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

Paulson placed his glasses on the table, clasped his hands together, and spoke in a low voice:

"So what are you betting on? Not the direction. It's that it won't hold through that window?"

"Pretty much," Lu Ze said. "Bear Stearns is a company of that size; you can't just buy a few put options and crush it. Its problems have been there for a long time. My trade is just betting that it doesn't have much time left."

"Time," Paulson repeated, as if confirming the word.

"Yes," Lu Ze said. "Its problem is no longer how much it has lost on paper, but whether the market is still willing to give it more time."

After he finished speaking, there was a moment of silence in the office.

Paulson leaned back on the sofa, his gaze falling on the pile of loan pool data that was still not fully organized. After a couple of seconds, he said softly:

"Yes."

"When many people look at a company, they first look at how much money it has left, how many assets it has, and whether it can sell things to cover its losses."

"But in the end, what truly determines whether it lives or dies is often not these things."

He raised his hand and gently tapped the table.

"It depends on whether others are still willing to wait for it."

Lu Ze looked at him but didn't reply.

Paulson continued:

"There's a theory going around that Bear Stearns was killed by short sellers."

"This way of putting it is convenient. It also sounds very complete."

He smiled, but the smile was faint.

"Short sellers can't kill a top-tier investment bank."

Lu Ze said, "At most, we can only perform an autopsy on it in advance."

Greenberg lowered his head and took a sip of coffee, as if suppressing a laugh.

Paulson glanced at Lu Ze, and for the first time, his eyes showed a hint of genuine interest.

"That's a good point."

He paused, then continued:

Bear Stearns died quickly, but it didn't get sick quickly.

"The real problem is not this quarter, not these one or two positions, nor is it that one day it suddenly became impossible to borrow money."

"It's because it's been around for so long that it's started to believe one thing—as long as it can raise funds tomorrow, there's no problem today."

Lu Ze nodded slightly: "Treat luck as ability."

"Yes," Paulson said. "Treating luck as ability. Taking the market's leniency as a sign of being worthy of it."

He paused here, as if his thoughts had drifted far away.

Lu Ze looked at him and suddenly said:

"You sound like you're very familiar with it."

Paulson was silent for two seconds.

Then he said calmly:

"I've been there."

Many years ago.

Greenberg then added, "When John was in Bear Stearns, it wasn't as rotten as it is today."

Paulson neither corrected nor agreed, but simply said:

"It already had those problems back then, just not as serious as they are now."

"Some companies don't suddenly go bad one day."

"They just haven't paid a high enough price for their bad deeds."

Lu Ze looked at the pile of loan pool data on the table, marked with highlighter, and asked:

"So you think Bear Stearns' fate was predetermined?"

"No company's fate is predetermined," Paulson said. "But some companies will gradually transform themselves into something that will die if the market hesitates for even a day."

He said this in a calm tone, almost indifferent.

But it is precisely because it is so calm that it is sharper than anger.

The office was silent for a few seconds.

Outside the window is the Manhattan skyline at night, brightly lit.

Paulson looked at Lu Ze again.

"This deal of yours has made you memorable to many people."

"But what's really interesting isn't how much money you make."

"You started treating Bear Stearns like a corpse when everyone else still considered it an investment bank worth saving."

Lu Ze smiled and said, "The word 'corpse' sounds much more believable coming from your mouth than from the television."

"Television needs a killer," Paulson said. "The market only recognizes the cause of death."

After saying that, Greenberg finally put down his coffee cup and glanced at his watch.

He tactfully stood up.

"I'm going outside for a smoke," he said. "You guys continue."

The door closed gently.

Only Lu Ze and Paulson remained in the office.

Paulson looked at him for a moment, his voice still very soft:

"I'm seeing you today not just because of Bear Stearns."

Lu Ze raised his eyes.

Paulson tapped his finger lightly on the armrest of the sofa.

"The market doesn't suddenly become honest just because of a crash."

"It will only look for the next story that is easier to believe."

Lu Ze's gaze fell on the stack of default data marked with highlighter next to Paulson, and he suddenly smiled.

"John, where do you think this ship called Wall Street is now?"

Paulson followed his gaze, glanced at the subprime mortgage debts, and said calmly, "The hold is already flooded. Bear Stearns was just the first boiler operator to drown. The water is still rising, and it will flood the middle decks next... This is an irreversible physical law."

"So you're still looking down," Lu Ze said. "You're still looking for the next corpse that's about to drown."

Paulson did not deny it: "This is the most certain money."

"really."

Lu Ze leaned back on the sofa, his hands clasped together, his eyes revealing an extremely deep, even slightly crazed, cold light: "But you overlooked the passengers on this ship who were trying to escape with their money."

Paulson raised his eyelids and looked at Lu Ze with real focus.

"The trillions of dollars that fled the subprime quagmire and credit markets will not immediately jump into the sea."

Lu Ze's voice was soft, yet it seemed to be depicting an extremely grand scene of apocalyptic revelry.

"When the lower decks flood, a person's instinct is to frantically climb the tallest and strongest mast on the ship, carrying all their belongings."

The office became extremely quiet.

Paulson was an extremely intelligent man; a sharp glint flashed in his calm eyes for a moment.

He immediately understood what Lu Ze was saying.

"You want to gamble on that mast?"

Paulson's brow furrowed slightly, and for the first time, his tone took on an extremely serious and scrutinizing quality.

"Lance, when the water floods the deck, even the strongest mast will eventually break."

"I knew it would break. But that's the last thing I'll do."

A breathtaking smile curved the corners of Lu Ze's lips:

"Before it breaks, it will be crowded with the most panicked, blind, and wealthy money on Wall Street. They will drive up the value of that mast to an astronomical price that defies all financial common sense in order to grab a 'safe haven' position."

Lu Ze leaned forward slightly, staring at Paulson: "John, you guys are retrieving bodies from underwater, making money from the laws of physics. I want to go to the top of the mast and make money from humanity."

Paulson looked at the young man in front of him, who was only twenty-six years old.

He suddenly realized that the person sitting across from him was not some lucky newcomer at all.

This is a gambler who is even more extreme and cold-blooded than himself.

Not only could he see the building was about to collapse, but he also planned to rush into the top-floor party before it collapsed, rob the wealthy people who thought they were absolutely safe, and then parachute out a second before the building collapsed.

"That's too dangerous."

Paulson said softly, "That's playing with fire. If you misjudge the top even for a day, you'll fall to your death along with those lunatics."

"I'm the kind of person..."

Lu Ze stood up, reached out and buttoned his suit jacket, his movements calm and unhurried.

"I've always had a good sense of balance."

Paulson didn't try to persuade him further. He simply sat there quietly, watching Lu Ze. After a long while, he gave a very faint laugh.

"Well then, have fun on that mast. If needed, my fund can provide you with some credit swap liquidity."

"Of course, this is on the premise that you can offer a sufficiently high premium."

"make a deal."

Lu Ze nodded slightly and turned to walk towards the office door.

After closing the door, Paulson sat on the sofa, his gaze returning to the table. But he didn't look at the subprime mortgage data again.

He picked up a pen and wrote a word on a blank sheet of paper.

That was the only asset class he had just deduced that could serve as the "highest mast" in the entire market.

Commodities.

Paulson stared at the word for a moment, then shook his head, crumpled the paper into a ball, and threw it into the trash can.

"A madman," he muttered in a very unusual low voice in his empty office.