When they denied me exit at the border, my heart dropped. Anxiety hit like a fist to the chest.

  By law, only the courts can enforce border control—there's even an official list you can check online. But the reality is darker: at least ten times more people are secretly barred from leaving. Any local police station can flag a name in the system. For most, discovering who issued the ban is an impossible maze. But Mengshu is efficient. By Tuesday afternoon, she has the answer: the ban was entered Monday morning, part of a batch of names, by the 601 office.

  "Unfortunately, there's no way to remove your name without triggering an alert." Mengshu's sigh carries the weight of finality.

  "What's the 601 office?" My voice tightens. "Are they the ones who bugged my apartment?"

  "The 601 office suppresses dissident groups that threaten national security. Or more precisely, the security of the Party." Mengshu's voice is flat.

  She has more to say—I see it flickering behind her eyes. But she holds her tongue. She doesn't want to scare me.

  Now I understand why Sonora pleaded at me to leave immediately. Power doesn't bow to law. It crushes it.

  "Don't worry," Mengshu says, but her reassurance feels thin. "We'll find a way."

  Wednesday, I returns to work. My job is easy—there's no lack of buyers.

  Hansen doesn't interfere with my work at all. Even when I ask him, he just lets me make the decision. Every morning he comes to the office and closes the door, sitting there alone. Depressed. He wants nothing to do with anything anymore.

  Something happened to him. Maybe the 601 office has him in their sights too.

  The stock market sabotage. They're investigating it.

  The thought hits me like ice water. I nearly bolt from the building, legs ready to run—but there's nowhere to go.

  … …

  When I finally rturn to the Little Red Mansion, mentally exhausted, Mengshu is in my room, looking at her phone. Sonora's voice crackles through the speaker.

  "David is back," Mengshu says, her eyes locking onto mine with an intensity that says: Talk sense into her.

  "I'm coming back." Sonora's declaration is absolute.

  "You won't be able to help." Mengshu's tone sharpens. "You'll only trap yourself here too."

  "I can't stay away when David is in danger." Sonora's voice cracks, raw and urgent.

  "Sonora," I cut in, my throat tight, "Mengshu is right. Coming back will only make things worse."

  "I need to be with you." Her words tremble.

  "Our hearts are already together." I force firmness into my voice, though my chest aches.

  A pause. Seconds stretch like hours. Then: "I have no peace. I'm coming back tomorrow."

  "Or—" Mengshu leans forward, her voice suddenly deliberate, "—you could go to Vietnam. Wait at the border. We'll bring him across."

  Silence.

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  My heart hammers. Mengshu has a plan.

  "I've thought this through." She speaks quickly now, as if the words have been waiting. "There are only three routes out. First: by sea, on a cargo vessel. But we'd need someone trustworthy on board. Too dangerous. So many days on the sea, anything may happen."

  "Second: Hong Kong, by yacht. But the 601 office has reach there—remember the bookstore kidnapping? They may have eyes and ears in the tirades."

  "The only real option is overland—Myanmar or Vietnam. Myanmar's a war zone right now. Vietnam is our best shot."

  Sonora's silence stretches for what feels like an eternity. Finally: "Who will take him across?"

  Now it's Mengshu who goes quiet.

  "I'll talk to Kevin," Sonora says.

  "If Kevin can't do it—" Mengshu's face twists as if she's swallowing poison, "—I'll ask Fuyang Zhao."

  The name hangs in the air like a curse. Whoever this Fuyang is, Mengshu clearly despises him.

  "I'll call Kevin now." The line goes dead.

  … …

  "Don't do anything you don't want to do." I look at Mengshu, guilt gnawing at me. "I'm a grown man. If others can cross that border, so can I."

  She shakes her head sharply. "It's too dangerous. It's not just border patrol. There are militants, drug traffickers, telecom scam gangs preying on people like you."

  "You need a guide." Her voice softens slightly. "For Sonora, I'd do anything. But I don't trust Fuyang. He changes loyalties faster than a Sichuan opera mask."

  I nod slowly. "Thank you, Mengshu. You've already done more than I can repay."

  "Happy to." She manages a small smile, though worry still shadows her eyes. "Rest now. Dinner in fifteen."

  … …

  After dinner, Sonora calls again.

  "David." Her voice is steady now, controlled. "Kevin will take you across. I'll be waiting on the other side. Pack light—only what you absolutely need."

  "When do I leave?"

  "Seven-thirty tomorrow morning."

  "Good." Mengshu exhales audibly, relief flooding her features. She slips out quietly, her step lighter than before.

  I stay on the line with Sonora. Her voice becomes my anchor, tethering me to something solid in this storm.

  At ten, she says gently, "You need to sleep. You'll need all your strength."

  … …

  Thursday morning arrives like a slap. The Hightower Coin auction stream is everywhere—every website, every forum, every chat group ablaze with it. Even at 7:30, as I step out of the Little Red Mansion, I notice the normally bustling establishment is eerily quiet, the usual guests are attracted away by the auction.

  Kevin is compact, unremarkable—except for the coiled energy radiating from him. His eyes sweep over my designer bag and expensive clothes. He grimaces. "Can you bring less? Do you have anything else to wear?"

  Before I can answer, he shakes his head. "Never mind. Let's go."

  I slide into his yellow cab. He hands me a pin. "SIM card out." I comply, and he immediately crushes my old card with pliers, handing me a new one. "Put this in."

  Then he drives. No small talk. Just silence and purpose.

  I pull up the Hightower Coin auction on my phone. As a trader, I can't help but admire the orchestration—the interviews, the announcements, the auction mechanics. Anyone watching would feel the compulsion to bid. If I weren't fleeing for my life, I'd be transferring funds right now.

  First round: 52 yuan. Second round: 512.68 yuan. It's exceeding even my expectations. With over 10 billion in the pool already, I brace myself for round three.

  Then the bombshell drops: Antz Financial IPO halted indefinitely.

  "Wow!" The word escapes before I can stop it.

  Kevin glances sideways but says nothing. The bidding pool explodes. Antz was scheduled for a 600 billion yuan valuation, issuing 400 billion in stock. Now, visibly, that capital is flooding into Hightower Coin. Rounds three and four are dominated by Rubian bidders pouring money in like the dam has broken.

  Then international money arrives, matching the frenzy. By the tenth round, the pool swells to 500 billion yuan. The price of Hightower Coin rockets past 10,000.

  During intermission, Kevin exits the highway. We drive into city of Jinhua, descending into the underground garage of a massive shopping mall.

  "Thirty minutes." His voice is clipped. "Athletic wear, hiking shoes, sunglasses, backpack. Wear them. Ditch everything else."

  He catches my bewildered expression and sighs impatiently. "Forget it. I'm coming with you."

  Inside the mall, Kevin moves with surgical efficiency. He selects dark gray athletic pants, a black moisture-wicking shirt, trail running shoes, wraparound sunglasses, and a compact 30-liter backpack—all in under twenty minutes. At the register, he pays in cash.

  "Change. Now." He points to a fitting room.

  When I emerge, I barely recognize myself. Kevin nods approvingly and tosses my designer bag into a trash bin without ceremony. My old life, discarded.

  Back in the cab, the weight of what's happening settles over me. I'm not just leaving a city or a job. I'm leaving everything, perhaps even my name.

  Kevin glances at me in the rearview mirror. For the first time, his expression softens slightly.

  The engine hums. The road ahead disappears into mist.

  I've crossed a threshold I cannot return from.