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

These messages are extraordinary.

On the last Monday of September 2008, Americans finally heard some news that wasn't bad.

This autumn has been so heavy.

Lehman Brothers collapsed, AIG was taken over by the government, money market funds fell below one dollar, Washington was in turmoil over the $700 billion bailout bill and almost collapsed, and the 401(k) retirement accounts of four million people shrank by an unknown amount.

Every day when I turn on the TV, all I see are new bad news, new bankruptcies, new layoffs, and new panic.

But today, a different story suddenly emerged.

A young American investor issued a defiant statement after being publicly accused by the French president of "systematically attacking Europe."

The statement contained no insults, no sophistry, only three calm, professional, and even somewhat arrogant stances: my transactions were completely legal; I will not take advantage of your misfortune; and I am ready to sue you anytime.

Then the U.S. Treasury Secretary stepped forward and, in an extremely restrained but very clear manner, endorsed the principle of "the spirit of contract."

Then Swiss banks were the first to step out of Sarkozy's "European Union" and acknowledge the validity of the contract.

Barclays then followed suit with a statement that was even more high-profile and outspoken than UBS's, completely distancing itself from those "who wanted to default on their debts."

Within a single day, the French president's carefully constructed narrative of "European unity against American speculative capital" crumbled.

The young American who was criticized by all of Europe for an entire weekend not only cleared his name with a 500-word statement, but also dismantled a transnational political alliance.

This story is too perfect.

It's dramatic—a 26-year-old against the whole of Europe.

It has a moral compass—the spirit of contract triumphs over populism.

It has patriotism—the US won, France lost.

It even has a fairytale-like simplicity—the good guys win, the bad guys lose, and the rules are upheld.

In this autumn when everyone is yearning for "good news," this story is like a shot in the arm, injecting energy into the nation's weary nervous system.

From Wall Street financial channels to political programs in New York and Washington, from newspaper front pages to pinned posts on online forums, all the media outlets are excitedly telling different facets of the same story.

CNBC is analyzing the market signals behind the "temporary suspension of settlement," Fox News is proclaiming a "great victory for the spirit of contract," CNN is interviewing law professors to discuss the legal validity of the ISDA framework, Mark Reynolds of The Wall Street Journal is rushing to write an editorial titled "Who Defines the Rules," and blogs and forums are filled with comments like "Give Walker a thumbs up."

In this almost carnival-like atmosphere, the conference room at Obama's campaign headquarters in Chicago seemed out of place.

Because of this good thing that the whole of America was cheering for, the people in this room felt even worse than yesterday.

Plauf sat at one end of the conference table, with today's public opinion briefing spread out in front of him.

The data in the briefing was all positive: the Farstar statement broke the record for the month in terms of reach, the Treasury Department statement was widely reprinted by mainstream media, and "contractual spirit" became the hottest political keyword on Twitter today.

If he were an ordinary American citizen, he would probably be excited about these numbers as well.

But he wasn't. He was Barack Obama's campaign manager. And in his timeline, every single one of those impressive numbers pointed to the same suffocating truth—

Lance Walker is currently the most positive name in all of America.

And Obama is still the one who "dares not say his name".

Axelrod walked in, carrying a cup of coffee that had gone cold. He sat down opposite Plauf, opened the same briefing, glanced at it, and then put it down.

"McCain's side has already started making a fuss about Barclays' statement."

He said, "Their argument is—'Even British banks are on the side of contractual obligations, so what is Senator Obama hiding for?' Hah, he's like a mad dog, or a Lance fan."

No one responded.

Goolsby sat in the corner of the conference table, flipping through an economic data report that had nothing to do with the current discussion. He was quiet and focused, as if he were seriously studying the economic topics for the next debate.

But his attention remained fixed on the room.

"The most troublesome thing,"

Prowse finally spoke, his voice tinged with suppressed, unspoken frustration, "It's not McCain attacking us. It's that we simply can't find a way to retaliate."

His fingers tapped on the briefing.

"Walker's statement is correct. The Treasury's endorsement is correct. UBS and Barclays' statements are correct. The whole thing is morally sound, legally sound, and logically sound."

"So we can't say Walker did something wrong. We can't say the Treasury Department did something wrong. We can't say the spirit of contracts isn't important. We can't even express dissatisfaction with this—because it's a good thing for the United States."

He paused.

"We just happen to be... the only ones feeling awkward at this celebration party."

Axelrod's gaze swept over the several printed copies on the table. One of them was the full text that the team printed out immediately after the Farstar statement was released this morning.

The edges of the pages were curled up. That's because it had been eagerly turned over by several hands a few hours earlier.

That moment brought back Axelrod's memories.

The atmosphere in this meeting room was completely different when the Farstar statement was pushed out through the Bloomberg terminal at 8:30 this morning.

At that moment, everyone stopped what they were doing. Some people stood up from their seats and waited by the nearest printer. The printer spat out two sheets of paper, still warm, the ink not yet completely dry.

Plauf was the first to get his hands on it. He quickly scanned the first page, turned to the second, and then back to the first.

Axelrod remembers feeling at the time—a cautious, hesitant expectation.

Walker might say in his statement, "I am not involved in politics."

He might say, "I don't want to be cited or represented by any political party."

Perhaps it's just a sentence, or even just half a sentence, implying "please don't politicize my business practices."

