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

Beijing, Financial Street.

Beijing in June was sweltering and stifling. There was a thick, heavy feeling in the air, as if it were pressing down on your chest.

Wang Wenyuan sat in his office, looking at the television on the wall that was always tuned to CCTV-2, the financial channel.

The real-time international oil price data in the lower right corner of the screen displayed a number that caused a dull ache in his stomach.

WTI crude oil: $140.21/barrel.

He looked away from the television and down at the three documents spread out on the table.

Three reports from different state-owned enterprises on the implementation of fuel hedging programs.

The first one came from Liu Jianming's airline.

The tone of the announcement was extremely high-spirited.

Liu Jianming officially signed the "zero-cost collar option" contract last month, locking in the $130 cap.

With oil prices now exceeding $140, this means Goldman Sachs is paying Liu Jianming's company a daily spread compensation of $10 per barrel. Multiplying this by the massive exposure covered by the contract, the daily cash inflow is a dizzying figure.

The last paragraph of the report, highlighted in bold red, stated: "Fuel hedging revenue for this quarter is expected to exceed US$2.3 million, effectively alleviating fuel cost pressures and laying a solid foundation for achieving the full-year profit target."

Looking at the line of red characters, Wang Wenyuan felt a bitter taste rise in his mouth.

Liu Jianming is probably sitting in his top-floor office right now, legs crossed, looking at the extra profits on the financial statements due to hedging, with a smug smile on his face.

He could even imagine Liu Jianming casually remarking at an internal meeting, in a nonchalant tone, "Back then, Director Wang from the coordination office came to me and said Goldman Sachs was cheating us, wanting me to spend 300 million on some kind of stop-loss insurance. Luckily, we didn't listen, otherwise those 300 million would have been wasted."

Then the entire conference room erupted in knowing laughter.

Wang Wenyuan turned the report over and placed it face down on the table.

The second and third reports came from two other state-owned enterprises.

The heads of these two companies are surnamed Zhao and Sun, respectively.

Mr. Zhao was Wang Wenyuan's old colleague when they were at the National Development and Reform Commission. The two have known each other for nearly twenty years.

Mr. Sun and Wang Wenyuan had no personal relationship, but Mr. Sun was a well-known conservative, nicknamed "Sun the Iron Abacus" in state-owned enterprise circles.

These two people were persuaded by Wang Wenyuan over the past two months using all his personal connections, political credibility, and professional arguments.

They did not sign the kind of "zero-cost" naked contract that Liu Jianming offered.

They signed the conservative plan strongly advocated by Wang Wenyuan—paying real money in option premiums to buy protection against the price floor.

Specifically, they added a "knockout" clause to their contract: if oil prices fall below $70, the contract will automatically terminate, and losses will be capped within a manageable range.

The cost was that each of them paid an upfront option fee of approximately 30 to 40 million US dollars.

This money, at today's oil price of $140, is a complete waste.

Because of Liu Jianming's "zero-cost" solution, profits are being generated continuously.

While Mr. Zhao and Mr. Sun's conservative plan also locked in the upper limit, the tens of millions of dollars in option fees they paid became a conspicuous and inexplicable cost on the books.

Wang Wenyuan knew what kind of pressure General Manager Zhao and General Manager Sun were currently under.

This morning, Mr. Zhao called him.

The call came in at 10:00 AM Beijing time.

When Wang Wenyuan saw that the caller ID showed it was General Manager Zhao's private number, he took a deep breath and answered the call.

"Old Wang."

Mr. Zhao's voice came through the receiver.

Gone was his usual composed, old-fashioned demeanor. His voice held an extremely rare, almost naked weariness and anxiety.

"Old Wang, the price of gas has reached 140 today."

"I know," Wang Wenyuan said.

"Our conservative plan has a price cap of 135. Goldman Sachs is currently covering the difference with us daily, so that's not a problem. But..."

Mr. Zhao paused for a moment.

"However, the $38 million option protection fee is a separate, incurred, and non-reversible expense in our quarterly financial statements."

"The National Audit Office came during a routine audit last month and came across this expenditure. They asked me why we spent $38 million on insurance against oil prices falling below $70, while Liu Jianming's airline didn't spend a penny and still managed to lock in the maximum coverage."

Mr. Zhao's voice became even hoarser.

