We both pace ourselves—two drinks in, and the waiter glides over to let us know the table’s ready.

  John Crawford arrives not long after. He looks exactly like his press photos: tall, golden blond hair, broad shoulders, dark blue eyes that scan the room like he’s already priced it. He moves with the ease of someone who’s been powerful for so long, he’s forgotten what it feels like not to be.

  He greets David warmly, with the kind of handshake that’s meant to test grip and loyalty at once. “David, I’ve heard so much about your bond trades. What you did with Shandong—genius.”

  David lights up. “A compliment from you means a lot.”

  Then he turns to the woman beside John. “I didn’t know you two were friends.”

  Claire Zhang, Trading Director at Citadel Shanghai. Her reputation precedes her—charming and flirtatious on the surface, yet razor-sharp and merciless underneath, always planning two moves ahead. She smiles, her voice low with a Cantonese accent that transforms even casual words into something melodic.

  "It's a small circle," she says. "Everyone knows everyone." Then she turns to me. "You must be Sonora. I've heard plenty about you from David."

  She knows my name. That surprises me. It settles my mind a little. My plan is working.

  I offer a polite smile. “Nice to meet you, Claire. I’m a fan. Of yours—and John’s.”

  “I didn’t know I had fans,” she replies, amused.

  John gestures to the table. “Let’s sit.”

  He pulls out Claire’s chair before seating himself. American by passport, but he moves like an English gentleman. I notice that. I like that in a man.

  Once the food is ordered and the small talk subsides, David asks the obvious. "What brings you to Shanghai, John?"

  John grins. “Opportunity. Big one.”

  “Bonds?” David leans in.

  “Not bonds,” John says, eyes glinting. “Bigger.”

  Claire cuts in. “What you did with bonds was impressive. I lost millions to you. But bonds don’t have that kind of upside.”

  She’s right. Bonds are stable, predictable. This conversation isn’t about P&L. It’s about positioning and leverage—convexity and timing—and I know exactly what they’re circling.

  David raises an eyebrow. He’s hooked.

  “Securities?”

  John shakes his head. “Directives. That is the big league. If you applied your trading instincts there, you’d be making billions, not millions.”

  David smiles, soaking up the praise. “Good thing I brought Sonora then. She’s our Senior Structurer.”

  Their attention suddenly shifts. I feel it. The temperature changes.

  John and Claire now regard me with newfound interest, their eyes assessing me not as a dinner companion but as someone who holds the keys they want.

  This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  I pause. Lyra didn’t brief me on this exact setup. Is John aligned with her? Is his boss, Jianhua Xiao?

  They clearly have access to information. But is it Lyra’s intel—or someone else’s?

  I decide to stay put. For now.

  John breaks the silence, graciously. "Unmarketed directives are the most closely held secret of any securities firm. We shouldn't expect Sonora to share them."

  I bow my head slightly to John in appreciation.

  Structuring directives means knowing every asset on the firm’s books—what to sell, when, and how much. It’s the deepest layer of strategy. Sharing that with competitors—like Citadel or Tomorrow—would be a career ending move.

  “But let me tell you what we’re seeing,” John continues.

  "Retail investor inflows to the securities market have plateaued, around 300 billion yuan a month. May's numbers, even though incomplete, are tracking lower than April."

  I blink in surprise. That's not public data. Not even the exchanges have the complete picture, since trading apps sometimes pool clients' money together. How did he get that?

  John leans in, calm as a surgeon. “We believe the market’s losing steam.”

  As John talks, Claire observes me intently, like a Texas Hold'em player watching her opponent while pushing all-in.

  I take a slow sip, buying time. They’re not fshing. They’re manuevering. And I have to decide—tonight—whether to help them steer the current… or let them drown in it.

  David gasps, eyes wide. “You want to bet the market will go down?”

  He looks at them with something close to awe. His bond play was bold, sure—but this? This is another league entirely. The stakes are higher, the risks sharper. It’s the kind of move that demands not just guts, but vision. Ruthless, strategic vision.

  And yet, he hesitates.

  The Red Party does not “nudge” an economy. It commands one. When it decides on a goal, money follows like gravity—policy incentives, credit, land, permits, muscle. Shenzhen rose. Pudong ignited. High-speed rails stitched the map. Three Gorges swallowed a river. The Olympics put a spotlight on the skyline. Again and again, the same pattern: a miracle, then a class of people made rich for believing early.

  The other side of that pattern never makes the brochures. Those who bet against the Party don’t just lose money. They lose access. They lose friends. They learn, quickly, what it costs to be wrong in public.

  For nearly two years now, the Party has wanted the stock market up. And it has gotten what it wanted. That is why the idea of betting against it feels unthinkable—like stepping in front of a train and calling it courage.

  Claire leans in, her voice smooth. “You’ve already seen bonds go up, haven’t you? That’s usually a telltale sign. Equities follow the opposite arc.”

  John picks up the thread. “The one trillion yuan in local government swap bonds? Absorbed so fast. They’re pushing to approve another trillion.”

  David frowns, calculating. I can see the gears turning behind his eyes. “Another trillion…” he mutters. “Bonds will fall.”

  “So will stocks,” Claire says, almost gently. “Antz Financial’s IPO will be the final straw. Four hundred billion in dilution. It’ll suck the oxygen out of the room.”

  David blinks. “Will Antz still go public? After everything?”

  I glance at him. His naivety is almost endearing. Hasn’t his uncle taught him anything?

  Claire and John exchange a look—dry, knowing. “Three Ruby Fives are already in,” Claire explains. “Something this big doesn’t just vanish.”

  “You’ll hear the announcement next week,” John adds, his tone absolute. “The scandal only slows rookie appetite. Aladdin’s track record is too strong. Veteran investors trust anything Yuan Ma touches.”

  Yuan Ma. In this country, he’s more than a mogul—he’s demi-god. Every November 11th, vendors light incense to his photo, hung where Buddha and Kitchen Gods used to sit. They pray for sales. For luck. For algorithms to smile upon them.

  The table falls quiet. David is deep in thought, eyes flicking between numbers only he can see. John and Claire glance at me—not casually, but with intent. They’re trying to read the space between me and David. How close we are. What I might give away.

  I lower my gaze and finish my drink. The waiter arrives, breaking the tension with plates and steam and silver. We order another round.

  When the clatter fades, David speaks again. “John, what do you expect me to do?”

  John smiles. “Make money. With us. For yourself.”

  David hesitates. “How?”

  I lean in slightly, pretending not to care, but listening closely. Without his uncle, David is just a trader. Talented, yes. But not plugged in. Unless they already know what I do—and why I’m here—I don’t see how he fits into their game.

  John’s voice drops. “Trading boils down to two things: timing and leverage.” He glances at Claire, then fixes his gaze on David. “We can give you leverage. If you give us timing.”

  That’s it. Up to the minutes timing. They already know Haitong is issuing short-enabling directives. What they need is the exact moment—when the release hits. The best window to buy them.