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

Saturday, April 12, 2008, 11:00 AM.

The bright sunlight shone on the shop windows of Fifth Avenue, reflecting a dazzling display that made one mistakenly believe that the height of summer had arrived.

The roadside trees have just sprouted tender green leaves, and when a breeze blows, the whole street trembles slightly, like a landscape painting that is too exquisite.

But if you step into the shadows of the street, you'll find that a lingering damp chill from winter still remains deep in your bones.

Lu Ze sat in the back seat of the Mercedes-Benz S-Class.

Today is Saturday.

This was the first Saturday since his rebirth that he had no urgent tasks.

There are no deadlines, no phone calls, and no documents that need to be processed on the same day.

The battle at Bear Stearns was over; all that was needed now was to build up the oil reserves as planned, and Isabella and Lin Tao would handle the rest.

Waiting was the most unfamiliar state for him in the past month.

A month ago, he was on edge every minute. Every second, a certain number was determining his fate.

Now, he was simply sitting in the back of a car heading towards Long Island, his destination being Blankfein's estate.

I still haven't closed the last betting summary that Isabella sent before she left work yesterday.

He casually clicked on it and glanced at the rows of numbers.

[WTI crude oil futures contract closing price this week: $110.84/barrel.]

[Yuanxing Capital's long energy portfolio, this week's floating profit totals: $88,274,530 (approximately US$8820 million).]

[Options base Gamma value change this week: continues to increase, Vega exposure is within a controllable range. It is recommended to maintain the existing strategy; no adjustments are needed.]

After Lu Ze finished reading, he placed the phone face down on his lap.

More than 80 million US dollars.

……

After leaving Manhattan, we got on the Long Island Expressway (LIE).

The view outside the window began to change.

The density of steel and glass gradually decreased, replaced by an open sky and groves of trees turning pale green in the spring breeze.

Lu Ze leaned back in his chair, looking out the window.

He didn't open his briefcase, didn't take out his phone again, and didn't put on his headphones.

This was one of the very few times he did nothing.

The stereo in the carriage was playing a very soft jazz piece, with the sound of a trumpet faintly present, like rain falling somewhere in the distance.

My phone vibrated in my pocket.

He didn't take it out to look.

That was probably the second newsletter Isabella had sent. He knew what it would contain.

Oil prices are still rising, or a short-selling fund is closing out its positions to cut losses, or an official from an OPEC country makes an ambiguous statement that is interpreted by the market as bullish.

He closed his eyes.

The unrealized profit of over eighty million US dollars was a completely abstract concept in this sealed carriage at this moment. It existed only in a string of electrical signals in the server room, separated from Lu Ze himself by three layers of glass, two encryption systems, and the physical distance of the entire Manhattan.

He did nothing.

He's just sitting here.

The wheels keep turning, oil prices keep rising, and the numbers in the account keep expanding silently.

There was no gunpowder smoke, no physical exertion, and no perceptible trace of labor.

This is finance.

……

After about forty minutes on the highway, the driver took an exit and entered a regular state highway.

The scenery along the roadside has become ordinary.

It's no longer the skyscrapers of Manhattan, nor is it the manicured, green-carpet-like luxury estates of the Hamptons. This is the middle of Long Island, a gray area connecting two worlds.

The buildings along the road were ordinary two-story brick houses, the lawns were somewhat messy, and there were occasionally faded campaign stickers on the mailboxes.

A dry cleaner, a Chinese takeout restaurant, a hardware store, and a video rental store that was closed; half of the light bulb on the signboard was broken.

The driver followed the navigation and turned right onto a narrower road.

A Shell gas station appeared by the roadside.

"Boss, we're almost out of gas. Stop for a minute."

The driver's voice came from the front seat.

"Stop."

The Mercedes-Benz S600 slowly drove into the gas station and stopped at pump number one, which was furthest inside.

The driver got out of the car to swipe his card for gas.

Lu Ze leaned back in the back seat, looking out the car window.

The gas station is small, with two rows of pumps and a total of six fuel nozzles.

The white fluorescent tubes on the ceiling looked somewhat pale in the midday sun, and the shell logo on the signboard had lost its paint, revealing the rusty red metal base underneath.

His gaze fell on the third pump station next door.

There was a Ford F-150 pickup truck parked there. It used to be dark blue, but it had been worn down to a blurry gray-blue by the wind and sun.

There is a dent in the tailgate, probably left from a parking mistake, and it has never been repaired.

A man was standing next to the pickup truck.

He was probably in his early fifties, wearing a plaid flannel shirt that had been washed many times, with the cuffs rolled up to his elbows. His hands had deep lines, and there was some black grime that couldn't be washed off under his fingernails, suggesting he often did manual labor.

His hair was tousled by the April wind, but he didn't bother to fix it.

He stood next to pump number three, his right hand gripping the trigger of the fuel nozzle, his eyes fixed on the digital display screen on the front of the fuel dispenser.

Lu Ze followed his gaze.

The fuel dispenser's display screen shows red LED numbers arranged in two rows.

The top line shows the unit price: $3.89/Gal.

The bottom line shows the current cumulative amount, which is rapidly increasing:

34

...

...

34...37...

