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

Lu Ze walked through the crowd toward the group of Egyptian sarcophagi exhibits.

John Paulson still had that thin, scholarly look, as if he were always in a state of mild malnutrition.

His suit looked like it had been worn for at least three years, and his tie had the kind of pattern you'd find in Macy's discount section.

In this setting filled with custom-made fabrics and hand-stitched details, his attire almost constituted a form of performance art.

But no one would look down on him because of this.

Because everyone in this hall knows that this man in the ill-fitting suit made nearly $15 billion in the past year and a half with a single short-selling deal on subprime mortgages.

David Einhorn stood next to Paulson, holding his signature soda.

He and Paulson were about an arm's length apart, their body language maintaining a tacit parallel—facing the same direction, occasionally exchanging a word or two, but mostly silently observing the hall.

Lu Ze walked up to them.

"John David."

Paulson turned around, adjusted his glasses, and gave a genuine smile, devoid of any social embellishment.

"Lance."

He reached out and gently shook hands.

"Long time no see. I didn't think you'd come tonight. You don't seem like the type to enjoy these kinds of occasions."

"I don't like it."

Lu Ze said.

"But Blankfein sent an invitation. Refusing a personal invitation from the CEO of Goldman Sachs is, in Wall Street, practically tantamount to refusing an olive branch from a godfather."

Einhorn let out a short laugh, probably because he genuinely found it a bit funny.

"If Blankfein is the Godfather,"

Einhorn pointed with his soda glass to Fulder, who was talking loudly with several people on the other side of the hall.

"That guy over there probably thinks he's Caesar."

All three people's eyes fell on Fuld at the same time.

Fulder was standing in the center of the hall, slightly to the north, surrounded by three or four people.

Judging from their demeanor, they are likely Lehman Brothers' clients or executives from some second-tier investment banks.

Fuld's voice was loud, and in the intervals between the string quartets, a few words could be heard intermittently—"ample liquidity," "strategic adjustment completed," and "market overreaction."

His gestures were very large, as if he were presiding over a pre-battle mobilization meeting.

The man who had just killed his closest comrade-in-arms three days ago is now showing everyone an attitude of "everything is under control".

Paulson looked at Fulde for about two seconds, then looked away and down at the red wine in his glass.

He's lost weight since March.

Paulson spoke softly, his tone devoid of sarcasm, revealing only an extremely calm observation.

"He just fired Gregory and Cullen three days ago."

Einhorn said.

"Rumors are circulating on Wall Street that the Executive Committee forced him to cut his losses, leaving him no choice but to make a painful sacrifice."

"With tears in your eyes?"

Paulson raised an eyebrow slightly:

"Would Richard Fuld shed tears?"

"meeting."

Eindhoven took a sip of soda. "For myself."

The sentence lingered between the three people for a second before being drowned out by a new movement in the string quartet.

Paulson turned to Lu Ze, shifting the topic away from Fuld.

"Lance, when we last met, you said you were dealing in a lot of commodities."

Lu Ze nodded.

I remember your exact words back then.

Paulson adjusted his glasses, a self-deprecating smile playing on his lips. Most of the top figures on Wall Street knew that Lu Ze had made a fortune in oil.

"You said you wanted to go to the top of the mast and make money off of humanity."

"I didn't follow."

Paulson frankly stated, "I think commodity valuations have become detached from fundamentals. I don't touch bubbles I don't understand."

"Your judgment is correct," Lu Ze said. "The bubble has indeed deviated from the fundamentals."

Paulson looked at him: "But you did it anyway."

"Because the bubble itself is the fundamentals before it bursts."

Paulson paused for a second, as if he were pondering the words.

Eindhoven stood to the side without interrupting, but his ears were clearly listening intently.

"What's the price of WTI now?" Paulson asked.

"Last Friday's closing price was 139."

Lu Ze said.

Paulson whistled softly. The sound was faint, but it could be heard clearly between the three people.

"Since you bought in, it's risen by about 30%."

