The news hits me like a sledgehammer to the chest. I can barely breathe.

  Minutes ago, I was riding high—giddy even—after snagging a hundred Hightower Coins at 515 yuan each. Now it feels like someone dumped ice water down my spine.

  I call Eric Jin first. My hands are shaking.

  "Did you know?" I ask, my voice tight.

  "No." His answer is clipped. "They should at least give us a heads-up. Not a word. Not even from Gang Yao. This is political. We need your father on this call."

  I dial Dad. He picks up on the first ring, his voice unnervingly calm.

  "Get to the office. I'll patch everyone in."

  As I step outside my apartment, Xuetao's Red Cayenne idles at the curb. Ever since the Dapeng incident, he's been my shadow—driving me to and from work without fail.

  Inside, the radio crackles with the Hightower Coin Auction. The announcer's voice is electric, intoxicated—like a gambler watching his numbers hit. When I climb in, Xuetao reaches for the dial.

  "Leave it," I say.

  I lean back and close my eyes. The announcer's breathless play-by-play fills the cabin as Beijing's morning traffic crawls around us. By the time we arrive, the auction has reached its tenth round.

  "The bidding pool has now surpassed 100 billion yuan!" The announcer practically shouts, his voice cracking with glee. "That's 100,000 yuan per coin!"

  On the ninth floor of the World Financial Center—forty-one floors below what must be Hightower's champagne-soaked celebration—the mood is funeral-dark.

  Eric is already in the executive conference room, his jaw clenched. We establish an encrypted line.

  The others join: Daniel Zhan, Joseph Tai, and Maggie Wen. I can feel the collective dread through the speakers.

  "How much runway does Antz Financial have?" Maggie's voice cuts through the tension like a knife.

  "We've pulled in about 500 billion yuan from lenders. Issued around 200 billion in outstanding loans. Burning through roughly 50 billion a month." Eric delivers the numbers like a coroner reading a death certificate.

  I hear sharp intakes of breath rippling across the line. Then—nothing. The silence is suffocating.

  "It's not as dire as it sounds," I say, trying to inject confidence I don't feel. "Most lender terms are six months or less. If we stop rolling them over and drop the interest rates at renewal, we can cut payouts below 50 billion within months. We'd break even."

  "That's assuming lenders don't pull their principal. Correct?" Joseph's tone is careful, probing.

  "Yes," I admit, the word heavy in my mouth.

  The market is flooded with P2P platforms offering rates as high or higher than ours. The moment we drop our rate, lenders will bolt. Hundreds of billions will flood out the door. Without that 400 billion IPO windfall, we're dead in the water.

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  "No need to panic." Dad's voice is a lifeline—steady, unshakable in any situation. "We just need fresh capital to replace any withdrawals."

  "Suggestions?" he asks, as if we're brainstorming a marketing campaign instead of staving off financial collapse.

  More silence. Then my mind drifts—unbidden—to the Hightower Coin auction. Their bidding pool. They vacuumed up over 100 billion yuan in an hour.

  "What if we launch our own coin?" I blurt out.

  "Can we get Central Bank approval?" Eric asks Dad, doubt creeping into his voice.

  "I called Secretary Qiuhan this morning. He's in the ICU, can barely talk." Dad pauses, letting that sink in. "Sudden health complications. Otherwise, the FRC wouldn't dare block our IPO. But even when he was healthy, he told us to shelve any crypto plans."

  Another suffocating silence.

  Then something clicks. Aladdin Pay processes 300 billion yuan in transactions every month. Money flows in, money flows out—like water through a sieve. But what if we built a dam? What if we held some of it back, just temporarily like the Hightower bidding pool?

  "What if we did this," I say, thinking aloud, my pulse quickening. "We already hold a couple billion yuan in float when processing payment returns—they take longer to clear. What if we applied the same logic to all payments? That's 300 billion yuan, just sitting there."

  "You want to hold payments for a month?" Eric sounds incredulous, almost offended.

  "Let's not kill ideas before they breathe." Dad's voice carries the patience of his old profession—middle school teacher. "Snow's onto something. We can't hold payments indefinitely, but we can incentivize users to park their money with us."

  A lightbulb explodes in my head. Eureka.

  "Banks attract trillions of deposits with just 3% interest," I say, speaking faster now. "What if we offer 4%?"

  "We'd need a banking license for that," Daniel interjects, ever the bureaucrat.

  "Not a banking license—that's impossible for private firms like us." Eric's voice lifts, buoyed by sudden hope. "Just a Fund Management License. I've been negotiating to acquire a couple asset management companies to legitimize our P2P operation. We can close those deals fast."

  "Even your spare change earns interest," I say, already drafting ad copy in my head.

  "There are regulations," Maggie warns, her voice like nails on a chalkboard. "Payment funds and asset management funds must be held separately in custodial accounts. Remember, there's a joint investigation into Antz," Maggie warns. She's always the killjoy. Always worried about the rules.

  "Don't lose sleep over this," Dad says smoothly. "Secretary Qiuhan will recover. Once he does, we can handle any regulatory scrutiny. Let's get this moving. We'll deal with the fallout if it comes."

  I nod, even though he can't see me. That's how business works in the Republic. The laws are rigged against private companies. If you're not willing to bend the rules, you won't survive.

  And as for consumer risk? That only emerges if you fail. And if you've already failed, why would you care about them?

  The meeting shifts into celebration mode. Daniel, Eric, Joseph—even Maggie—heap praise on Dad and me. I'm hailed as a business prodigy. The apple doesn't fall far from the tree, they say. I smile, soaking it in.

  Eric will handle operations: securing the licenses, upgrading our systems to hold billions in deposits, and quietly funneling funds to cover the P2P shortfall.

  I'll lead the marketing push: kill the high-interest lender offerings, spin it as strategic evolution, and launch our new product—Balance Genie. It's perfect.

  "Should we lower our lending rates in the meantime?" Maggie asks toward the end. "And tighten credit checks?"

  I almost laugh. Of course not. Is this bitch insane?

  … …

  After the meeting, I return to my office. The top drawer of my desk holds two small objects: the morning-after pill and the pregnancy test.

  Junhang appears silently, setting warm water on my desk without a word. It has become routine—this unspoken understanding between us.

  The pill is useless now. I drop it into the garbage bin with a dull thunk. Then I pick up the pregnancy test, fingers trembling slightly, and walk into my private bathroom.

  I close the door. Lock it. The test sits cold in my palm.

  Outside, empires are crumbling. Inside, something new may be taking root.

  For the first time in days, I stop running.