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

March 1, 2008, 1:17 PM.

Richard left.

The air in the conference room still carried the scent of his La Maison de la Truffe truffle perfume, mixed with the lingering aroma of cigar smoke and whiskey, like the smoke left behind by a war that had ended.

Lu Ze sat in the main seat without moving.

The light from the Bloomberg terminal cast a pale blue reflection on his face. The liquidation document, torn in two, still lay on the table, the white paper trembling slightly in the low airflow of the air conditioner.

It got a little noisy outside.

First, Lindsay Long—an American, 24 years old, a junior researcher, and a recent graduate—began stuffing things into her file folder. Her movements were quick, almost trembling; she even forgot to unplug the charging cable under her seat.

Then came Mark Chen. He stood in front of his workstation for about three minutes without moving, as if making some internal decision. Finally, he silently placed his name tag on the table, picked up his coat, and headed for the elevator.

No one came in to say goodbye. No one knocked on the glass door.

On Wall Street, it's a sinking ship; those who stay behind are the real fools.

Finally, the sounds outside completely ceased.

Lu Ze stood up, pushed open the conference room door, and walked into the office area.

It's empty.

The twelve workstations are mostly empty now, with chairs pushed aside haphazardly and various signs of abandonment on the desks—a half-finished cup of coffee, a crumpled printed document, and an unclaimed succulent sitting forlornly by the window, its leaves somewhat wilted, probably because no one has watered it for a long time.

The Bloomberg terminal was still lit up, with real-time data flashing on the screen, like a machine operating without human command, continuing to run on an empty battlefield.

In the corner, only one person remained sitting.

Isabella Chan.

She sat at the workstation by the window, her body ramrod straight, her hands resting on the keyboard, looking at a financial statement on the screen.

She heard footsteps but didn't turn around.

"Everyone else is gone," she said calmly, as if stating a weather forecast. "Including Scott from risk control; he transferred all database access to me before he left. Your two traders went too; they wanted me to tell you they're going to get their paychecks for this month."

She paused, then added:

"The charging cable was plugged under the table; Lindsay forgot to take it."

Lu Ze watched her retreating figure without saying a word.

Isabella finally turned around and looked directly at him.

Aren't you going to ask me why I'm still here?

"I won't ask," Lu Ze said.

She froze for a moment.

You have your reasons; you'll tell me yourself if you want to.

Isabella stared at him for a few seconds. Then she turned back to the screen, her voice regaining its meticulous professional tone:

"The maximum amount of liquid funds available on the books is US$5,124,782.33, which I have recalculated. Goldman Sachs sent three follow-up emails, two from the compliance department and one from the audit secretary, all of which I have filed."

Additionally, the FBI's Economic Crimes Unit contacted our registered attorney this morning, saying it was routine procedure and there has been no formal subpoena yet.

She pushed a printed document onto the table:

"This is the real-time trading data for Bear Stearns from 10:00 AM to 1:00 PM today. I've compiled it. You can look at it if you need it."

Lu Ze walked over and picked up the document. The data was organized extremely neatly, with time points, prices, trading volumes, and volatility all clearly marked, even using different colored highlighters.

He put down the documents and sat down in the empty chair opposite Isabella.

"You graduated from Wharton in 2006," Lu Ze said, his voice calm, as if checking a resume. "Where did you go?"

Isabella's fingers paused on the keyboard for a moment, then continued moving:

"Lazar & Webb, boutique investment bank, leveraged buyout division."

"How long did you stay?"

"Eight months."

silence.

"Then what?"

Isabella didn't answer immediately. Her gaze fell on the table, paused for a moment, and then she said:

"Then I resigned."

His tone was completely flat.

Lu Ze did not ask any further questions.

He knew all too well what those two words might mean. Women on Wall Street, especially minority women, often don't need much explanation when they "leave suddenly," and they usually don't receive any apology.

"Before coming here," he asked, "did you interview anywhere else?"

"I've interviewed at three companies." Isabella's voice remained calm, as if she were reciting a well-rehearsed script.

"At the first company, the interviewer asked for my personal contact information after the interview, saying it would be convenient to 'keep in touch'."

The second company offered me a price $40,000 lower than that of male candidates with similar backgrounds. The HR told me, "This is already the maximum increase."

The third company, I passed the interview, but the day before they were to send me the offer, the HR called to tell me that the position had been 'internally restructured.'

She looked up and stared directly at Lu Ze:

"Then I saw a job posting from Farstar Capital, with an annual salary of 350,000 yuan. The job description was Senior Analyst and Personal Assistant, requiring a Wharton or equivalent degree, a financial engineering background, and the ability to work independently under high pressure."

pause.

"I'm here for an interview, you—"

She changed her mind.

"Back then, you interviewed me for twenty minutes, only asking three simple technical questions about derivative pricing models. You didn't ask about my zodiac sign, whether I had a boyfriend, or whether Asian women are all very hardworking. You didn't look at my neckline more than once."

Her tone was dry and matter-of-fact:

"Then you said, 'Okay, can you come?' I said yes. That's it."

Lu Ze did not speak.

Outside the window, the early spring sunlight in Manhattan's financial district shone on the glass curtain wall, reflecting cold spots of light that streamed into the half-empty office, cutting out several crooked strips of light on the floor.

"so,"

Lu Ze still asked,

"Why didn't you leave today?"

Isabella looked at him.

She remained silent for a long time.

Lu Ze thought she wasn't going to answer the question anymore.

Then she began to speak:

"Because you've changed."

She stared intently at Lu Ze.

"Last night when I walked in, you were standing in front of the Bloomberg terminal, your head wrapped in bandages, a gun in your hand, and covered in blood. But your eyes were different. Not the look of someone who was drunk, cheated, fearful, and angry. It was—"

She paused, as if searching for the right word:

"hunter."

She lowered her gaze:

"I've seen a lot of smart people on Wall Street. I've seen con artists, gamblers, people who are truly playing chess, and people who think they're playing chess when they're just rolling dice."

She raised her head again:

"I don't know who you are, but I know you've changed a lot."

Lu Ze looked at her quietly.

"So I want to see," Isabella said, her voice as calm as if she were submitting a job application, "where exactly are you going."

Lu Ze stood up and walked to the Bloomberg terminal. His fingers landed on the keyboard, the screen refreshed, and the list of institutional investors for two hedge funds under Bear Stearns was displayed. Nearly two hundred names, densely packed.

"Then let's get back to work," he said.

Isabella turned to her terminal screen.

"Okay," she said. "What do you need me to do?"

"Set all database permissions to the highest level," Lu Ze said. "Then book me a hotel room near here with broadband internet, the faster the better. I might need to work for several days in a row."

Isabella's fingers had already begun moving across the keyboard:

"W Hotel, East 49th Street, 10-minute walk, business suite, with Bloomberg interface, available tonight."

"order."

"good."

The sound of keyboard typing returned to the half-empty office, crisp and steady, like some kind of recalibrated metronome.

Outside the window, the Empire State Building casts a long shadow in the sunlight, stretching across the streets of Manhattan, cutting through countless pedestrians in suits, cutting through the ordinary lives of those who are oblivious and heading towards their own doom.