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

The banquet began to end around 10 p.m.

Lu Ze was among the first to leave.

He disliked the atmosphere when the show ended. That hypocritical warmth where "everyone was pretending to be reluctant to leave, but actually just wanted to go home as soon as possible."

He walked out of the side door of the hall, bypassed the steps at the main entrance that were blocked by flashing lights and security personnel, and walked along a stone path on the north side of the museum toward the parking lot.

In mid-June, New York finally felt a touch of coolness after nightfall. The wind blowing from the direction of Central Park carried the scent of leaves and earth, a stark contrast to the thick, pungent smell of perfume, alcohol, and power that had filled the lobby earlier.

Lu Ze took a deep breath.

Just then, he saw someone.

The man sat on a rather inconspicuous stone staircase on the north side of the museum, leaning against a thick pillar.

This position is right in the blind spot of the main entrance—guests coming out can't see him, and passersby can't notice him either.

He was wearing a dark gray suit with his tie loosely tied. He held a nearly burnt-out cigarette between his fingers, the red glow of the cigarette butt flickering in the twilight.

Lu Ze slowed his pace.

It wasn't because he recognized the person. In fact, he had never seen that face before.

It was not because of the person's posture while sitting there.

Exhausted, but with nowhere to go.

In the days following Bear Stearns' collapse, Lu Ze witnessed far too many such gestures on the steps of 383 Madison Avenue.

That's the posture of those people who sit on the stone steps in front of the former employer's building, holding cardboard boxes and staring blankly at the ground.

But this person is different.

Although his suit was loose-fitting, the fabric was of a quality that ordinary employees couldn't afford. Lu Ze noticed a faint blue tinge on the badge on his chest.

The Lehman Brothers logo.

Lu Ze stopped beside the stone steps.

The man heard footsteps and looked up.

Their eyes met in the June night.

The man was probably around forty-five years old, with a thin face, high cheekbones, and deep-set eyes. His skin tone was likely a grayish-white, the result of long hours working under fluorescent lights and recent severe sleep deprivation.

"Excuse me," Lu Ze said, his tone calm and unobtrusive. "Is this seat taken?"

That statement is somewhat absurd. This is a set of public stone steps outside the museum, not seating in a restaurant.

But the man clearly understood the true meaning of those words—I'd like to sit down, would you mind?

The man glanced at Lu Ze, his gaze lingering on his deep blue evening suit for a second, before shaking his head slightly.

"Please go ahead."

Lu Ze sat down on the stone steps next to him, maintaining a proper distance.

Two men, dressed in suits worth a combined tens of thousands of dollars, sat side by side on the steps of the Metropolitan Museum of Art. In the distance, the occasional dull thud of a car door closing and the whispers of security personnel could be heard from the direction of the main entrance.

Lu Ze did not speak first.

The man also remained silent for a while.

Then he stubbed out the nearly burnt-out cigarette butt on the stone steps, the ash scattering into a very pale gray in the night wind.

"You came out from inside?"

The man spoke, his voice hoarse, carrying the dryness of someone who had spoken too much.

"Um."

"How is it?"

The man asked, "Is it lively inside?"

This is a rather odd way of asking the question. If he were also a guest at the banquet, he wouldn't need to ask others whether it was lively inside.

"It's very lively," Lu Ze said. "Some people are giving speeches, some are socializing, and some are arguing."

"quarrel?"

The man's lips twitched, whether in a wry smile or something else, it was hard to tell. "Who and who?"

"Richard Fuld, and David Einhorn."

Lu Ze didn't include himself in the argument; perhaps he didn't consider it a quarrel.

The man's fingers paused slightly.

The pause was very short, only about half a second, but Lu Ze caught it.

"Do you know Fuld?" Lu Ze asked.

The man turned his head and glanced at Lu Ze. His eyes held the look of a caged animal looking at someone outside—a mixture of weariness and wariness.

"I worked at Lehman Brothers."

The way he said it sounded like he was acknowledging an illness.

Lu Ze showed no surprise. He simply nodded slightly, as if he had heard information that was entirely within his expectations.

Which department?

"Investment management."

The man's answer was brief.

"I'm in charge of Lu Bomei."

Lu Ze remained calm, but his mind began to calculate rapidly.

Neuberger Berman. Lehman Brothers' highest-quality and cleanest asset management company. It manages over $200 billion in client funds and has no subprime exposure whatsoever.

In Lehman's increasingly decaying body, this was the only healthy organ that was not infected.

The person sitting next to him is the guardian of this organ.

Michael Stern.

The man extended his hand and made a belated self-introduction.

Lu Ze shook hands with him. Stern's palms were dry, but his fingertips were a little cool.

"Lance Walker."

When Stern heard the name, his body had an extremely small, almost imperceptible reaction.

"Yuanxing Capital."

Stern uttered those four words.

"You know me."

"Everyone on Wall Street knows you."

