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

11:00 AM.

A cross-departmental conference call about the housing mortgage market.

Steele leaned back in his chair, the receiver between his shoulder and ear, twirling a pen in his hand.

The meeting content was completely unoriginal.

The OCC representative read out the latest default rate data, which showed a slight increase compared to last month, but did not exceed any warning thresholds.

The FDIC representative stated in a carefully crafted tone that they "will continue to monitor relevant trends."

OTS briefly reported the capital adequacy ratios of several savings institutions; the figures were all within safe limits, and their tone was as calm as reading a weather forecast.

Steele jotted down a few numbers in his notebook, circled one, and then crossed it out.

In a 45-minute meeting, only about five minutes were truly informative.

The remaining time is spent by each department fulfilling the procedural obligation of "we have discussed it".

In Washington, many meetings are not designed to solve problems, but rather to ensure that if problems arise in the future, everyone can point to the meeting minutes and say, "I was there, I mentioned it."

The meeting ended. Steele hung up the phone and wrote a final line in his notebook: "No follow-up needed."

He stood up and stretched his neck.

Looking out the office window, pedestrians on Pennsylvania Avenue walked slowly in the midday sun, and heat was already rising from the pavement.

Back at his desk, he glanced at the Bloomberg terminal.

S&P: 1280.

He stared at the number for two seconds. 1280.

It's exactly the same as before the open letter was released on Monday.

Forty-eight hours of panic, a complete cycle, and the numbers are back to square one. It's as if nothing ever happened.

He picked up the half-cold Americano, took another sip, paused in his mouth for a moment, and then swallowed.

The bitterness of cold coffee is sharper than when it's hot, but he doesn't mind.

He was thinking that maybe he could leave earlier this afternoon. His wife mentioned last week that a new Italian restaurant had opened in Georgetown, and he had promised to take her there, but he had already postponed it twice.

The first time was because of the cleanup work following Bear Stearns' departure, and the second time was because the internal assessment meeting between the two companies dragged on until 8 p.m.

He remembered that when his wife was turned down for the second time, there was a silence of about three seconds on the other end of the phone, and then she said, "It's okay."

He was familiar with that "it's okay" tone, which meant "it's okay, but I know it's no use saying it."

It should be fine today. There's nothing urgent on my desk.

12:30 PM.

He ate while flipping through the feedback document on the revision of community bank regulatory standards. Page thirty-two. When he got to page eleven, he realized he had read three paragraphs in a row but couldn't remember anything, so he went back and read it again.

These texts are so dry that the brain automatically enters an energy-saving mode where "the eyes are moving but not processing information."

At 1:45 p.m., he crumpled the sandwich wrapper into a ball and threw it in the trash can, washed his hands, and returned to his desk to continue working.

Two o'clock in the afternoon.

Sunlight streamed in from the other side of the window.

The shadows in the office shifted; the side with the bookshelves, which was originally bright, is now dark, while the side with the desk is illuminated and appears white.

While working on a document that required a signature, a sentence suddenly popped into Steele's head.

"The most dangerous moment is when everyone stops talking about risks."

He glanced out the window. The sky was clear and cloudless. The shadows of the pedestrians were short, barely touching his feet.

Nobody's talking about risk today. Everyone's talking about a rebound.

This gave him a vague feeling, like walking down the street and suddenly realizing he'd forgotten his keys, only to find them still in his pocket and feel relieved.

He lowered his head and continued signing documents.

4 PM. Market closes.

The S&P 500 closed at 1282. It not only fully recovered Monday's losses but was also slightly higher than before the open letter was issued.

Crude oil at $144.80. Lehman Brothers at $17.80, the first time in three days that a price level has emerged that prevents Fuld from wanting to smash the ashtray again.

Farstar Capital's open letter has officially been relegated to a minor episode in the market's memory, lasting less than forty-eight hours.

Steele finished signing the last document at 4:15, capped his pen, and put it back in the pen holder.

He picked up his phone and sent his wife a text message: "Which Italian restaurant are we going to tonight? 7:30?"

The reply came quickly. "Great. I'll make a reservation. Come back early to change."

He put his phone in his pocket, a slight smile playing on his lips. He stood up, pushed his chair under the table, picked up his coat from the back of the chair, put it on, buttoned it up, and straightened his tie. He zipped up his briefcase, which contained two documents he needed to review the next day, and carried it in his hand.

He glanced around the office one last time. The desk was tidy, the files were neatly arranged, and the green closing numbers on the Bloomberg terminal screen glowed quietly.

The light outside the window was slowly turning from white to gold, echoing the color he had seen when he drew back the curtains that morning.

everything is fine.

It was a few minutes past five in the afternoon.

He had already reached the door. His hand was on the doorknob.

The secure phone on the table behind me rang.

That ringtone was different from a regular landline. It had a lower pitch and a slower frequency, making it exceptionally clear in the quiet office.

Within the Ministry of Finance's internal system, the ringing of this phone signifies that the caller is someone in the inner circle.

Steele stood in the doorway for a second. Then she turned and walked back, placed her briefcase on the table, and glanced at the caller ID.

He answered the call.

"Steel."

He recognized the voice on the other end of the phone. It was someone from OTS. The speaker wasn't fast, but there was no small talk; they got straight to the point.

Steele listened for about ten seconds, then interrupted him.

"Wait a minute. Are you referring to the cumulative figures from the past few days, or just today?"

The other party replied.

Steele froze for a moment. He slowly unbuttoned his coat, took it off, and draped it back over the chair.

"What's the situation with the depositors now?"

The other person spoke for a while.

"They're at the branch entrance. Is there a queue?"

"When did it start?"

......

Steele pulled out a chair and sat down.

"Does the FDIC know?"

.....

"What did they say?"

The other person spoke again, and it was longer than the previous one.

As Steele listened, he picked up a pen and quickly wrote a few numbers on the notepad in front of him, drew a line, and emphasized the end of the line.

How big is this gap?

The other party gave a number.

The pen stopped on the paper, and Steele did not continue writing.

The office was quiet. Golden sunlight from the window shone on his profile; his expression didn't change much, but the hand gripping the receiver slowly tightened.

"Okay. I understand."

His voice was flat.

"Don't say anything to anyone yet, not a single word. We'll discuss the next steps after I finish my call with Paulson."

After hanging up, he put the receiver back on the base and sat in the chair without moving.

His gaze unconsciously fell on the corner of the table. The daily briefing that he had put aside was still lying there, with Farstar Capital's open letter sandwiched in the middle, half of the page foot showing.

He made himself look away.

Pick up your phone.

My wife's "That's great" message was still displayed on the screen.

He typed a message below: "Sorry, I can't go tonight. Something came up. I'll definitely go next time."

After sending the message, he placed the phone face down on the table, then picked up the secure phone and dialed Paulson's private number.

"Hank, it's me. Are you free to talk now? I need to come up."

He stood up, pulled out the notepad and put it in his pocket, picked up his briefcase and left the office.

The corridor was empty; most people had already left work. The sound of leather shoes echoed from the end of the corridor onto the marble floor.

On the desk in the office behind me, a cell phone screen lit up briefly and then went out again, the open letter from Yuanxing appearing obscure in the sunlight and shadow.