The conversation mellows as we savor Club Room's fusion cuisine—calamari, citrus salad, beef skewers, miso cod. We eat slowly, letting the rhythm shift. Talk drifts to weather, sports, and Claire's signature blend of gossip and innuendo—each story laced with just enough suggestion to keep everyone leaning in.

  There’s a charge between her and John, unmistakable. But then again, Claire flirts with every man she gets close to. It’s part of her arsenal—distraction as strategy.

  After dinner, they leave together. I watch their taxi disappear into the traffic, still pulsing strong at this hour, and wonder—are they having it tonight? Probably.

  Then, out of nowhere, Sonora grabs my arm with both hands and leans into my shoulder.

  I freeze.

  After two days of polite distance, of her keeping things strictly professional, now this! Her touch is warm, deliberate. I can feel her breath near my collarbone, and suddenly I’m aware of everything: the scent of her silk blouse, the weight of her leaning in, the quiet between us.

  I hear my heart’s pounding, and I’m sure she can hear it.

  And for once, I don’t want to say anything. I just want to stay in this moment, and let it mean whatever it means.

  “Let me show you something,” she says with determination, slicing through the noise of the city like a blade.

  I nod to the doorman. He calls a taxi without a word.

  “Haitong Securities,” she tells the driver as we slide into the back seat.

  I want to ask why, but I don’t. One wrong word and she might retreat again, back behind that professional mask. So I stay silent. She does too—yet her fingers lace through mine, firm, deliberate.

  When we arrive, she doesn’t hesitate. She pulls me up the stairs, fast, almost reckless. I realize she avoids the elevator because she doesn’t want to be seen. Not by anyone.

  The trading floor is dark. Friday night. No one stays this late. The silence feels unnatural—like the building itself is holding its breath.

  She moves to her desk, powers up the server. The screen glows cold against her face.

  “Don’t speak,” she whispers. “Just watch.”

  She opens the Haitong structuring software. The interface is dense, coded in layers of financial jargon. I scan the directives: Total Return Swaps, Bear Certificates, Dual Currency Notes, Reverse Convertibles, Bearish Notes, options with down triggers, OTCs—all purchasable with margin financing and repo agreements.

  It’s a war chest. A full arsenal designed to let foreign firms and private funds short the market—quietly, aggressively.

  Sonora—no, Haitong—is preparing to accelerate the fall. Not just ride it. Fuel it.

  What John and Claire hinted at wasn’t speculation. It was confirmation.

  I feel the blood drain from my face. The first thing that comes to mind is a classmate who messaged me last week, asking if it was safe to go all-in on stocks. I told him to be moderate. But I know him—he won't be. He'll borrow from P2P platforms, leverage everything. His family will be ruined.

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  And how many others like him?

  Three hundred billion yuan a month pouring in from households chasing dreams. They’ll be wiped out. Obliterated.

  I can’t breathe. Sweat beads on my forehead. My chest tightens.

  Sonora turns, sees me unraveling. Then—without warning—she wraps her arms around my neck and kisses me. Hard. Desperate. Her mouth is warm, her tongue urgent. It’s not romance. It’s release. A scream without sound.

  When she pulls away, she’s crying. Quiet, broken sobs.

  She’s been building this alone. No team. No confidant. Just her and the machine. The guilt must be eating her alive.

  “What have I done?” she whispers.

  “It’s not your fault,” I say, voice raw with indignation. “It’s not.”

  Now I understand why she misses London. Why she talks about rules. Because here, there are none. Only velocity. Only wins and losses. Only damage.

  Black cat, white cat, whoever catches the mouse is a good cat.

  “We need to leave,” she says. “Before they find out.”

  I glance at the ceiling. Cameras. One pointed straight at her desk.

  No time to think. I grab her hand and we retrace our steps, fast and silent. Outside, we walk five blocks before hailing a taxi in front of a hotel.

  “Where do you want to go?” I ask.

  “My place,” she says.

  Not home. My place. The words land softly, but something in me sparks—hope, heat, a quiet thrill that spreads through my chest like fire under silk.

  I give the driver the address. I memorized it Wednesday morning, when I left her apartment alone and aching.

  Neither of us speaks. The city roars around us, but inside the cab, it’s just the sound of our breathing—and the knowledge that something irreversible has begun.

  A couple of minutes later, she's curled into me, trembling. Her fingers clutch my sleeve like she's afraid I'll vanish.

  A profound feeling rises in me—heroic, foolish, real. I’ll protect her. I’ll be her harbor. Her rock. Her shield.

  She doesn’t speak until we’re inside her apartment. The door clicks shut. The room is dark, still. Only then does her breathing steady.

  She wraps her arms around me, looks up—her face half-lit by the city glow bleeding through the curtains. Her eyes are wide, wet, terrified.

  “I’m scared,” she whispers. “If they find out I told you, they’ll kill me.”

  Kill her?

  It sounds absurd. But then again—what options do they have? Fire her? Let the leak spread?

  I’ve never truly looked at the underbelly of this nation. But now, I see it. John once told me: in the Ruby Republic, a life costs only five thousand.

  My skin prickles. I take a deep breath to steady myself, and do the only thing that feels right.

  I lower my arm, sweep her legs up, and carry her to the sofa.

  She gasps—surprised I can lift her so easily. At five-foot-nine, she’s taller than many men. But she fits against me like she was meant to—arms around my neck, head on my shoulder, a bird seeking refuge.

  I set her down gently, and say in my calmest voice, “Don’t worry. My uncle works for the FRC. He can protect you.”

  She flinches.

  Her eyes lock onto mine. Long. Unblinking.

  “I’m worried your uncle’s in with them,” she says.

  I freeze. “Are you sure?”

  My uncle—sunny, confident, dashing. The man who gave up a high salary to serve the Republic. To serve the people.

  “I’m not sure,” she says, voice trembling. “But Mr. Guokai can’t do this alone. He’ll be jailed. Maybe I will too.”

  “What are you saying?” I ask, heart thudding.

  “I think this goes all the way up to the Ruby Five.”

  I stand. Start pacing. She’s right.

  I’ve met Guokai Wang. He’s not reckless. Not bold enough to pull this off alone. Though I might have been sheltered, I'm not na?ve. Only someone with immense power would attempt something this massive. The kind that doesn’t ask permission.

  And now we’re in their way.

  They recorded us. Of course they did. They placed her at that desk deliberately—isolated from her team, so no one would be curious about her work. Not hidden away in a secure location, so people wouldn't suspect a secret project. And right in front of a camera. Watching her, 24/7. Watching everything.

  If I were them, I’d have someone review footage daily. In two days, maybe less, they’ll see it. They’ll know she showed me.

  I’ve put her in danger.

  Think, David. Think.

  Only my uncle can help. But if he’s not involved, and I tell him—he loses deniability. I might drag him into something bigger than he can handle. Would he risk everything for a girl he doesn’t know?

  And if he is involved? If I tell him, he might report it immediately. Sonora would be gone before morning.

  I stare at her. She’s watching me. Waiting.

  Her life is in my hands.

  What do I do?

  Think, David. Think.