41

...

41...44...

The man's jawline was clearly defined as he clenched his teeth.

That wasn't anger; it was a kind of anxiety that had been pushed to the limit and had nowhere to go.

His pickup truck's fuel tank has a standard capacity of about 26 gallons. A full tank would cost close to one hundred dollars.

51

...

51……55……$58……

The man's finger twitched.

It didn't loosen; it just moved slightly, as if it had made a tiny internal struggle, before pulling the trigger tightly again.

61

...

61...63...

"Click."

He let go.

The movement was sudden, as if something had snapped. The gas nozzle was roughly pulled out, a drop of golden gasoline still clinging to the muzzle, briefly refracting a tiny, colorful halo in the spring sunlight before dripping onto the concrete floor, spreading into a dark circle.

The man hung the fuel nozzle back up, glanced down at the gasoline stain, and muttered something under his breath.

The voice was very low, and Lu Ze couldn't hear it clearly through the car window.

But he could tell it was a swear word.

Instead of going to the cashier to pay, the man opened the car door and got in.

The F-150's engine let out a deep roar, and a wisp of light gray smoke billowed from the exhaust pipe. The vehicle reversed out of pump station number three, turned onto the highway, and quickly disappeared from Lu Ze's sight.

It headed in the opposite direction from the Hamptons.

Lu Ze stared at the spot where the pickup truck had disappeared, remaining in the same position without moving.

Under the canopy of the gas station, the fluorescent light tubes emitted a faint humming sound, as if something was vibrating at a certain frequency, but it would never actually make a sound.

Just then, his phone vibrated in his pocket.

He didn't go to see it immediately.

A few seconds later, he slowly took his phone out of his pocket.

It was a message from Isabella.

[EIA data just released, inventory decline exceeded expectations, WTI is currently trading at 111.74, the market continues to strengthen, and the combined unrealized profit of open positions and options positions has increased by approximately 4,200,000 today.]

Four million two hundred thousand US dollars.

The increase this afternoon.

Lu Ze stared at the line of text for about five seconds.

Then he flipped his phone over, screen down, and placed it on the seat next to him.

In the front row, the driver hung the gas nozzle back on pump number one, clapped his hands, and sat back down in the driver's seat.

"Alright, boss, you can go now."

"Um."

Lu Ze's voice was calm, as if nothing had just happened and he hadn't seen anything.

The Mercedes-Benz S600 slowly drove out of the gas station and rejoined the traffic on the highway.

The jazz music was still playing in the car. The trumpet's long, drawn-out sound seemed to be mourning something, or perhaps it wasn't mourning anything at all, but simply making a sound, because that's how it was supposed to make that sound.

Lu Ze leaned back in his chair and looked out the window at the receding shadows of the trees.

The F-150 pickup truck's fuel tank was only about two-thirds full when it left.

He didn't know where the man was going.

It could be a construction site, a supermarket, or his home on an ordinary street, with a few shrubs in front of the door that haven't been pruned since last autumn.

He didn't know if the man would calculate how much gas he had left for the month, frown at the credit card bills, or mutter the same indistinct grumble as before while watching the rising gas prices on the news.

He doesn't know, and he doesn't need to know.

The shadows of the trees outside the window continued to recede.

The highway is extending forward.

Hamptons have twenty minutes left.

……

After driving for about fifteen more minutes, the scenery on both sides of the road began to change.

The lawns began to become neat and orderly, the trees began to grow taller, and the houses that occasionally appeared began to become spacious, mostly hidden by high walls or dense hedges, with only the exquisite wrought iron gate lights on the stone gateposts showing.

The roadside gas station has disappeared.

People here don't need to care how many cents the price of gasoline has increased per gallon.

The Mercedes S600 turned onto a private driveway paved with gravel.

On both sides are old oak trees that have already begun to sprout buds. The trunks are so thick that it takes two adults to hug them, and the trees are at least a hundred years old.

At the end of the driveway is a seaside estate built in the 1920s.

The exterior is made of white wood, with dark green shutters and a wide porch with several slender Greek-style columns.

A meticulously manicured lawn stretches from the porch all the way to the sea not far away, with a few apple trees in bloom with white flowers, their petals gently falling in the sea breeze.

In the distance, the surface of the Atlantic Ocean shimmered with silver light under the afternoon sun.

The manor gates were already open before they arrived.

A male servant in a white shirt stood at the bottom of the porch steps, bowing slightly to the approaching vehicle.

Lu Ze looked at the manor, the lawn, the apple trees with their blossoms falling, and the distant, unchanging, indifferent Atlantic Ocean.

He sat in the car for a second.

Then he opened the car door and got out.

A sea breeze swept over me.

It carries the saltiness of early spring, the coolness of spring, and a vastness that is completely different from the commercialism of Manhattan.

Lu Ze straightened the collar of his dark blue coat and walked towards the porch, stepping on the gravel.

The leather shoes made a steady and crisp sound as they stepped on the gravel.

The male servant bowed and made an elegant gesture of invitation to enter.

"Welcome, Mr. Lu."

"Mr. Blankfein is waiting for you in the back garden."

Lu Ze walked up the steps.

The sea breeze behind him quietly closed the door.