The news cycle has been ruthless toward Antz Financial. I admire Lyra’s efficiency—it must be her, no one else could orchestrate a takedown of that scale overnight.

  Every major news outlet now features the same image on their homepage: Snow Ma, disheveled, being escorted by a pretty policewoman, alongside in-depth analyses of Dapeng Liu's death.

  The victim's background quickly surfaced: son of Liaoning migrant workers—farmers who toil in cities without residence permits. He was a drama student at Capital Normal University with no income, yet had borrowed 200,000 yuan from Antz Financial. The crushing 36% interest rate overwhelmed him. Desperate to stay afloat, he took any paying job. On the day he died, he was interviewing at Heavenly Earthborn, hoping to become a male dancer.

  Heavenly Earthborn—a name that now oozes scandal. The establishment frequented by capital's elite, where sex trades for status, where money crosses boundaries neither ideology nor shame can contain. It stands mere blocks from the Summer Palace. A quiet defiance to everything the Party claims to uphold.

  The owner has vanished. Nevertheless, connections to Yuan Ma, the internet magnate, were established.

  Then came the photos: Snow Ma lounging at the bar, in different outfits, frozen in Gossip News’s photo gallery. A bartender claimed she'd never paid for a drink, never even kept a tab. When asked, the manager shrugged. “She owns the place.”

  She was released less than an hour after detainment. No motive established, no charges filed. This only intensified public outrage and fueled wild speculations.

  Online forums and comment sections exploded. Wild theories were conjured up to explain why a billionaire's daughter would murder a poor college student: a secret affair, a cover-up, a pregnancy, a child in hiding. Everyone had “inside information.” Everyone knew “the real story.”

  The public never trusts the police—especially when the stakes involve dynasties and money.

  I skimmed the latest speculation with idle curiosity. Then Junru stepped in, guiding Gang Yao into my office.

  I look up at Junru—tall, voluptuous, with a cold, aloof demeanor—yet skilled in the art of male persuasion. Lyra's parting words echo in my mind: "I have eyes, hands, and pussies everywhere." I wonder now: is Junru one of hers?

  I'll have to excise some of Lyra’s tendrils once I ascend to General Secretary. A necessary purge.

  Gang Yao, FRC Vice Chairman for financial markets, followed in. He holds a master's degree from the University of Tokyo, once worked in finance across Japan and France, only to give up high salaries and return for ideals or influence—perhaps both. One of the architects of our futures market. Jingtao Hu selected him. Qiuhan Wang protects him.

  Only fifty three years old, he has great potential. A tall figure in the Ruby Republic—183 cm, lean, symmetrical. Photogenic enough to be cast as a villainous officer in a state-endorsed drama. In real life, his presence commands silence. Overseeing stock insurance for so long, they call him “King of IPOs.”

  Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

  He made his name shaping the sponsor system, reforming our approvals, building a reputation as incorruptible—or at least efficiently corrupt.

  Antz Financial is his pet project. He doesn’t respect me. He thinks I sit here only because of my father. He rarely consults me. He sees no reason to fear me. Qiuhan’s shadow covers him well.

  But Antz’s IPO is too prominent. For final clearance, it needs my signature.

  “Chairman Bo,” he says, bowing slightly, “Eric Jin is here. Will you see him?”

  Jin—the CEO of Antz Financial, COO of Aladdin. Here to salvage what’s left of their IPO.

  “You think I should?” I ask.

  Yao’s lips twitch. He barely conceals the smirk. He thinks I’m soft. That suits me just fine.

  "Bao Fang is with him," he says, watching for any flicker of hesitation in my expression.

  I raise an eyebrow. Bao Fang, Qiuhan’s fixer. He should operate from the shadows, not march in with a failing executive. This reeks of desperation and breaks the usual protocol.

  I wait a beat.

  "Take them to my meeting room," I say, returning my attention to my computer and the swirling gossip about Antz Financial.

  … …

  A narrow hallway lined with frosted glass leads to my private meeting room—deliberately modest, veiled in utilitarian calm. The walls are paneled in muted walnut: subdued, bureaucratic, designed to diffuse expectations. Along one side stretches a low credenza, its surface orderly, bearing archival boxes stamped with the FRC seal—partially visible, just enough to imply weight without full disclosure.

  At the room’s center stands an oval table of red wood, framed ten rigid chairs engineered for posture rather than comfort. My own seat is slightly offset and subtly raised—its armrests worn smooth, its position never mistaken.

  As I enter, Eric Jin and Bao Fang rise, their smiles shaped by etiquette and calculation.

  “Chairman Bo, thank you for taking the time to meet with us,” Jin begins.

  "Supporting enterprises is my responsibility. What can I do for you?" I gesture for them to take their seats.

  They wait until I’m seated before lowering themselves—mechanical deference, performed often enough to seem instinctive.

  “The issuance review is only two days away,” Jin says, voice tiptoeing. “Is there anything… we’ve overlooked? We welcome any guidance, Chairman.”

  "Let Gang and his team look it over," I say casually, glancing toward Gang Yao. "But I've seen quite a bit of news these past two days. It doesn't look good on Antz Financial at all!"

  “It’s just envy,” Jin says, failing to sound convinced. “Baseless rumors.”

  "A thirty-six percent interest rate charged to a college student," I interrupt, letting the number land cold. "Was that a rumor?"

  My tone sharpens. “Predatory lending is a serious offense in the Republic.”

  The Republic’s legal code is sprawling—redundant, often self-contradictory. Its maze of regulations seems engineered to ensnare private entrepreneurs, luring them into technical infractions. In this case, however, I can display perfectly justified indignation.

  Bao Fang reads the shift. He bows slightly, the gesture measured.

  “Secretary Wang believes it may be best to postpone the review. Let Antz handle the optics first, then reconvene. Is that agreeable?”

  Once again, I raise my eyebrows.

  His invocation of Qiuhan Wang is reckless. Every meeting room in every agency contains listening devices. Dropping Wang’s name hands ammunition to his rivals.

  Yes, Wang still wears the Ruby Five pin, and his perch atop Discipline Inspection grants him teeth. But retirement looms. Why would he use someone so indiscreet?

  Still—Wang has been invoked. To resist would be needlessly provocative.

  Without rescheduling, rejection is certain. But postponing comes with a price.

  “Crisis management first is wise,” I reply calmly. “Secretary Hu once mentioned someone quite adept at this kind of containment… What was his name? My memory isn’t what it once was.”

  “You’re too modest,” Jin simpers.

  “Ah, he’s an investor. Like Bao. Jianhua Xiao.”

  “Certainly, certainly,” Eric Jin nods, too eagerly. “We’ll reach out immediately.”

  A flicker of irritation crosses Bao’s face—tight, bitter. He understands me.

  Before they return, they’ll need Xiao’s signature on whatever compromise they plan to offer. Without it, they’re wasting my time.