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

Midtown Manhattan, 270 Park Avenue.

Yuanxing Capital officially moved into the 27th floor three days ago.

The entire 708-square-meter office space was almost unchanged from when Isabella first visited. The dark marble reception desk remained cold and restrained, the light gray polished concrete gleamed faintly under the lights, and the nearly four-meter-high exposed steel beams gave the entire core office area an almost cold and hard sense of order.

All of the dozen or so custom trading tables were powered on, and the Bloomberg terminal and Reuters dedicated line were connected. The screens on the multi-screen brackets were quietly lit up, like a row of machines that had just been awakened.

The one thing that hasn't changed the most on the whole floor is still that south-facing floor-to-ceiling window.

……

The TV volume wasn't too loud, but it was slightly jarring.

Isabella stood in the outer office area, holding a newly printed news summary in her hand. As she listened to the headlines playing over and over again, her brow furrowed slightly.

Who killed Bear Stearns?

The red subtitles at the bottom of the screen scrolled rapidly.

Congress, SEC, naked short selling, malicious short selling, and lists of abnormal profits.

Far Star Capital.

Lance Walker.

She glanced down at the few sheets of paper in her hand, then looked up at the innermost office, and finally turned and walked over.

The door wasn't locked; it was only slightly ajar.

Isabella raised her hand and knocked twice before pushing the door open and going inside.

The first thing she saw was the window.

The main private office already boasts the best view on the entire floor. Floor-to-ceiling windows facing south completely capture the Midtown skyline, and the greyish-white light fills half the room.

There was no wine cabinet or other decorations by the window, only a set of low filing cabinets and a black sofa.

The solid wood desk was large, but the surface was clean, with several open documents, a pen, a telephone, and two screens lit up on the other side.

One of the screens displays media news and market updates.

On the other side, there are fluctuating product prices.

Then she saw Lu Ze.

He didn't sit behind the table, but stood by the window, slightly turned to the side, as if watching the traffic below, or as if listening to the increasingly jarring sounds on the television.

When Isabella saw him clearly, she instinctively stopped in her tracks.

Lu Ze was wearing a long black trench coat draped over his shoulders.

It wasn't his usual impeccably tailored dark suit jacket, nor the sharp, form-fitting, almost wrinkle-free formal attire he wore when meeting bank executives or confronting Richard.

This trench coat is loose-fitting with minimalist lines and a beautiful drape. It falls quietly down from the shoulder line, making his entire silhouette appear longer and colder.

It is not ostentatious, but precisely because it is so quiet, it is the first thing that catches people's attention.

Like a small patch of night that shouldn't be in the office at midday.

Isabella looked at him for two seconds before speaking:

"You've changed your style."

Lu Ze turned his head and glanced at her:

"It doesn't look good?"

"No," Isabella paused, "it's just that you didn't dress like this before."

Lu Ze smiled, offered no explanation, and simply walked back to the table, putting down the document in his hand.

The hem of his trench coat swayed slightly with his movement, then hung quietly behind him.

He was still wearing a white shirt underneath, with the cuffs rolled up to his forearms. He didn't have the tense feeling that was being chased by the news; instead, he was almost excessively relaxed.

This caused Isabella's emotions, which had already been building up, to suddenly falter.

She placed the news summary in her hand on the table.

"Congress has used the word 'murder,'" she said. "Although the SEC hasn't taken any official action yet, the media has already started directing it towards the list of abnormal gains. We're at the top of it."

Lu Ze glanced down at it.

In the most prominent position on the paper was the name of Farstar Capital, along with a number that had been rolling around on Wall Street all day.

$747,000,000

"As expected," he said.

"This is no small matter." Isabella spoke a little faster than usual. "If they really start going through the transaction records, the accounts, and—"

Isabella.

Lu Ze interrupted her, his voice not loud.

She stopped.

Lu Ze raised his head, his expression even appearing calm.

"On Wall Street, a trader who hasn't been scrutinized by the SEC is not a good trader."

This statement sounded as casual as a lame joke, but Lu Ze's demeanor suggested it wasn't entirely a joke.

Isabella paused for a moment.

Lu Ze casually put the few pages of paper back on the table.

"What they want now is not a conclusion, but action," he said. "Bear Stearns died too quickly; someone has to step up and tell the market that the regulators aren't blind."

That's how it has always been.

"Then let's—"

"Let's fix what needs fixing first."

Lu Ze looked at her, his tone still steady:

"Find two lawyers. One specializes in securities enforcement, and the other is familiar with SEC procedures. Also, prepare a crisis communication consultant; don't show up yet, but give me the list today."

"In addition, re-file all materials related to Bear Stearns. Transaction timelines, fund flows, emails, call records... compile all the materials that may need to be submitted."

Isabella nodded, her thoughts, which had been momentarily scattered, quickly returning to the specifics of the matter.

"clear."

Lu Ze hummed in agreement, but his gaze had already shifted from the news summaries to the product price display screen on his right.

Isabella followed her gaze.

The red and green numbers on the screen kept changing, and the middle column was the WTI crude oil futures contract.

She was slightly taken aback.

"Are you looking at oil?"

"It's not about watching," Lu Ze said, "it's about preparing to do it."

Isabella looked at him: "Now?"

"Now is the perfect time."

He reached out and pushed another printed trend chart over from the table.

The chart above not only shows WTI, but also the price movements of energy ETFs and several near-month futures contracts. Clearly, this wasn't just recently displayed; it's been viewed for a while now.

"The credit market is rotten."

Lu Ze said, "But the money won't disappear."

"They just come out of one story and flow into the next one that seems safer and easier to believe."

Isabella glanced down at the curves and quickly understood what he meant.

Bear Stearns had just died, and the whole of Wall Street was still debating who the killer was.

But capital never stays with a corpse for long.

It will simply move on to the next place where it can continue its frenzy.

Right now, that place is oil.

She looked up: "What do you want to do?"

Lu Ze did not answer immediately.

He looked at the screen, and a faint, almost pleasant expression finally surfaced on his face.

"Just go with it for now."

"Use futures as the main position, ETFs as the surface layer, and options for flexibility."

As he finished speaking, he reached out and took the black trench coat off the back of the chair, casually draping it aside.

In that instant, Isabella suddenly had a very strange feeling.

The entire Manhattan community is still searching for Bear Stearns' killer.

Lu Ze seemed to have kept the commotion, along with all the blame-shifting, anger, and demands for accountability, outside of his black trench coat.

He walked out, as calm as if a bad rain had just ended.

"Let them investigate first."

He said, "Let's go make the next fortune."