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

At the end of the narrow alley stood a vermilion wooden door. It had no handle, only a faintly gleaming brass door knocker.

Lu Ze did not knock on the door. In the original owner's memory, this door was never knocked on.

He reached out and gently pressed his hand into the crack in the brickwork on the right side of the door frame.

With a very slight electronic unlocking sound, the wooden door opened inward with a dry creak.

Behind the door was not some chaotic gathering hall of gangs, but an extremely elegant tea room. The fine rosewood furniture exuded a faint fragrance of rosewood, and several calligraphy and paintings that looked quite old hung on the wall.

The tea room was quiet, with no music playing. The only sound was the ethereal tinkling of water droplets falling from a purple clay water bowl in the corner.

An elderly man dressed in a traditional Chinese jacket with his back to the door stood in front of a large tea table, intently fiddling with a set of Yixing clay teaware.

His hair was gray, and he was thin, but his back was ramrod straight.

"The door wasn't closed properly, and a draft came in."

The old man didn't turn around, and his extremely pure Mandarin, with a slight Jiangzhe accent, rang out in the tea room.

Lu Ze turned around and closed the heavy wooden door tightly.

The cacophony of street noise, a mixture of roast duck grease and cheap perfume, was instantly shut out into another world.

"Uncle Lin."

Lu Ze walked to the tea table, looked at the old man's back, and called out softly.

He didn't sound awkward when he called him "Uncle Lin." It wasn't just because he had absorbed the original owner's memories, but also because he had spent too long in the cold financial world of his previous life. Hearing this form of address, which carried the imprint of his mother tongue, gave him an extremely unfamiliar, almost dazed sense of familiarity.

The old man stopped what he was doing and turned around.

Mr. Lin's face was covered with deep wrinkles, marks etched by time and hardship, but his eyes were exceptionally bright and sharp.

Those eyes lingered on Lu Ze's face for two seconds, then slowly and meticulously scrutinized him from head to toe.

Lu Ze did not avoid his gaze and stood there calmly.

After a long while, the old man finally let out a long sigh, a complex emotion flashing in his eyes.

"Please sit down."

Mr. Lin pointed to the armchair opposite the tea table and sat down as well.

"The last time I saw you was at your father's funeral." Mr. Lin picked up the bamboo kettle and poured boiling water high into the purple clay teapot. White steam rose instantly. "At that time, you were wearing a custom Armani suit, but to me, you looked like a child dressed in adult clothes who had lost his soul."

He put the lid on the pot and poured boiling water over the pot.

"But in the past two weeks, rumors about you have been flying everywhere," Mr. Lin said without looking up as he washed his tea. "Wall Street is saying that Farstar Capital has produced a madman who single-handedly took on Goldman Sachs and Bear Stearns."

"Just lucky," Lu Ze replied casually.

Mr. Lin paused for a moment.

He raised his head, his bright eyes fixed on Lu Ze once more. This time, his gaze was even more intense than before.

"luck?"

The old man chuckled softly, a laugh tinged with a hint of relief, yet also with an undeniable sense of desolation.

"If you ever made money before, even if it was just a few thousand dollars in the stock market, you would come to me and boast to me for ages in your American English mixed with broken Chinese."

Mr. Lin poured the first brew of tea into the Jianshui River.

"But today, you've made seven hundred million dollars, and sitting here, you're telling me... you were lucky."

The old man shook his head, picked up the teacup, and used tongs to hand it to Lu Ze.

"It seems that one really does have to die once to truly grow up. If your father could see you now, he could rest in peace."

Lu Ze looked at the cup of fragrant white tea in front of him.

He knew that when the old man said he had "died once," he was referring to the desperate situation that Farstar Capital had been pushed to the edge of a cliff.

But he knew in his heart that there was a deeper, more original meaning to this statement.

The original owner of this body, who was naive and longed to integrate into the white community but was devoured alive, did indeed die on the carpet of that luxury apartment.

Lu Ze picked up his teacup, said nothing, and silently took a sip.

The tea soup is clear and refreshing, with a slightly bitter taste upon entry, followed by a lingering sweetness that spreads in the throat. It is a top-quality Fuding white tea.

"Good tea." Lu Ze put down his cup.

"Your father used to love drinking this."

A hint of reminiscence flashed in Mr. Lin's eyes, and his tone became extremely gentle.

"Back in the late 1980s, when he first came to the United States, he wasn't as successful as he is now. At that time, he rented half a bed in a basement in Flushing. During the day, he worked as a waiter in a restaurant, and at night he would come to my place, sit in this spot, drink this kind of white tea, and use a broken calculator to calculate how much exchange rate difference he could make by reselling electronic watches and clothing."

