“I need to borrow some money,” I tell John, once Erjuan is gone.

  He doesn't flinch, as if he's been expecting this request all along. "How much?"

  “As much as you’re comfortable lending.”

  He studies me for a moment, calculating. Then: “Between Claire and me, we can wire ten million. Maybe more. But you’ll need to sign a contract—governed by U.S. law.”

  “I need more,” I say. “And I need it tomorrow.”

  I slide a folded slip of paper across the table. “Jinglun Securities. The account’s clean. Set up for A-share trades.”

  John unfolds the paper, reads it once, then stands. “Give me ten minutes.”

  He steps outside. Through the restaurant’s glass, I watch him pace the sidewalk, phone pressed to his ear, making call after call. His face is unreadable. But his posture is sharp—like a man threading a needle in a storm.

  When he returns, he’s smiling.

  “Ten million is already en route. Monday morning, Citadel Shanghai will send another ten. You don’t need to pay it back. Consider it a gift.”

  I nod. Twenty million is nothing when they’re about to make billions.

  “Wait for my call. First thing Monday morning.”

  … …

  Back home, I find a WeChat message from Sonora: Arrived safely.

  I video call her immediately.

  She’s already checked into a hotel. Her hair’s damp from a shower, her voice soft.

  “I miss you already,” she says. “It’s strange—I suddenly feel like I'm not used to life without you.”

  “Me too.” We only spent two nights together, but the absence feels cavernous.

  I tell her about Erjuan. About the money. She listens, eyes glowing with quiet admiration.

  “You are sure efficient.” She comments.

  “What did you tell Brian?” I ask.

  “I’ll email him tomorrow. Family emergency leave.”

  “They’ll be alerted,” I warn. “Be careful.”

  She nods. “Once the email’s sent, they’ll start tracking. A friend told me WeChat video calls aren’t monitored—but messages are. I’m using VPN. They won’t get my location. Still, we should switch to Telegram.”

  I install VPN and Telegram under her guidance. Then we talk for an hour—about nothing, really. Just the sound of her voice keeps me tethered.

  Unauthorized usage: this narrative is on Amazon without the author's consent. Report any sightings.

  I fall asleep before she hangs up.

  … …

  Sunday afternoon. ****The air feels too still. I step out, hail a taxi, and head toward the mall near Sonora’s apartment. As we pass her building, my stomach knots.

  Police cars. Lights flashing. The entrance propped open. Officers moving in and out like clockwork. No sirens—just quiet urgency. That’s worse.

  I get off at the mall. Buy a hat to block overhead cameras. Sit in Starbucks for two hours, sipping coffee, scrolling aimlessly. Watching the world blur past.

  Then I walk back.

  The police are gone.

  I trail a tenant into the building, ride the elevator with him, press for a higher floor. When it descends, I stop at Sonora’s level.

  The doors slide open.

  Her apartment door is splintered. Yellow tape flutters like a wound. The hallway smells of dust and intrusion.

  I don’t move. Let the doors close.

  Three floors down, the elevator stops. A woman steps in, clutching her purse like a shield.

  As we descend, I say, “Can you believe what happened? It makes me feel unsafe.”

  She exhales sharply. “Yeah. Broad daylight break-in. I’m scared.”

  “You think they’ll catch whoever did it?”

  "They never do," she scoffs. "What's the point of all these cameras if they don't make us any safer?"

  I exit the building fast. Their response was quicker than I expected. They’re watching. They’re moving.

  Back home, I strip everything I wore. Stuff it into a bag. Change clothes. Walk two blocks and dump the bag in a public bin.

  No trace. No pattern. No hesitation.

  The game has begun. And the board is already shifting.

  … …

  Monday morning. I step into my new office. The nameplate reads: David Yao, Team Lead.

  Corner of the trading floor. Glass walls. Close enough to Hansen’s office that I can hear his phone ring, yet far enough to keep my conversations private. What I’m about to do over the next three weeks requires privacy, precision, and plausible deniability.

  I settle in. Start dialing.

  First call: Tomorrow Investment.

  The first wave of directives are structured to short the tech sector. HiTV is the centerpiece—overleveraged, overhyped, and politically exposed.

  After I walk John through the terms, I ask, “How much do you want to take?”

  “Thirty billion. Maximum leverage.”

  “All in?”

  He laughs. “You underestimate us. We have more firepower than you can imagine.”

  “I’ll spread the thirty billion over three days. Otherwise, it may raise flags.”

  “Understood. Whatever you think is best.”

  Next: Claire.

  “David,” she purrs. “I’ve been thinking about you all weekend.”

  “Cut it out, Claire. Let’s talk business.”

  She chuckles, then drills into the product specs—strike prices, margin thresholds, counterparty risk. She’s sharper than John. I’m glad Sonora gave me another crash course last night.

  Eventually, she commits five billion.

  Only ten billion left in inventory.

  Then I walk into Hansen’s office.

  “You want me to reserve some for you?”

  “Two million,” he says. “How much are you taking?”

  “Twenty million, but not all for myself.” I am not lying, some of them are for Sonora. But he must think I’m buying for my uncle. To him that must be the whole point of getting me into the team.

  “Leave half a billion till Thursday,” Hansen says, pointing up the ceiling. “Just in case.”

  He meant Guokai Wang.

  I nod and leave.

  … …

  By mid-morning, the market is moving. Guosen and CITIC are selling short-enabled directives too. We’re drawing attention, but in a two-trillion-RMB daily volume, we’re still shadows in the flood.

  I keep dialing.

  Guotai Junan takes a billion—hedging their long book.

  BlackRock swallows three billion. They’re deep in the Ruby Republic. They smell blood.

  I leave half a billion untouched, as Hansen requested.

  Goldman Sachs, JP Morgan, Fidelity, Bridgewater—they divide up the rest. Quietly. Efficiently.

  Back in my office, I log into Jinglun Securities.

  Twenty million and two hundred thousand Rubian yuan sit in the account.

  I deploy it all—directives and swaps targeting HiTV. Structured to trigger on volatility, designed to cascade.

  I’m all in.

  With 80% leverage.

  The risk is high, but I'm betting with someone else’s money.

  This isn’t just a trade. It’s a blueprint. A future—for Sonora and for me.

  And if the system burns in the process?

  So be it.