To be cautious, Sonora and I take separate cabs to the office. Shanghai Financial District feels post-apocalyptic this Saturday noon—its glass-and-steel towers looming like silent sentinels over empty plazas. Long shadows stretch across the concrete, where weekday crowds normally surge like tides. Even the LED tickers have stopped flickering, as if the market itself is holding its breath.

  Inside the meeting room, there are only five of us.

  Guokai Wang, the Chairman of the Board.

  Hansen Zhang, the trading director.

  Brian Wang, director of Structured Products.

  Then Sonora. And me.

  No teams. No assistants. No handouts. No buzz of secretaries or clatter of coffee cups. Just silence and consequence.

  Sonora opens the Haitong software with a flick of her wrist, and the screen on the wall blooms to life. She begins—line by line—explaining each product she engineered. The components. The quantities. The target prices. The break-even thresholds for clients. The profit margins for the firm.

  Her voice is low, deliberate. Each sentence lands like a scalpel. She's not just presenting—she's architecting. A symphony of directives and financial structures. She explains the relationships between each instrument with precision, demonstrating how she maximized the firm's inventory while perfectly balancing client gains against company profits.

  The swaps and directives she engineered are intricate, layered with contingencies and leverage triggers, but her delivery makes them accessible. Her expertise is not superficial—it's functional. It lives in how she anticipates market movements, how she commands understanding of sophisticated financial mechanisms without overwhelming her audience.

  Her beauty is not ornamental—it’s kinetic. It lives in the way she thinks, the way she commands attention without demanding it.

  Her dark hair is pulled back, revealing the sharp geometry of her jawline. Her eyes—intelligent, unflinching—glow with the quiet thrill of creation. In these moments, when her brilliance is unshackled, I find her devastating. Not just mesmerizing. Dangerous.

  Hansen interjects occasionally, testing her logic, probing for weakness. But their exchanges spark insight, not friction. It’s clear who earned their seats at this table. And who inherited them.

  Brian, Guokai’s son, says nothing. Guokai watches, but contributes nothing. His lineage is political, not intellectual. He’s here because of blood, not merit.

  That’s why they need Sonora. That’s why they need Hansen.

  And then I think about myself.

  In their eyes, I’m here because of my uncle.

  Sonora speaks for nearly three hours. Then she closes her laptop, her part complete. She doesn’t linger. She doesn’t gloat. She simply folds her hands and waits.

  Now it’s Hansen’s turn.

  He outlines the sales strategy with clinical detachment. Two groups.

  The pre-orders—reserved for the insiders, the political families, the ones this whole thing is designed for.

  And the rest—sold to anyone who can be persuaded that the market is about to collapse.

  That’s where I come in.

  The more I sell, the harder the market crashes.

  The harder it crashes, the more the first group profits.

  The sales will unfold in three waves, over three weeks.

  Week one: groundwork.

  Target weak stocks—companies bleeding cash, missing earnings, ripe for collapse.

  Stolen story; please report.

  Engineering leaks of bad news. FRC investigations. Regulatory whispers.

  Build momentum. Create a narrative of decay.

  Week two: volume.

  Short the indices.

  Turn the tide.

  Make the market flinch.

  Week three: the kill.

  The true beneficiaries swoop in.

  They wait until the panic peaks.

  They need cover—retail sellers, foreign speculators, noise.

  The steeper the fall, the sweeter the gain.

  “We need flawless coordination with CITIC and Guosen,” Hansen says. “I’m in constant contact with Mason and Harry. The circuit breaker will slow the drop in the stocks we target in week one, but it won’t stop it. We estimate it’ll take two weeks to hit bottom. Then the broader market will follow. Once the market nosedives, retail will panic. FRC will likely ban shorting at some point. That’s why timing is everything.”

  Then he says it, what we've all been waiting to hear.

  “We need the D-Day.”

  Guokai Wang stands. “Wait here.”

  He crosses the hall to his office and shuts the door behind him.

  The room falls into a hush.

  Brian and Hansen exchange glances—quick, electric.

  Hansen drums his fingers against his thigh, a rhythm of anticipation.

  Brian checks his watch, not out of impatience, but calculation.

  They’re counting down to their impending windfall.

  Sonora remains still.

  Her posture is impeccable, her expression unreadable.

