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

Thursday, March 20, 2008, 10:37 a.m.

W Hotel, Business Suite 2317.

Isabella sat in front of the Bloomberg terminal, staring intently at the screen.

The air in the suite was as heavy as a lead plate.

The table was piled high with financial statements, legal documents, and photocopies of option contracts accumulated over the past two weeks, along with three empty coffee cups.

Yesterday afternoon, in the core conference room on the 43rd floor of Goldman Sachs, Blankfein gritted his teeth and signed the agreement. John McLeish confirmed on the spot that the funds would be cleared within 24 hours and transferred to the offshore account at Citibank designated by Farstar Capital.

Now, a full twenty-one hours have passed since that promise was made.

Isabella's gaze fell on the account balance display in the upper right corner of the screen.

Current balance: $0.00

This is the true state of Farstar Capital's Citibank offshore account.

To be precise, it's $0.00.

The last penny of the $512 million was transferred by Lu Ze to Goldman Sachs' options liquidation account three weeks ago, as the option premium that changed everything, with not a single penny remaining.

For three whole weeks, the company had a clean zero in available funds.

If Goldman Sachs ultimately chooses to default, if the court approves the freezing order, and if Greenberg's nuclear weapon fails to fire—

Farstar Capital has nothing.

Isabella took a deep breath, picked up her fourth cup of coffee, and took a sip.

It's cold.

"bite--"

A green system notification box suddenly lit up in the upper right corner of the screen.

[Citibank Offshore Account Real-Time Alerts]

The new transaction has been completed. Please check your account details.

Isabella's fingers froze on the coffee cup.

She stared at the green notification box for a full three seconds without moving.

Then, she took her last breath and clicked refresh.

The screen is spinning as it loads.

one second.

two seconds.

three seconds.

The numbers popped up.

Current balance: $747,353,298.74

Seven hundred and forty-seven million, three hundred and fifty-three thousand two hundred and ninety-eight US dollars and seventy-four cents.

Isabella stared blankly at the string of numbers for a full five seconds without blinking.

Then, the coffee cup in her hand fell to the floor with a "thud" and rolled under the table.

"Oh my god..."

She covered her mouth tightly with both hands, and tears burst forth in an instant, silently streaming down her cheeks.

She is not a weak person.

Having spent so many years on Wall Street, she has seen too many ups and downs and has long since developed an indomitable spirit.

But at this moment, she simply couldn't control herself.

Two weeks ago, she rushed into the Upper East Side apartment and saw Lu Ze standing in front of the Bloomberg terminal, his head wrapped in bandages, a gun in his hand, and covered in blood. At that time, they only had $5.12 million in their account—and that $5.12 million was a young man who had just almost committed suicide by shooting himself, using it as a bet for the last time in the world.

Then they mortgaged all 5.12 million.

Not a single penny was left.

Now, the numbers on the screen tell her—

The original 5.12 million became 747.35 million.

Isabella's hands trembled as she reopened the account details page and found the transaction notes for this deposit.

The text above is only a very brief line:

Goldman Sachs Group Inc. - Option Settlement Payment

Goldman Sachs, options settlement payment.

She stared at the words for a long time, and suddenly felt that it was somewhat absurd.

This single line of cold, emotionless system notes encapsulates everything that has happened over the past three weeks—gunshots, bloodshed, fear, lies, bullying, betrayal, despair, and retaliation.

"The money has arrived."

Lu Ze's voice came from behind.

Isabella was startled and turned her head sharply.

She didn't know when Lu Ze walked in. He stood two steps behind her, wearing a dark blue cardigan, his hands in his pockets, calmly looking at the string of numbers on the screen.

His expression was as if that string of numbers was just a line on some ordinary financial statement from this morning.

"You…" Isabella choked back tears, her voice trembling, "Why aren't you agitated?"

"What's there to get so excited about?"

Lu Ze walked over, sat down on the chair next to her, picked up the mouse, and clicked a few times on the account interface.

"This money isn't in my pocket yet," he said calmly. "Next, I need to transfer Greenberg's share, pay legal fees, and pay taxes."

"Yes...yes."

Isabella took a deep breath, forced herself into work mode, wiped her tears with her sleeve, and opened the laptop next to her.

She retrieved the previously prepared liquidation and allocation table:

"Mr. Greenberg's 20% share of the profits... based on the final amount received, his share is $149.47 million... plus legal fees, auditing fees, compliance fees, and tax treatment for the offshore account..."

Isabella's fingers flew across the keyboard, inputting all the numbers into the model, then she looked up at Lu Ze:

"After deducting all expenses, Farstar Capital's actual net disposable amount... is approximately US$513 million."

Five hundred and thirty million US dollars.

Lu Ze leaned back in his chair, looking at the screen.

Isabella looked at him, waiting for his reaction.

"good."

He only said this one word.

"That's it?" Isabella was somewhat speechless. "'Okay'?"

"What else do you want?" Lu Ze turned to look at her, a hint of amusement in his eyes. "Want some firecrackers?"

Isabella chuckled and shook her head.

She looked at the string of numbers again, remained silent for a moment, and then said softly:

"Boss, I want to ask you something."

"explain."

"Back then... when you staked your last five million and one hundred and twenty thousand," Isabella paused, "you had no backup plan. What if those options really went to zero? What if Bear Stearns really survived? What if Goldman Sachs hadn't compromised..."

She looked directly into Lu Ze's eyes:

"What are you going to do?"

Lu Ze did not answer immediately.

He stood up, walked to the floor-to-ceiling window, and looked out at Manhattan.

The early spring sunlight slanted across the glass curtain wall, reflecting a dazzling light.

In the distance, the Empire State Building stands tall, indifferent, and unassuming against the blue sky, as always.

"If we lose,"

Lu Ze said calmly,

"Let's start over."

"Start over?" Isabella was taken aback. "There's nothing left, how can we start over?"

"I still have my brain."

Lu Ze turned around and looked at her, his eyes extremely calm.

"In this world, as long as you have a brain, you'll never truly have nothing."

Isabella stared at him for a long time.

She suddenly realized that when Lu Ze said those words, there was no acting involved, nor any smug satisfaction from being a Monday morning quarterback.

He really thought so.

For him, the disappearance of 5.12 million and the arrival of 740 million were merely inputs and outputs of a calculation problem.

What he truly cared about was never money itself.

"alright."

Lu Ze walked back, picked up the now-cold cup of coffee on the table, frowned, and took a sip.

"Transfer the share to Greenberg, pay the lawyer's fees, and sort out the accounts."

"Then, I'll clear my schedule tonight."

Isabella was slightly taken aback: "Tonight?"

Lu Ze looked at her, a rare, very faint, yet genuine smile appearing on his face:

"We should celebrate."