

Richard snapped his fingers at Matthew.

The briefcase was opened, and a thick stack of documents and a Montblanc pen were pushed in front of Lu Ze.

"Since you're being so direct..."

Richard leaned back in his chair, his tone turning cold.

"According to Article 6, Section A of the ISDA Master Agreement, and the supplementary off-exchange transaction agreement signed by both parties on February 25th—as of 9:00 AM today, the overall default rate in the subprime market has exceeded 11.3%, triggering the risk control warning line. The underlying asset valuation of the CDO portfolio held by Yuanxing Capital has fallen below 65%, resulting in a complete margin call with a leverage ratio of 50x."

He tapped the table with his knuckles.

Goldman Sachs has officially issued a Margin Call. $50 million must be deposited into the escrow account before 10:00 AM.

Otherwise, we will initiate forced liquidation and take full control of all of Farstar Capital's assets—including company accounts, trust funds, Upper East Side apartments, and the two Ferraris in the garage.

He glanced at the Patek Philippe on his wrist.

"It's 9:53 now. You have seven minutes left."

Richard leaned back in his chair, his tone softening, as if he were pointing out a way out to someone who had nowhere else to turn:

"Sign here. We'll try our best to end this amicably and make sure you have some living expenses."

"Want one—"

He gestured with his chin towards the two black police cars on the street corner outside the window.

"At 10:01, the FBI will come in and take you away on charges of malicious financial fraud. At least twenty years."

"If you want to run,"

He chuckled. "Passport, credit cards, bank accounts—all frozen within an hour. The red notice has been submitted to Interpol. The security checkpoints at Los Angeles Airport aren't exactly safe."

After saying that, he leaned back gracefully in his chair, like a cat that had finished its hunt and was waiting for its prey to stop struggling.

John and Emilia both looked at Lu Ze, their eyes filled with condescending indifference.

The meeting room was deathly silent.

Outside the glass door, Isabella gripped the folder tightly, her knuckles turning white.

She closed her eyes.

ended.