  She was given a task, and she finished it. That's all.

  Now she is just a detached observer, with no vested interests.

  She's done a great job, a job she takes no pride in but rather regrets for its uncomfortable perfection.

  Five minutes pass.

  Guokai returns.

  “Sonora, you can go home now,” he says. “You’ve done a fantastic job.”

  She nods once, gathers her things, and walks to the elevator.

  Guokai watches her the entire way.

  Only when the doors close does he speak again.

  “This stays in this room,” he says.

  “You know this comes from the very top.”

  He points upward.

  “Way above my pay grade.”

  We all nod. Even me.

  Then he waits. Ten seconds.

  A gesture.

  We lean in.

  His voice drops to a whisper.

  “June 12th.”

  … …

  When I step out of the meeting room, it’s already five fifteen. The air feels heavier than it did coming in—thick with plans I didn't make, can't control, and now belong to.

  When food arrives, Sonora is nowhere to be found. Just left a WeChat, “No matter how late, I’ll wait.”

  I try to call her, there is no answer.

  Hansen had been making a phone call in a small conference room. Now he strolls over, smiling like a man who’s just cashed in on someone else’s future. “Don’t worry about Sonora,” he says. “She can’t come with us anyway.”

  Dinner is quick, takeout, almost ceremonial. Everyone’s buzzing. Guokai announces the next destination like a prize: the Little Red Mansion. Legendary. Inaccessible. Almost mystical.

  I can’t refuse. Guokai says it’s my uncle’s idea—for me to experience the Ruby Republic.

  But I already know: this isn’t about experience.

  It’s about initiation.

  The Little Red Mansion isn't on any maps. We wind through narrow streets in the French Concession, past colonial villas and walled compounds, until we reach an unmarked gate flanked by two men in black suits who don't even pretend to smile.

  They recognize Guokai immediately. A nod, and the gates part.

  The courtyard is immaculate—ancient stone paths cut through manicured gardens. A Shikumen structure, modernized with quiet menace. Cameras disguised as lanterns. Motion sensors tucked into ornamental stone.

  Inside, the air is thick with sandalwood and wealth. The foyer opens to a main hall where contemporary art pieces hang alongside antique scrolls. Crystal chandeliers cast everything in amber, like we’ve stepped into a memory someone paid to preserve.

  Then she appears.

  Mid-thirties. Dress slit high enough to make you wonder if it’s the only thing she’s wearing. Her smile is precise. Her walk—rehearsed. Every movement calibrated to seduce without seeming to try.

  “Chairman Wang,” she says, bowing slightly. “You haven’t been here in a long time.”

  Guokai chuckles. “I’m too old to play the young man’s game.” Then he gestures toward me. “I’ve brought an honored guest. Put everything on my tab.”

  She turns to me. Her eyes scan me like a jeweler inspecting a stone. I try to look unfazed, but she steps into my space—close enough for me to look down her dress, see the curves of her breasts and her rosy nipples.

  “Why don’t you come with me,” she says, voice like velvet. She takes my hand and turns, leading me down a corridor.

  The others follow.

  We enter a dimly lit room—larger than expected, with low sofas lining the walls. The lighting is warm, seductive, designed to blur edges and soften judgment.

  Then the perfume hits. A wave of it. And with it, the girls.

  They enter in silence, dozens of them, standing in formation like a living catalog. The visual impact is immediate—cleavage, thighs, lips curled into practiced smiles that don't quite reach the eyes.

  The woman still holds my hand. Now she slides it to her waist. Her skin is warm, the silk cool. My breath shortens. My mouth dries. I never thought of myself as a lecher, but this place is engineered to bypass thought.

  “May I ask your name, handsome?” she says.

  “David,” I manage.

  “David, darling,” she purrs. “Why don’t you pick four girls and get the diamond service.”

  Four.

  The girls smile at me, waiting. Expectant. Like I’m supposed to know what that means.

  I look at Hansen for help. He shrugs. "I've never had diamond service. But I'd choose voluptuous over just pretty."

  I nod, pretending to understand.

  But inside, the questions pile up.

  What is this place?

  What does full works mean?

  Will I walk out with something I can’t cure?

  What will Sonora think—if she ever finds out?

  And more importantly—

  How much of me will be left when I leave?