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

Wall Street is never a place that stops for the dead.

The "murder theory" raged on television for two days, but by the third day, the shouts in the trading hall had once again drowned out all the righteous indignation.

The curves on the screen are still jumping, the phone is still ringing, and the coffee cups are still emptying row by row.

Bear Stearns is dead, but repurchase rates still need to be monitored, CDS spreads still need to be quoted, and pre-market quotes from Lehman Brothers and Merrill Lynch are still being refreshed repeatedly. For most traders, anger and shock are never emotions, but merely a very short-lived market context.

Who fell, who deserved to die, who gave them a push—these things are only worth discussing with a glass of whiskey after the market closes.

But in Washington, things aren't so easy to turn over.

The U.S. Securities and Exchange Commission (SEC) is nominally the police of the capital markets.

It's not responsible for printing money or bailing out the market, but once something goes wrong, the media, Congress, and the fiscal system will instinctively turn their attention here, as if asking the same question: Why didn't you see it? Or, to put it more bluntly—Why didn't you do anything?

The phone at the Department of Law Enforcement's New York office has been ringing non-stop these past few days.

The fax machine was churning out layers of inquiry letters, and the media liaison office was sending a new summary of public opinion every hour. The office of the Congressional Financial Services Committee had already included "unusual transactions before Bear Stearns' collapse" in the preliminary questions for the next round of hearings.

The people in Washington want an explanation, so the people in New York need to provide some direction first.

Deep inside the office, in a conference room with its blinds half-closed, Alfred Hobbes slammed the folder in his hand heavily onto the table.

He was one of the deputy directors of the New York area office of the Department of Law Enforcement. He was in his early fifties, with his hair neatly combed and his large belly encased in a suit.

Over the past decade, he has handled countless cases of market manipulation, insider trading, and accounting fraud. He knows what real filth is, and he also knows what respectable filth is.

This time, however, what bothered him most was not the case itself, but the vague yet extremely clear pressure from above.

No one in higher positions would directly say "Find me a scapegoat" over the phone.

All they will say is: the market needs an explanation.

All they will say is: Congress needs answers.

They would just say: the media is already using the word "murder," we can't pretend nothing happened.

Hobbes was all too familiar with this language.

It translates to just one sentence: Focus on the most conspicuous target first, then talk about the others.

There was a knock on the door twice.

"Come in."

A young man in his early thirties, tall and thin, wearing a dark gray suit and a tightly tied tie, entered the room, carrying a stack of newly printed transaction records and newspaper clippings.

Evan Miller, a senior lawyer in the Department of Law Enforcement, has been the most active and hardworking young staff member in the office for the past two years.

He has an impressive resume, a quick mind, and a knack for numbers. Most importantly, he hasn't yet mastered the "good enough" mentality of seasoned veterans.

Hobbes looked up at him but didn't offer him a seat.

Have you seen the news?

"I've seen it."

"Then you should know what people outside are saying right now."

Evan nodded: "They're saying Bear Stearns didn't die from a liquidity crisis, but from a deliberately amplified bank run. Some people placed bets in advance, some spread panic, and some made a fortune off the corpses."

"Very good." Hobbs pointed to a document on the table. "And who is the most conspicuous one here?"

Evan glanced down; the first page was a summary of Farstar Capital's transactions.

The timing of position establishment, out-of-the-money put option positions, and final profit forecasts were all circled in red.

"Distant Stars".

"It's not 'possible distant stars,' it's distant stars."

Hobbs stared at him, his voice low but heavy, "A small fund that nobody had heard of a few months ago precisely built its position before Bear Stearns collapsed, with extreme directional moves, high leverage, and the biggest profits. Tell me, if someone threw this paper in my face at a congressional hearing, how am I supposed to answer?"

Evan didn't say anything.

Hobbes didn't intend to wait for his answer.

"Don't tell me about market intuition, being a genius trader, or luck being on his side."

He twitched the corner of his mouth, a hint of barely suppressed coldness in his expression.

"Every time something goes wrong on Wall Street, a few smart people emerge and tell everyone afterwards that they just saw the risk earlier than others. But the problem is, risk doesn't turn into a stampede on its own, and a stampede doesn't grow wings and fly across the market on its own."

He pushed another document over.

"The media is watching for unusual transactions, the Treasury is watching for market confidence, and Congress is watching for regulatory failures. The headquarters just made it very clear—we at least have to prove that we are investigating, and that we are investigating the people most likely to be at fault."

Evan opened the document; inside was a preliminary investigation memo with a straightforward title:

Preliminary investigation recommendations regarding whether Farstar Capital manipulated the prices of Bear Stearns securities through abnormal trading and the spread of market panic.

Hobbes looked at him and said, word by word:

"I want you to investigate Yuanxing. Investigate their accounts, their trading chain, and whether they have any unusual contacts with brokers, media figures, or sell-side analysts. I need to know who placed the order first, who amplified their position, and who leaked the information. I need to know whether Lu Ze is a lucky bastard or a bastard who has cleaned himself up."

Evan looked up: "What if the investigation reveals that the transaction itself was legitimate?"

Hobbes's gaze turned slightly colder.

"Then you keep investigating until you find a problem."

The meeting room fell silent for a second.

The photocopier was running outside, and people were arguing in hushed tones at the end of the corridor. The phone rang intermittently through the glass door.

The New York sunlight streamed through the blinds, cutting through the documents on the desk into distinct sections of light and shadow.

Hobbes leaned forward slightly, his hands resting on the edge of the table.

"Listen carefully, Miller. The SEC isn't here to write biographies of geniuses."

The market has collapsed like this; someone has to explain, and ideally, someone has to take responsibility. Farstar is now the most conspicuous name on the list. Go and nail him to the wall—even if it's just a nail for now.”

Evan was silent for a few seconds, then finally nodded.

"clear."

Hobbes then waved his hand, signaling him to leave.

After the door closed again, only the low hum of the air conditioner filled the conference room.

Hobbs stood still, his gaze fixed on the profit estimate for Farstar on the table, his fingers tapping unconsciously twice.

More than 700 million US dollars.

Young, anonymous, precise, and highly profitable.

He hates people like that.

It's not because they necessarily break the law, but because whenever the market bleeds, these people always seem to be the most likely culprits.

"Seven hundred million US dollars. And a young Chinese man."

"In this market, this kind of money shouldn't be earned by this kind of person."