A casual drink request turns into dinner. David’s riding high — a few million in gains may be a rounding error in Haitong’s books, but for him, it’s a breakthrough. Maybe even a turning point.

  What he doesn’t realize is that it might also be a turning point for the entire market.

  I'm surprised he's oblivious of the machinations that led to his win. He should have known. Being the nephew of the "King of IPOs"—who's pulling strings from the shadows—has its privileges. Not just anyone gets groomed as the bond trading lead at Haitong Securities or can swap tips with John Crawford.

  We’re perched on the sixth floor of L+ Mall, tucked into a window seat. Below, Shanghai glows like a circuit board — towers blinking, traffic pulsing, the city’s financial circuitry humming into the night.

  Around us, the restaurant is a quiet hive of finance types — sleeves rolled, voices low, phones face-down but never far. Deals are being digested alongside dumplings.

  “Braised pork belly, crystal river shrimp, truffle mapo tofu, and crab xiao long bao,” David orders with the confidence of someone doesn't need to check the price. Then, without glancing at the bilingual menu: “And a bottle of the 2012 Casillero del Diablo Cabernet Sauvignon.”

  He’s glowing. And I’m genuinely happy for him.

  “I hope you like Shanghai food,” he says, smiling like he owns the city. "This restaurant is quite authentic."

  "That's what I heard," I reply, tilting my head just enough to show him my better angle. "And yes, I do enjoy Shanghai cuisine."

  "Are you from the Northeast?" he asks.

  It’s not my accent — it’s my height. Northeastern women tend to stand tall. He’s tall too. One of the few things we share.

  “Liaoning,” I admit, slipping off my coat. Letting him see the deep cleavage — tall, yes, and more.

  “How do you like Shanghai?” he leans in, eyes lingering, struggling to look away.

  “Not bad. How do you like your new job?” I turn the table.

  "To be honest, I wish I was trading equities. But tonight… trading bonds felt good. Really good." His smile is full, almost boyish.

  "You know, when the bull market runs out of steam, more people will be moved into bonds. You're the only one trading them now. That puts you first in line for lead." I point out the obvious.

  “Interesting. I hadn’t thought of it that way.” He nods, feeling good about his situation. “Do you think the bull market will end soon?”

  Will it end? Given what Lyra told me—and my assignment—it’s not just ending. It's collapsing. And today's event tells me, the clock is already ticking. If this is truly a coordinated effort of many state-owned firms, we’re looking at one of the greatest stock market falls in modern history. And his uncle is the mastermind behind it all.

  “All bull markets end,” I understate the impending catastrophe.

  “I thought the Ruby Republic was different. The housing market’s been booming for seventeen years.”

  The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

  "True," I nod. "But stocks are different. They run on hype and retail money. Eighty percent of A-Share volume comes from retail investors — most of them with very little financial knowledge. Many are first-time buyers. Baidu's search index for 'how to open a brokerage account' has trended to an all-time high. Ten times higher than I the last bull run."

  “You’re really observant,” he says, impressed. “I never thought to look at Baidu search data.”

  That's what he took from all that? His innocence is almost touching. Maybe that’s why his uncle keeps him in the dark.

  “I heard you’re friends with John Crawford,” I shift gears. “He’s a legend in trading circles. What’s he like?”

  “I met him in the States. We worked at the same firm. He was generous — showed me the ropes, helped me buy my house. A great guy.”

  That’s the voice of someone who’s never had to claw for anything. I don’t want to bring up his uncle. I'm sure he wouldn’t like it. But his uncle's fingerprints are evident in every step of his career.

  “Would you like to meet him?” He continues, “I’m sure he’d love to meet you. You’re sharp — it’s a waste you’re not trading.”

  Introducing me to another man? Why isn't he jealous? That worries me a little.

  The wine arrives. The waiter uncorks the bottle with practiced grace, pouring into glasses without disrupting our conversation. This brief interlude gives me a chance to deflect.

  “I’m not cut out for trading. I’m too soft,” I say.

  "You are kind, that's for sure," he agrees, eyes warm. "What's it like being a structurer?"

  “I liked it in London. Lots of analytics — firm positions, market preferences, risk modeling. Now? It’s mostly about what my boss wants, dressed up as what's good for the nation.”

  I sigh. He sighs with me. Two waitresses arrive with dishes, breaking the moment.

  “But derivatives can make serious money,” he says. “Did you see The Big Short? It’s all about betting on outcomes and margin leverage.”

  "Perhaps I should ask to be moved to derivatives trading," he muses.

  That would certainly pull him into the underbelly—the real intrigue his uncle is orchestrating, making him much more valuable to his uncle, and to me.

  “Then I’ll be working with you more,” he adds.

  Is that flirting? Or just a statement? Then I see his eyes gazing at mine intently.

  “That would be nice,” I smile invitingly. “But tonight is about your bond win. Cheers to that.” I raise my glass.

  “To winning,” he says, his face lit with pride.

  … …

  Northeastern women are known not only for our height and voluptuousness, but also for our impressive tolerance for alcohol. It’s not a boast — it’s a survival trait.

  After two bottles of wine, David is glowing, swaying, and utterly convinced he’s still in control. He manages to tap his phone to pay the bill — a small miracle, given the way he’s blinking like the screen’s too bright for his ego. That’s the last coherent thing he does. By the time we slide into the taxi, he’s slumped against the window, unconscious, his celebratory swagger dissolved into soft snoring and a crooked tie.

  Kevin parks the fake taxi in a narrow alley behind a shuttered noodle shop, where the streetlights flicker like they’re trying not to be noticed. He turns off the engine, then swivels in his seat to face me. I hand him David’s phones — two of them, both unlocked thanks to his drunken thumbprint and his wine-soaked compliance.

  Kevin doesn’t speak. He pulls a matte-black device from the glove compartment — no bigger than a cigarette case, but bristling with ports and silent menace. He plugs in the first phone. The screen flashes once, then goes dark. The device hums faintly, its LED blinking green as it begins siphoning everything: contacts, call logs, WeChat threads, trading apps, PDFs, cached screenshots — even fragments of deleted messages.

  “Encrypted?” I ask.

  “Barely,” Kevin mutters. “This guy’s a civilian.”

  He plugs in the second phone. It’s newer, with biometric locks and Haitong’s custom security shell. Kevin slides in a second chip, bypassing the firm’s firewall with a firmware exploit he’s been saving for someone just like David. The device chirps twice — full extraction complete.

  He wipes the ports clean, ejects the phones, and hands them back to me like they were never touched.

  “Where do you want him dropped?”

  I pause, slipping the phones into David’s coat pocket. He stirs slightly, then sinks deeper into sleep.

  “My apartment,” I say. I don’t need to sleep with him, at least not tonight. But I don’t want him waking up alone in a sterile hotel room, wondering what happened. I need him tethered — emotionally, professionally. He will be useful down the road.

  Kevin nods, starts the engine, and pulls us back into the city’s bloodstream. Outside, Shanghai pulses with light and leverage. Inside, the future is already shifting.