Tuesday is supposed to be quiet. I went to the UK embassy for my traveler’s visa, paid for priority service, and expected nothing more than a slow afternoon.

  As I step out of the embassy, my phone buzzes. John Crawford. His voice cuts through the air—controlled urgency.

  "Erjuan's article is out. Have you seen it?"

  My stomach drops. "No. She said Thursday. This woman. Changing plans without telling us."

  In operations like this, timing is everything. I've strategically parceled John's five billion purchase across three days. The final two billion—still pending.

  With this article breaking early, everything changes. Prices will shift. I need to get back to the office—now—and close the transaction before the market reacts.

  Worse still, I've already mobilized my uncle for Thursday. Government bureaucracy doesn't pivot on a dime.

  … …

  In the taxi, I call my uncle, caution be damned. I have no luxury of time. Voicemail.

  "Uncle, there's an article on TechSpeed you might find... interesting. Just letting you know. Call me when you can."

  I wince at my own words. Innocent enough?

  Back at the office—2:15 pm. The market sits undisturbed. A momentary exhale, then I execute the transaction with swift keystrokes.

  I pull up TechSpeed and devour Erjuan's article.

  It's brilliant. Razor-sharp analysis backed by ironclad financial data that would convince any skeptical professional. Yet she's crafted it with anecdotes that make complex concepts digestible for ordinary readers.

  The title grabs you by the throat. The introduction pulls you in like quicksand. Every paragraph builds momentum. The conclusion hits like a thunderclap.

  Though focused on HiTV, its implications bleed across the entire market.

  An hour after publication, HiTV’s stock begins to tremble.

  Tomorrow will be carnage.

  Sonora floods my thoughts. I can't call her from here, but I send the link via Telegram.

  She'll appreciate this. The game intensifies.

  We've wrestled with our consciences. Yes, people will suffer. Families will crumble financially. But overvalued markets always collapse eventually. Bubbles don't whisper when they burst—they scream.

  The A-Shares market is rigged—a calculated slaughterhouse. Company executives and financial firms manipulate stocks like puppets while ordinary investors bleed out their savings.

  Those inflating this bubble are just as guilty as those puncturing it. We're merely specks caught in this hurricane, powerless to halt its destruction.

  Clair's call yanks me back to reality.

  If you spot this tale on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

  "David, have you seen the TechSpeed piece?" Her Cantonese accent flows like honey wrapped around a blade.

  "Reading it now."

  "It sharpens my hunger," she purrs. "I need more from you."

  "I've only got half a billion left—reserves. Need to clear it with my boss."

  "Whatever you can secure." Her voice hardens. "Remember, I called first."

  “Definitely. You are unforgettable.” I counter.

  A velvet laugh. "I'll take that as intended."

  "Though," she adds, voice dropping, "your friend Erjuan just kicked a hornet's nest. If she reaches out needing shelter, tell me."

  "You think HiTV will unleash hell?"

  "Not HiTV. Hiting Jia lacks the political muscle. Me-Tiny. Jun Lai is a viper."

  "Why? She didn't target them."

  "Change the company name, adjust some figures—this article flays them equally," Clair says. "Dig deeper, and Me-Tiny probably has darker secrets festering beneath. Put yourself in Jun's position—could you watch this unfold dispassionately?"

  "What might they do?"

  "Anything. Everything. If Erjuan suffers, everyone will blame Hiting—which only bolsters her credibility and damages HiTV further. Two birds with one stone. This timing provides Jun Lai the perfect smoke screen to strike."

  “He’d attack a woman who hasn't done anything to him?”

  "Jun eliminates threats before they materialize," Clair's voice chills. "He's the most calculating predator I've encountered. And he loathes women with a particular passion."

  “What does he have against women?”

  Her laugh turns knowing. "Notice how obsessed he is with appearance? More than any businessman I've ever met. A man who names his company 'Me-Tiny'—maybe he is tiny like a millet in certain places."

  Her voice is soft, but I feel the chill in my spine.

  I don’t have Erjuan’s number. She has mine—but hasn’t reached out.

  I call John, relaying Clair's warnings about Jun Lai and Me-Tiny. He dismisses my concerns: "Don't worry. We outmuscle Jun Lai. Besides, this is Shanghai. I'll message her—tell her we're here if needed."

  … …

  The market closes at three. No after-hour trading for A-Shares. By design.

  It's an air-tight pressure cooker. The flames will rage beneath until 9:30 A.M. tomorrow morning. No release. Just the hiss of steam before the lid explodes.

  Tomorrow will be a bloodbath.

  The system was engineered to trap small investors. Within seconds, circuit breakers will slam shut. HiTV trading will freeze at a fixed 10% drop. Institutions will dump shares at this price to retail investors who have no idea what's happening. Then the cycle repeats. Again and again. The price will plummet to rock bottom before ordinary investors can salvage even scraps of their life savings.

  My uncle—what a brilliant, twisted architect. He's crafted a perfect machine to siphon wealth upward, draining the masses to feed the elite.

  The afternoon drags—oddly quiet before the storm. At six sharp, I grab takeout and rush home to video chat with Sonora.

  We talk for hours.

  England suits her. The salt air has kissed her skin to a golden glow. She sits at Camber Sands, swimsuit-clad beneath gentle sunshine—a vision that makes my chest ache.

  "I need to be by your side now," I tell her, only half-joking. "Before some British prince steals you away."

  Her smile—God, that smile—melts something frozen inside me. "But I only think about you."

  "Men must be falling over themselves around you."

  "English men are shy. Besides, it's off-season." She pivots her camera to reveal the empty stretch of sand, pristine and untouched—like possibilities.

  My phone buzzes, shattering the moment.

  "It's John," I tell her, heart sinking. "I need to take this."

  "Go ahead. I'll go for a swim." She disconnects, taking all the warmth with her.

  I check the time: 9:40 PM.

  I answer. Tension coils.

  “John. What happened?”

  His voice is steel. “They did it. They took Chunting. Demanding ransom.”

  "Chunting?" The name hangs empty in my mind.

  “Erjuan’s partner.”

  The words hit like a body on concrete.

  My mind races. Abduction makes no sense. Police involvement is inevitable. HiTV would be the obvious suspect. Suicide.

  “What are they demanding?” My mouth is as dry as the sand on Sonora's beach.

  “Article withdrawal. Public apology. Three million cash.”

  Each word lands like a hammer.

  It reeks of Me-Tiny. If Erjuan caves, her credibility dies. She’ll never be able to touch Jun Lai, not on the same subject.

  “Have you called Claire?”

  “Not yet. I’m heading to Erjuan’s. Get a cab. Meet me there.” He sends the address. Hangs up.

  Before I call a Didi, my fingers fly: Me-Tiny abducted Erjuan’s partner.

  Sonora replies instantly, a continent away but right beside me: Mengshu can help. Here’s her number.

  I’ll go check it out first. I’m heading out of the door.