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

In the first week of April, a peculiar mood began to ferment in the air of Wall Street.

The intense panic triggered by the Bear Stearns collapse miraculously subsided thanks to the Federal Reserve's generous injection of liquidity.

Hedge funds, which were initially trembling with fear, regained their courage after confirming the unspoken rule that "central banks will not let major banks go bankrupt."

But they dared not return to the subprime market, nor did they dare touch those extremely complex credit derivatives.

The massive amount of funds extracted from the subprime quagmire, like a pack of wolves that had been starving for three days and three nights, were searching the market for absolutely safe "hard assets" with bloodshot eyes.

Then, they collectively set their sights on commodities.

Crude oil became the perfect prey in the eyes of these hungry wolves.

If the rise in oil prices in March still carried a sense of "risk aversion" and "defense," then this sentiment began to change drastically after entering April.

Speculators have found a seemingly perfect macro narrative for the rise in oil prices – the "weak dollar logic".

In an effort to rescue the market, the Federal Reserve has drastically cut interest rates and started printing money. The US dollar index has continued to fall, hitting a record low.

Since the US dollar is becoming increasingly worthless, crude oil priced in US dollars should naturally skyrocket in price.

Coupled with the strong demand shown by emerging markets, led by China, during the Olympic year, and OPEC's hesitant attitude towards production cuts, this logic seemed impeccable at the time.

The upward momentum has begun to completely overwhelm the downward momentum.

However, this kind of bullish sentiment is fundamentally different from the kind of frenzy that will erupt a month later, where people will be shouting "two hundred dollars with their eyes closed."

The current market is more like a gambler who has just drunk two glasses of whiskey.

His cheeks flushed slightly, his movements became more exaggerated, and he began to spout economic theories and logical arguments. He felt extremely clear-headed, believing that each additional bet was a well-thought-out and inevitable decision.

They don't realize that true intoxication and loss of control often begin in moments when they think, "I'm not drunk, my logic is perfectly clear."

Every day, Lu Ze would watch the order book on the terminal grow thicker and thicker due to the influx of bullish funds, and watch the floating profits on Yuanxing Capital's books steadily increase by several million dollars every day.

The game had only just begun. He instructed Isabella to continue increasing her investment, totaling approximately $2 million.

On a Saturday afternoon when the figures on paper kept ballooning.

Lu Ze neither looked at the stock market nor went to those Manhattan parties filled with champagne and insider information.

He came to keep his appointment.

A few days ago, an old friend of the father, an elderly man who, in the original owner's memory, had attended the father's funeral, wanted to talk to him.

He had the driver stop the car at the corner of Canal Street in Lower Manhattan.

The driver glanced hesitantly at the rearview mirror. "Boss, it's difficult to get the car in here. And... this place is a bit messy. Would you like me to accompany you in?"

"No need, you wait for me outside."

Lu Ze pushed open the car door and got out.

……

Canal Street. The heart and soul of New York's Chinatown.

Unlike the cold and orderly Wall Street a mile away, this place is a different kind of extreme noise and energy.

The streets are lined with old brick-red buildings, and the shops on the ground floor are covered with signs in traditional Chinese characters: "Hong Ji Roast Meat", "Da Feng Shou Seafood", "Jin Cheng Jewelry", "Tian Xia Ke Hair Salon".

The sidewalks were lined with stalls selling cheap electronics, counterfeit designer bags, and fresh fruit.

The air was filled with the savory aroma of roast duck fat, the fishy smell of the seafood market, and the pungent odor of cheap perfume.

The Cantonese, Fuzhou dialect, and Changle dialect spoken by native Cantonese speakers, mixed with broken English, collided on the streets and alleys.

This is the least "American" part of New York, yet it is also one of the most authentic cross-sections of America.

For the early Chinese who crossed the ocean with dreams of striking it rich or simply to survive, Chinatown has never been just a residential area.

