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

He's finished speaking.

The tea room returned to silence, with only the patter of rain outside the window and the soft sound of the last embers of sandalwood burning out.

Wang Wenyuan leaned back in his chair, picked up his teacup, and slowly took a sip.

His gaze moved past the rim of the teacup, quietly observing Lu Ze, waiting for the other to weigh his options.

He knew this was an irresistible opportunity—for any overseas Chinese trying to expand their business globally, this implicit endorsement from the highest levels of their motherland was a talisman more precious than gold.

however.

Lu Ze did not look at the pen.

He didn't show any shock, deep thought, or flattery.

He simply stared at Wang Wenyuan. He stared at him for a full three seconds.

Then, Lu Ze lowered his head, as if he had suddenly heard some inappropriate joke, and snorted very softly through his nose.

That wasn't mockery, nor was it a cold laugh born of anger.

It's the instinctive, uncontrollable physiological reaction of a hedge fund manager upon hearing a poorly written business plan riddled with flaws—like a surgeon instinctively frowning when they see a crooked suture.

"Director Wang."

Lu Ze raised his head, the smile on his face quickly vanished, and his eyes became as cold as moonlight reflected on ice, carrying a sharpness born of extreme restraint.

"I must admit, if you were sitting across from an overseas Chinese businessman looking to return to China to secure political and business projects, or a finance PhD fresh out of an Ivy League school with the documentary 'The Rise of Great Powers' still fresh in your mind, your speech on 'credit profiles' and 'path dependence' would have been flawless."

"It very precisely targets their sense of security, honor, and vanity, as well as their desire to be 'received by the leader' on some important occasion in the future."

Lu Ze sat up slightly and placed his hands crossed on the edge of the table.

At this moment, he was no longer a junior, but a top fund manager in charge of hundreds of millions of dollars in cash flow—his shoulders were taut and his spine was like a cold steel bar.

"But I am a hedge fund manager."

His voice was flat, as flat as if he were reading a risk disclosure document:

"In my world, I don't believe in the future, I don't believe in sentiment, and I don't even believe in written promises. I only look at one thing: the risk-reward ratio."

Lu Ze extended a finger and tapped it lightly on the table, producing a crisp "tap" sound.

"First, your promise to 'write it into the upper management's appendix is ​​a black box that I have no way of verifying."

I don't even know if this report actually exists, let alone which ministry's safe it's locked in, or whether it will be used as an important reference ten years from now, or recycled as waste paper.

In a transaction, the collateral that cannot be verified has zero value.

He extended his second finger.

"Secondly, even if you did manage to write it in, those few pages might be archived and gathering dust in your vast internal archives by tomorrow."

When your "cow" really needs direction ten years from now, and even the people riding on its back have changed several times, who will have the time to dig through old files from ten years ago to find the name "Yuanxing Capital"?

The third finger was extended.

Lu Ze's voice became extremely sharp, even carrying a hint of pressure, like the precision and coldness of a scalpel cutting through an artery:

"Third, and this is the most fatal."

Director Wang, there are no eternally correct omniscient figures in the financial markets. If I give advice this time, and the market experiences a short-term deviation due to some uncontrollable macroeconomic factors—such as a sudden interest rate cut by the Federal Reserve, a sudden war in the Middle East, or simply a liquidity crunch—...

Lu Ze stared directly into Wang Wenyuan's eyes, his pupils reflecting the other's gradually stiffening expression:

"Will I become the scapegoat in your top-secret report, accused of 'misleading the decision-making level and causing state-owned assets to fail'?"

Goldman Sachs cheated you, and you can only curse and accept your fate because of international rules and commercial contracts. At most, you can stop doing business with them in the future.

But if I were to betray you, in your discourse, what would you call me? You'd call me a 'foreign force with malicious intentions,' or a 'comprador capitalist who betrays us.'

Lu Ze spread his hands out, making a regretful gesture, palms facing upwards, as if displaying an empty hand:

"So, to summarize your proposal..."

"You want me to use the pricing model I've tested with real money on Wall Street to help you intercept an extremely complex potential loss involving tens of billions of dollars."

And what you gave me in return—

He slowed his speech, emphasizing each word as if he were dissecting the terms of an options contract:

"It's an unverifiable black box record, a future preference with an extremely low probability, and a political scapegoat that could lead to utter ruin if anything goes wrong."

Lu Ze looked at Wang Wenyuan, whose face was beginning to stiffen, his eyes devoid of any warmth, only a mathematical coldness:

"Director Wang, if any of my traders dared to bring me an options contract with such an extremely distorted risk-reward ratio, unlimited downside risk, and virtually zero upside potential, to sign off on it..."

"I'll make sure he packs his bags and gets out of Wall Street immediately."

The air in the tea room became somewhat viscous, as if some unseen force had sucked away the oxygen.

Wang Wenyuan's face darkened, and the hand that was holding the teacup tightened slightly, his knuckles turning white from excessive tension.

The composed, elder-like aura of a high-ranking official had vanished, replaced by an extremely restrained anger that came from having his facade torn away—his jawline was taut, and the veins on his temples were faintly bulging.

He stared at Lu Ze for a few seconds, then suddenly took a deep breath, as if forcibly suppressing some kind of emotion.

He slowly exhaled, his voice slightly hoarse.

Then, instead of being defeated by this sarcastic remark, he accepted the reality—like a seasoned player whose cards have been read at the poker table, knowing that continuing to bluff will only make things worse.

"Very good, Lu Ze."

Wang Wenyuan slowly and heavily put the Parker pen that was on the table back into his pocket, as if he were putting away a broken weapon.

He sat up straight, placed his hands on the armrests of the armchair, and his aura changed once again—from a bureaucrat distributing political bargaining chips to a Wall Street trading counterparty.

His eyes became extremely sharp, like a predator locking onto its prey before hunting.