The ride back from the airport feels endless. Rain streaks the windows, but it’s nothing compared to the storm inside me. My chest aches with a hollow pressure, like something vital has been carved out and left behind at the security entrance. Sonora’s absence isn’t just emotional—it’s physical. I seem to have lost strength to even order delivery.

  Then it hits me—clear and undeniable: I’ve known Sonora for mere weeks. Our dating relationship? Forty-eight hours. Two days. And yet, those two days rewired everything.

  I collapse onto the bed, coat still wrapped around me like armor. Sleep claims me instantly.

  When I wake, the clock reads 4:00 P.M. She’s somewhere over Eastern Europe now, miles accumulating between us with every breath.

  But the fog doesn’t return. Instead, a blade of clarity cuts through me.

  To reunite with her, to build the life we whispered about in stolen moments—I need to be more than functional—I need to be unstoppable.

  I reach for my phone and dial John Crawford.

  “David,” he answers instantly, voice warm, alert. “I was hoping you’d call. How are you holding up?”

  I don’t waste time. “The game is on.”

  Silence. Then: “What do you need?”

  “A lot of things. But first, do you know any reporter. The kind who move markets.”

  John shifts gears without missing a beat. “What’s the angle?”

  “Someone who commands attention from retail investors. Someone who can tank a stock with a single article.”

  “Ah, I see where you’re going. I’ve got options,” he says, already calculating. “They need to be fearless?”

  “And insatiably curious. The kind who digs past the first layer of lies.”

  A pause. “How about Erjuan Zhao? Founder of TechSpeed. Relentless. Brilliant.”

  “I know her reputation. But I need this now. Not next week.”

  “I’ll work some magic.” He hangs up.

  Ten minutes later, my phone buzzes.

  “Jean Georges. Eight o’clock tonight,” John says, triumphant. “Erjuan’s intrigued. She cleared her schedule.”

  “I owe you one.”

  His chuckle is low, confident—like a chess master who’s already seen the endgame. “When you win, I win. We’re in the same boat now. Right?”

  I don’t answer. But he’s not wrong.

  … …

  Jean Georges glows with quiet opulence—dim lighting, crisp linen, and the soft clink of glassware echoing against marble. Outside, the Bund shimmers like a mirage. Inside, everything feels suspended in a hush of anticipation.

  From a distance, Erjuan looks almost like a student—slight frame, clean-cut blazer, seated by the window with a notebook and a glass of water. But as I approach, her sharp eyes and angular jawline tell a different story. She’s not here to be charmed. She’s here to dissect.

  In the Republic, journalism is a minefield. Investigative reporting is all but extinct. The media landscape is dominated by traffic-chasing platforms—nationalist clickbait, pseudoscience, and exaggerated tales of Western decline. The business model is simple: sell awards and speaking slots, publish undisclosed advertorials, and, most lucratively, extort corporations with exposés that vanish for a price.

  But TechSpeed is different. Erjuan built it from the ground up—an independent outlet focused on the structural logic of tech innovation. Her readers aren’t passive consumers; they’re entrepreneurs, engineers, and retail investors hungry for truth in a tech-led market built on illusion.

  She greets me with a smile—warm, but calculated. The kind designed to lower defenses.

  “David,” she says, voice crisp. “You’re more handsome than John described. And better dressed.”

  “Thank you,” I reply. “I’ve heard you’re the only journalist left who still asks real questions.”

  Stolen novel; please report.

  She chuckles. “John exaggerates. But he’s been a good source. Tech and finance are married now, and he’s helped me navigate the market.”

  John leans back, smiling. “Erjuan’s the best interviewer I’ve ever faced. She doesn’t let up.”

  She turns to me. "So, what insights can you give me on tech stocks?"

  I glance at John, then back at her. “How much do you know about HiTV?”

  She leans in. “Enough to know it’s bleeding cash on every product it sells. Yet somehow, it reports profits. And it’s not running out of money.”

  HiTV is one of the few domestic tech giants listed on the Shanghai Stock Exchange. Most, like Aladdin, go public overseas. HiTV’s scarcity makes it a prized stock—trading at a ludicrous P/E ratio north of seven hundred.

  They sell smart TVs and smartphones at prices fifteen percent lower than their competitors—not by slashing quality, but by deliberately pricing below cost. It’s a high-burn strategy, and it’s working: they’ve claimed the top spot in smart TV sales and are eating into the smartphone market fast.

  “Hiting Jia is a master of creative financing,” I remark, as the waiter approaches. “But it’s a long story.”

  We order quickly. No one’s here for the food.

  As soon as the waiter leaves, Erjuan’s eyes narrow with intent. “You mentioned creative financing. Can you back that up?”

  “Not with a smoking gun,” I admit. “But the patterns are unmistakable. Anyone willing to dig past the surface will find the trail.”