It is a complete, independent ecosystem that is almost parallel to mainstream American society.

New immigrants come here to find illegal work, hometown associations and tribal groups provide illegal shelter, and underground banks facilitate cross-border money transfers.

Here lies a set of ancient and resilient contractual spirits and interpersonal networks unique to the Chinese people.

The laws of mainstream society often fail here; instead, a word from an elder in the clan or a cup of tea in the ancestral hall takes precedence.

Lu Ze, wearing a dark casual coat, walked through the crowded Kennedy Street with his hands in his pockets.

His overly aloof demeanor and meticulously tailored attire made him stand out awkwardly on the street.

Several young Chinese men with tattoos on their arms, who were smoking by the roadside, looked at him warily and curiously.

Lu Ze ignored this.

His feelings at that moment were extremely complicated.

It's not because he, as a "time traveler," has any special feelings for Chinatown.

Rather, it was because, the moment he stepped onto this street, the remaining memories belonging to the original owner of this body, "Lance Walker," began to surge up uncontrollably.

The original owner's father, the first-generation immigrant entrepreneur from mainland China who died in a private plane crash and the first founder of Farstar Capital, was once an extremely special figure on this street.

Mr. Lu did not come from a gangster background.

He was among the first batch of college students in China after the resumption of the college entrance examination, and came to the United States in the late 1980s with a highly ambitious intelligence.

Instead of washing dishes, he relied on his keen business sense and amazing courage to make his first fortune during the Sino-US trade speculation boom of the 1990s.

Even after moving into a large apartment on the Upper East Side, Lao Lu never severed his connection with Chinatown.

In the original owner's memories, his father often took him to certain teahouses deep in Chinatown late at night.

Those older Chinatown residents who are seen as "illegal immigrant bosses" or "gray area businessmen" by Wall Street elites will politely address Lao Lu as "Mr. Lu".

Because Lao Lu not only helps them launder their shady money and invest it in legitimate real estate, but also, on some occasions, helps domestic funds that are "inconvenient to show their faces" find suitable bridging channels in New York.

That was the foundation upon which Lao Lu established himself in New York—he not only understood American financial rules, but he also had a deep understanding of Chinese interpersonal relationships and the "rules of the dark web."

Unfortunately, the original owner, an ABC (American-born Chinese) who grew up in a private school in Boston, only thought that her father's behavior was "outdated" and "sounded like poverty."

The original owner desperately tried to integrate into the elite circle of Wall Street dominated by Anglo-Saxon whites. He deliberately imitated their accents, wore their clothes, and even naively thought that if Richard called him "brother," he would be one of them.

As a result, he was swallowed whole by the group of people he was desperately trying to fit in.

If Lu Ze hadn't transmigrated here, this body would have rotted away in an apartment on the Upper East Side long ago.

"madness."

Lu Ze made a cold comment in his mind.

It's not just about judging the original owner's gullibility, but also about judging his betrayal of his own identity.

For a Chinese person to abandon their family and cultural network in the pure Darwinian slaughterhouse of Wall Street and beg for acceptance from a pack of wolves is utterly ignorant.

Lu Ze stopped in his tracks.

He stood in front of a narrow alley on Mott Street.

Deep in the alley, hangs an inconspicuous red lantern, without even a sign.

Mr. Lin.

According to the original owner's memories, this was the elderly person her father respected most in New York.

He wasn't some shrewd Wall Street veteran, and he didn't even understand complex option pricing models.

But he is an old-fashioned江湖人 (jianghu person, a person from the underworld) who values ​​"trust" very much and survived in the cracks between China and the United States in the last century.

It is said that even the bigwigs of domestic institutions who have a lot of money in their hands will come to this teahouse for a cup of tea if they encounter some extremely tricky "underwater" troubles when they come to New York.

Lu Ze straightened the collar of his coat.

He knew that today's tea was not just for reminiscing.

Lu Ze stepped into the slightly dark, narrow alley.