Stern's tone contained neither flattery nor hostility, only an extremely weary objectivity.

"The deal you made with Bear Stearns has been discussed internally. Many times."

"What are we discussing?"

"How could a small fund with only five million US dollars on its books dare to gamble its entire fortune on Bear Stearns' demise when everyone else was optimistic about it?"

Stern watched the taillights of the last few cars driving away in the direction of the main gate.

"Richard (Fuld) said at the meeting, 'You're just lucky.' He said that every year on Wall Street, a few crazy people like that pop up, and most of them disappear the following year."

"And then I heard you made a fortune on oil."

Stern's voice became softer.

"So Richard stopped saying you were lucky. He started saying you were a schemer, a Chinese speculator colluding with short sellers."

Lu Ze listened to these words without any emotional fluctuation.

"Why didn't you go in tonight?" Lu Ze asked.

The question has shifted direction. It's no longer about Farstar, nor about Bear Stearns, but about Stern himself.

Stern was silent for a few seconds.

"I'm not high enough," he said.

"The guest list for this kind of dinner is for CEOs and above. I'm here because Neuberger Berman has a collaborative project with the Metropolitan Museum of Art's educational endowment. I'm here to handle some paperwork and signing."

He paused.

"After I finished dealing with it, I didn't leave immediately. I wanted to sit outside for a while."

The latter part of that sentence was spoken so softly it was almost swallowed up by the night wind.

Lu Ze did not press him to ask why he wanted to sit for a while.

An executive who had just witnessed his company's COO and CFO being ousted, his two self-rescue plans being rejected by the CEO, and the entire Wall Street quietly severing its credit ties with his company, sat on a stone staircase unseen by anyone on a quiet night, smoking a cigarette and spacing out for a while.

This needs no explanation.

In the distance, the last car heading towards the main entrance drove away. Security personnel began to retract the red safety barriers. The museum's exterior lights began to dim one by one, and the limestone facade gradually faded from honey gold to a cool gray.

Lu Ze stood up.

He straightened the hem of his suit jacket and put his hands in his trouser pockets.

"Mr. Stern."

Stern looked up.

"You just said that Neuberger Berman manages over two hundred billion dollars in client assets."

"Yes."

Are these assets completely separated from the balance sheet of Lehman Brothers' parent company?

This is an extremely technical and sensitive issue.

Stern's eyes narrowed. He paused for a moment, as if weighing whether he should answer, and to what extent.

"From a legal perspective, yes."

He concluded by saying, "Neer Berman is a separate legal entity, and client funds are held in separate escrow accounts, theoretically unaffected by the bankruptcy of Lehman Brothers' parent company."

"Theoretically." Lu Ze repeated these two words.

Stern didn't reply. But his silence itself was an answer.

"Theoretically" means that in reality, this barrier may not be as robust as it appears on legal documents. Whether the barrier can hold in place if Lehman's parent company were to attempt to use Neuberger Berman's assets to cover its losses in some extreme situation would depend on many factors—corporate governance structure, the speed of regulatory intervention, and whether Stern himself has sufficient power and willingness to protect his clients at that moment.

Lu Ze took out a business card from his pocket.

It was a white card with only a handwritten name and a phone number.

He handed it to Stern.

Stern took it and glanced at it.

Lance Walker

Below is a line of handwritten numbers.

"I don't know how much longer you'll stay at Lehman."

Lu Ze's voice was extremely calm, without any pressure or hints, simply stating a fact.

"But Neuberger Berman is a great company and shouldn't be dragged down with Lehman Brothers."

Stern held the card, his fingers tightening slightly.

He had many questions. He wanted to know why Farstar Capital was so knowledgeable about Neuberger Berman's structure. He wanted to know if Lu Ze was shorting Lehman Brothers. He wanted to know if, if he made that call, a lifeline or another trap awaited him.

But he didn't ask a single question.

Stern put the card in the inside pocket of his suit, the one closest to his body.

"Mr. Walker."

"Um?"

Stern stood up and dusted off his trousers. His gaze lingered on Lu Ze's face for a second, as if making a final assessment.

"You were there tonight at the clash between Richard and Eindhoven?" Stern said.

"Present."

What do you think?

Lu Ze thought for a moment.

"A person who is out of control."

He said.

Stern nodded and said nothing more.

He turned and walked down the stone steps, heading towards the path behind the museum that leads to the subway station.

He didn't have a private car, nor was there a black Mercedes waiting for him by the roadside.

He was just a middle-aged man walking alone to the subway station late at night, wearing a gray suit that was neither cheap nor luxurious.

Lu Ze stood on the stone steps, watching Stern's figure disappear into the shadows of the trees next to Central Park.

Although Farstar has a great reputation, with its current financial resources, acquiring Neuberger Berman is still a pipe dream.

However, as we all know, the current Farstar is not the same as the future Farstar; the current Lubemarle is not the same as the future Lubemarle.