That would be the life-saving nectar.

Because it would completely dismantle McCain's attack that "you're cowardly for not daring to say your name"—the person in question himself said he didn't want to be used for political purposes, so Obama's decision not to mention his name was respecting the person's wishes, so how could it be considered cowardly?

Everyone was searching for that sentence on those two pages.

But it's not there.

The statement addressed legality, the temporary suspension of settlement, legal recourse, and the spirit of contracts.

Each paragraph is extremely professional, extremely restrained, and extremely powerful.

But it precisely skipped the very sentence that Obama's team needed it to say most.

After reading it, Plauf gently placed the two pages on the table. His expression didn't change much, but Axelrod had known him for so long that he could see the extremely subtle, downturned disappointment in his eyes.

Then, Axelrod remembered clearly that in that moment of disappointment, someone in the room unconsciously glanced at Goolsby, who was sitting in the corner.

That glance was quick and fleeting, barely constituting a gaze.

But its meaning is clear—if you hadn't waited until this day, and instead called him on Saturday or Sunday, would things have been different...?

Goolsby met the gaze but didn't respond. He simply looked down and turned a page of the document in his hand.

That moment has passed. No one asked any further questions, and no one started a discussion.

Because everyone knows that even if Goolsby did make the call, Walker most likely wouldn't help. That's not something Goolsby can control.

Axelrod looked away from the curled-up printout and couldn't help but utter another seemingly casual remark.

"If Walker's statement had included the line 'I am not interested in politics,' the situation would be completely different today."

He spoke softly, with a hint of a joke, as if lamenting the cruel twist of fate rather than formally assigning blame to anyone.

But after he finished speaking, his gaze naturally lifted from the briefing and swept over Goolsby.

However, Gursky did not look up.

His finger hovered over a page of the economic data report, as if he were carefully studying a chart of an employment indicator.

But deep down, he secretly breathed a sigh of relief.

Secretly and briefly.

Like a string that has been stretched for three days, it is finally allowed to loosen by half a note at this moment.

That phone call he delayed for an entire weekend. That phone call he repeatedly postponed with professional reasons like "waiting for the right time," "it's too hasty," and "he'll be annoyed." That phone call he genuinely rejected, unwilling to use the little something real between him and Lu Ze as a bargaining chip.

Now, it will never need to be hit again.

Lu Ze has already issued a statement in his own way.

The window is now completely closed.

Even if the team kept hinting that "you should have tried it sooner," he had an irrefutable reason—they had already spoken.

If you ask me to suggest that he add a "non-political" statement, that's tantamount to telling the other party, "Your version is not what we want."

No dignified person would accept such a request for post-hoc modification.

That phone call will forever remain a "thing that never happened".

The meeting continued.

The conversation has now turned to the next, more pressing issue: Thursday's vice-presidential debate, a showdown between Palin and Biden.

Plauf was arranging preparations. Axelrod was discussing offensive and defensive strategies. Several young staff members were flipping through documents and taking notes.

The entire room was restored to the rhythm of a well-functioning campaign machine.

Only in the final minutes, as the meeting drew to a close and everyone was preparing to leave, did Obama, who had remained silent, finally speak.

"That's all for today regarding Walker and those European banks."

His voice was steady, with a tone that conveyed a sense of finality that left no room for discussion.

"Starting tomorrow, all our energy will return to the core issues of the campaign—the economy, jobs, and healthcare. Let the media talk about Walker. We won't respond, comment, or engage in that topic. We'll let it cool down on its own."

He looked around at the people in the room.

"Is there anything else?"

No one speaks.

"Then let's call it a day."

People began to gather their files and stand up. The soft scraping of chairs on the floor replaced the previous dull, inexplicable oppressive atmosphere.

Obama was the last to stand up.

He closed the public opinion briefing in front of him and casually placed it on the corner of the table. As he walked to the door, he paused, glanced back at the empty conference table and the few documents scattered on it.

One of them was the Far Star Statement that was printed this morning, with its edges already curled.

He glanced at it, then pushed open the door and stepped into the light of the corridor.

The sound of a television set came from the end of the corridor. It was CNN broadcasting their market closing report for this afternoon.

The host was excitedly summarizing—"Yuexing Capital's statement triggered a chain reaction, with UBS and Barclays subsequently expressing their respect for the contract, and Sarkozy's 'European Union' has suffered a major setback..."

Obama did not stop.

He walked in the opposite direction, toward his own makeshift office. The corridor was quiet, with only the sound of his own footsteps.

He knew that the name wouldn't disappear just because he didn't respond.

McCain will continue to use it to attack him.

The media will continue to press for answers, asking "Why not give a name?"

And that young man—who is probably sitting somewhere in New York right now, calmly calculating his next move—will continue doing his own thing, completely unconcerned that the two candidates in Washington are fighting tooth and nail for his name.

Obama pushed open the office door and sat down at the desk.

He'll say that name sooner or later.

But not today. Not at this moment when everyone is expecting him to speak, when everyone is holding a magnifying glass and waiting for him to "finally give in."

He will find an opportunity that he chooses himself, that is natural, and that is not "forced" into it.

Then, he would say that name in the most understated way.

It's like casually mentioning a fact that everyone already knows, rather than a painful admission of defeat.

At least, he hoped so.