  "I'm all ears," she says, her interest visibly piqued. John leans forward, eager not to miss a single word.

  "HiTV finances its burn through three channels," I begin, my voice calm and deliberate. "First—spin-off financing. They carve out subsidiaries like HiStream and HiSports, then peddle shares to venture capital firms. HiTV's brand, its inflated valuation, and Jia's personal investment—coupled with backing from a major firm—give smaller investors confidence. They pile in. Valuations skyrocket."

  Erjuan raises an eyebrow. “That’s not news. Overpriced spin-offs are everywhere. If investors are willing, it’s their risk.”

  “True,” I nod. “But here’s the twist—Jia and his backers don’t invest. They exit. They cash out through HiTV stock trades. Only the small investors put in real money. HiTV releases good news when they’re selling, bad news when they’re buying. It’s not just insider trading—it’s information engineering.”

  Her brow furrows. She’s listening now.

  I lean in slightly. “I know, it sounds familiar. Everyone does this for their founders and preferred investors in the Ruby Republic. But stay with me—I promised a long story.”

  “Take your time.” She smiles, but her eyes are sharp. “I’m just curious whether you’re going to give me hard evidence.”

  She’s expecting tips. John must’ve told her about my uncle.

  “No dirt. Just fact.” I smile back. “The spin-offs aren’t just for funding. They’re designed to mask losses.”

  I pause, then explain: “Each HiTV unit comes bundled with a free two-year subscription to HiStream and HiSports—services that cost 800 yuan to deliver. But HiTV only owns 25% of those subsidiaries. So they only report 25% of the loss, spread over two years.”

  “On paper, with a 300 margin, they report a 100 profit. 200 profit this cycle. But in reality, they’re absorbing the full 800 cost. That’s a 500 loss per unit—hidden behind partial ownership and clever accounting.”

  Erjuan’s lips curl. “That’s clever. And dangerous.”

  “It’s unsustainable,” I say. “The subsidiaries are bleeding cash. Some raise two rounds a year just to stay afloat. They’re stretched thin. Funding’s drying up.”

  “They could raise unit prices,” she suggests. “Stop the bleeding.”

  “They can’t,” I reply. “Higher prices would kill sales. And they need volume. Their second financing method is supply chain credit. They offer six-month payment terms to suppliers. This month’s revenue pays for parts delivered half a year ago.”

  I watch her eyes sharpen.

  “When sales grow, they can price below cost. Revenue from one million units covers parts for seven hundred thousand. But if sales drop, they’re exposed. Cash flow collapses.”

  Her pen races across the page. “It’s a Ponzi scheme. But with hardware.”

  “Exactly. Growth is the oxygen. Without it, the whole system suffocates.”

  She scribbles faster, then looks up. “So what’s their exit strategy?”

  “The third method—gaming the stock market. They’re trying to list HiCreative, a spin-off from HiStream. It’s their lifeline—drawing cash from public investors. Same playbook: inflate revenue and profit through related-party transactions and fabricated contracts.”

  “Will it be approved?” she asks, eyes narrowing. The question comes so naturally—she thinks I have insider access.

  “It doesn’t matter,” I say, letting the silence stretch.

  She blinks. “Why not?”

  “Because the entire scheme only works if the market keeps rising.”

  Her expression shifts—confusion, then realization, then dread. “Are you saying…?”

  It’s the same reaction I had. If even a seasoned reporter couldn't picture the bull market snapping overnight, what chance do ordinary families have?

  “That’s exactly what David’s saying,” John cuts in, sensing I won’t answer. “But you know that’s off limits.”

  In the Republic, talking down the market isn’t just taboo—it’s criminal. TechSpeed would be reprimanded. Erjuan herself could be detained for thirty days under the catch-all charge of “picking quarrels and provoking trouble.”

  She stares at her notebook, fingers frozen mid-air. She trusts my verdict, knowing who my uncle is. She'll certainly exit the market. But...

  “What about the retail investors?” she murmurs. Not to me. To herself.

  She’s thinking about her readers—the young engineers, the amateur traders, the dreamers who believe in innovation and trust her to tell the truth. Her journalist’s conscience is awake. And it’s at war with the system she lives in.

  “Just focus on HiTV,” I say gently. “Maybe it’ll be enough to warn some of them.”

  She nods, but her appetite vanishes. The waiter sets down the plates; she doesn’t touch hers.

  “I’ve got what I need,” she says, gathering her things. “The rest is research.”

  “How soon can you publish?” I ask.

  “Thursday,” she replies. “I may follow up.”

  I jot my number on a napkin and slide it across the table.

  “Call me anytime.”

  I watch her walk out of Jean Georges—slight, fierce, but carrying the weight of thousands of investors on her shoulders. Ordinary families. People who believed.

  She doesn’t look back.

  But I know she’ll write.

  And when she does, the first domino will fall.