Paulson did some mental calculations, "If you were using options..."

He didn't finish his sentence.

As a top fund manager who is also an expert in options pricing, Paulson knows all too well what will happen when a deep out-of-the-money option surges by 30 percent in the underlying asset.

"I'm already clearing out my inventory."

Lu Ze said.

This remark made both Paulson and Einhorn look at him at the same time.

"Clearance sale?"

Eindhoven frowned slightly.

"Now? Oil prices are still rising, and Goldman Sachs just set a target price of $200 last month. You're already selling at $139?"

"It starts from 130," Lu Ze corrected.

Einhorn stared at him for two seconds, then slowly nodded.

He didn't ask why.

Because he himself was someone who chose to short Lehman Brothers when everyone was bullish on it. He understood the logic of "turning away when the consensus is strongest," even though he himself did not have that judgment on oil.

Paulson's reaction was quieter. He simply looked down at the red wine in his glass and spoke after a while.

"You know what, Lance?"

Paulson's voice was soft, carrying a candor that was only revealed on rare occasions.

"When I started shorting subprime mortgages in 2006, my fund was losing money for almost a year. Every month, my investors asked me, 'Are you crazy? The real estate market is booming, why are you betting on it to crash?'"

"The hardest thing that year wasn't losing money. The hardest thing was continuing to trust your own judgment when everyone told you you were wrong."

He looked up at Lu Ze.

"But what you just described is a different kind of difficulty."

"When everyone tells you you're right, when your paper profits are exploding every day, when every market signal is rewarding you, choose to leave."

Paulson paused for a moment.

"This is harder than going against the market trend. Because you're not fighting external criticism, but your own inner greed."

Lu Ze shrugged.

"The more greedy you are, the more fearful you should be."

The three of them were silent for a few seconds. The melody of the string quartet sounded particularly clear during that silence.

Eindhoven broke the silence.

"Since you're in the oil business,"

He looked at Lu Ze, his tone becoming more direct, "So, where do you plan to put the money you escaped?"

The subtext of this question is clear: Are you preparing to short the financial sector, especially Lehman Brothers?

Lu Ze picked up the glass of champagne he had never touched before and gently swirled it under the light. Golden bubbles rose from the glass, like fireworks in a microscopic world.

"David, I watched the recording of your presentation at the Sohn conference."

Lu Ze did not answer his question directly, but instead changed his perspective.

"The way you analyzed Lehman Brothers' financial statements was incredibly professional. Line by line, item by item, like a surgeon."

Einhorn slightly raised his chin, clearly pleased with the compliment. He waited for Lu Ze to continue.

"But surgeons can only tell patients which organ is causing the problem."

Lu Ze looked at him. "He can't tell the patient when you're going to die."

Einhorn's eyes narrowed.

"And you?"

He asked, "Can you tell me?"

Lu Ze looked at the back of Fuld, who was still talking and laughing loudly in the distance, and a very faint smile appeared on the corner of his mouth.

"cannot."

He said, "But I know one thing."

"What?"

"Before a person dies, there will always be a period of time when they feel they cannot die."

Lu Ze turned his gaze away from Fulde and onto Paulson and Einhorn.

"He just cut off his key assets, proving to the market that he can reinvent himself. The South Koreans are still talking to him, and the Middle Eastern money hasn't completely shut down. He now feels the worst is over."

Lu Ze placed the glass of champagne on the edge of the display case next to him without drinking it.

"I think that period of time was this summer."

The three of them fell silent.

At the other end of the hall, Fuld's laughter echoed through the crowd. It was an extremely forceful, almost theatrical laugh, as if to tell everyone: Lehman is fine.

Paulson listened to the laughter, lowered his head, and shook it gently.

"Poor Fulde."

He muttered something to himself.

This was the only emotionally charged sentence John Paulson uttered that night.

...

However, the quiet talks did not continue.

The atmosphere in the entire hall changed when Fuld walked toward them.