"Old Wang, I spent ages explaining to the auditors what 'barrier removal' means, what 'unlimited joint liability' means, and what 'tail risk protection' means. They didn't understand, and they didn't want to understand. They only saw one fact—both were price-locking schemes, but Liu Jianming had zero cost, while I spent thirty-eight million."

"They wrote one sentence in their preliminary report, let me read it to you."

Mr. Zhao's voice began to tremble.

"The expenditure on option premiums lacks sufficient commercial justification, and further investigation is recommended to determine whether there were any decision-making errors or transfer of benefits."

Wang Wenyuan closed his eyes.

Transfer of benefits.

Four words.

Within the system, the mere appearance of these four words in an audit report, even if it's just a "recommendation to investigate," is enough to keep a state-owned enterprise leader up at night.

"Old Wang."

Mr. Zhao's voice became extremely weak in the receiver, like a person drowning in deep water who finally reached out and grabbed the only piece of driftwood he recognized.

"This time, you've really gotten me into serious trouble."

After hanging up the phone, Wang Wenyuan sat in his office for a long time.

He looked out the window at the hazy Beijing sky. On Chang'an Avenue in the distance, cars streamed by, everything seemed normal, as if nothing had happened.

He took out a pack of Zhonghua cigarettes that had already been opened from the drawer.

He had actually quit smoking three years ago.

But today, he took out a cigarette, lit it, and took a deep drag.

The smoke lingered in my lungs for two seconds, bringing a stinging, burning sensation.

He thought of New York.

I was reminded of that teahouse in Chinatown, filled with the fragrance of sandalwood and white tea.

I remembered the young man in the dark blue coat, who told me in a cold, almost cruel tone what kind of knife was hidden in those contracts.

"Never sign any unlimited liability betting agreements with no lower limit on price drops."

That was the last substantial thing Lu Ze said to him.

He listened to what he was told.

He took those words back to Beijing, into meeting rooms of state-owned enterprises, slammed his fist on the table, pleaded with them, and even used his personal connections and political credibility to pull General Manager Zhao and General Manager Sun back from the edge of that "zero-cost" temptation.

But he couldn't stop Liu Jianming.

Because Liu Jianming didn't believe him.

Liu Jianming believed in Goldman Sachs' blue logo, Director Zhang's Monte Carlo simulation, the "3.2% tail probability," and the political security brought by the words "zero cost," which meant he didn't need to explain any expenses to the National Audit Office.

Currently, oil prices are $140.

Liu Jianming is a hero.

General Manager Zhao and General Manager Sun are suspects of "decision-making errors".

Wang Wenyuan, on the other hand, was that muddle-headed bureaucrat who "sought a young man's opinion in New York and caused the state-owned enterprise to spend tens of millions of dollars more."

Wang Wenyuan stubbed out his cigarette in the ashtray and stared at the twisted cigarette butt.

He knew that the right and wrong of all this did not depend on what he heard in New York, nor on what was written on page 47 of the contract.

It depends on a variable that he cannot control.

Oil prices.

If oil prices continue to rise, reaching 150 or 200, Liu Jianming will always be the right hero.

He and General Manager Zhao will bear the stigma of "wasting state-owned assets," and they may never be able to recover their reputations even after retirement.

But what if oil prices turn downwards?

If it falls below 120, below 100, below 80, to that area that everyone thinks is "impossible".

Then the bottomless pit slumbering on page 47 of the "zero-cost" contract that Liu Jianming signed will be like a startled beast, opening its mouth to swallow Liu Jianming, his airline, and the foreign exchange that tens of millions of workers have worked so hard to earn, bite by bite.

As for General Manager Zhao and General Manager Sun, because they spent tens of millions of dollars to buy the "knockout" stop-loss line, they will be automatically ejected from that bottomless pit at the moment the dam collapses.

He lost a leg, but his life was saved.

The question is, will that day ever come?

When are you coming?

Wang Wenyuan didn't know.

He is not Lu Ze.

He doesn't have that chilling, absolute intuition about market trends.

He had only one simple judgment from an old bureaucrat: foreigners won't give you benefits for nothing.

But this judgment is as fragile as a piece of paper in the face of the reality of oil prices at $140.

He picked up the secure phone on the table, intending to call Mr. Lin and ask what the young man thought now.

But his finger hovered over the dial key for two seconds before being released.

He cannot make this call.

Because he is no longer qualified.

In that conversation in New York, Lu Ze had given him everything he could. What remained was his own battlefield.

Wang Wenyuan put the phone back on the table, leaned back in his chair, and closed his eyes.