"Unlike other international students who only think about getting a green card and becoming middle class," Mr. Lin said, looking at Lu Ze as if he were looking at another person through him. "He has a wolf-like nature to him. He said back then that American finance is a game of robbery, and he would sit at that table one day."

The nagging characteristic of elders.

Lu Ze listened quietly. His heart was filled with mixed feelings.

These memories of his father were deliberately forgotten and disliked in the original owner's mind. The original owner felt that his past as a "waiter" and "sell digital watches" was a disgrace to low-class immigrants, and he only wanted the sophistication of the Upper East Side and the respectability of Wall Street.

But now, when Lu Ze hears these things, he only feels a deep sense of respect.

What incredible resilience it is for a first-generation immigrant with no background and no language skills to carve out a niche for themselves in a white-dominated capitalist world.

Those were the true first generation of predators.

"Dad...he really had a tough time." Lu Ze said softly. He thought he would feel awkward when he said that, but in reality, it felt surprisingly natural.

Mr. Lin's eyes reddened slightly when he heard the word "Dad".

He poured Lu Ze another cup of tea.

"Alright, let's not dwell on these old, trivial matters." The old man composed himself, his tone becoming calm and steady again, like a true elder discussing a deal with a younger person.

"In the past two weeks, someone in China has contacted you several times through me."

Now, let's get to the main point.

Lu Ze showed no surprise. He picked up his teacup and gently blew on the steam. "Who is it?"

"A person with a powerful background, but who is not having a good time these days."

Mr. Lin was extremely cautious in his choice of words, which is the rule of old-school gangsters: not revealing the truth, but only hinting at it.

"Last year, a lot of money was invested in Wall Street from China, but the results weren't good. So a special coordination team was temporarily set up. He's not a low-ranking official, but even he's completely clueless about the current situation and under a lot of pressure."

Mr. Lin looked into Lu Ze's eyes:

"Right now, he desperately needs a pair of eyes that can see through the cards these foreign devils on Wall Street are playing. He's asking about you. To be precise, he's asking about 'Farstar Capital,' the company that made the precise bet before Bear Stearns collapsed."

Lu Ze took a sip of tea.

as predicted.

China Investment Corporation (CIC), or other similar sovereign wealth funds/state-owned enterprises. In the early stages of the subprime crisis, domestic capital was indeed like a group of nouveau riche with gold bars, being completely fooled by the suit-wearing con artists on Wall Street.

"He wants me to manage his investments?" Lu Ze's tone was not sarcastic, but rather calm and businesslike.

"No."

Mr. Lin shook his head.

"You're too young. Even if he wanted to, the domestic system and procedures would never allow him to entrust tens of billions of yuan to a private fund manager in his twenties."

"He just wants to see you."

The old man paused, his tone becoming extremely solemn:

"He wants to hear your 'truth' about the current market. In exchange, he can offer you some conveniences in China that you can't buy with money in the US."

The tea room fell silent.

All that can be heard is the "drip, drip" sound of water coming from the purple clay water bowl.

Lu Ze put down his teacup and tapped his fingers lightly on the mahogany table.

This is an extremely delicate juncture.

If he agrees, he will be stepping into the intricate systemic entanglements within the country; if he refuses, he will not only lose a potential super ally, but also put Mr. Lin in a difficult position.

Mr. Lin could see through his thoughts.

The old man smiled, waved his hand, and said in an extremely comforting tone, imbued with a uniquely Chinese magnanimity:

"Xiao Lu, you don't need to feel pressured. In my whole life, the thing I hate most is doing things that force others to do things they can't do."

"That person is coming to New York in mid-April for a conference. If you're not busy then and are interested, come over for some tea, let's chat casually, just to make friends, no business."

"If you find it inconvenient, or don't want to get involved in those troubles," Mr. Lin said with extremely gentle eyes.

"Uncle Lin should refuse him. Your father didn't become a grandson back then, and you have even less reason to be a pawn for anyone in your life. Uncle Lin's reputation still holds some value with them."

This kind of rhetoric is the true pinnacle of Chinese-style maneuvering.

It was entirely voluntary, with room for maneuver, and all the pressure was borne by oneself.

That's hard to refuse.

"Uncle Lin."

Lu Ze stood up and reached out to button up his coat.

He didn't give a direct answer, but just looked at the old man.

"If you still have such good white tea here, I'll come and drink it anytime."

Upon hearing this answer, Mr. Lin's eyes revealed a satisfied expression.

"Okay." The old man stood up as well. "I'll save the tea for you. You can open the door yourself."

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

He pushed open the door and stepped back into the bustling crowds of Canal Street, filled with the worldly atmosphere and the aroma of roasted meats.