Even with every contingency in place, shorting HiTV was still a high-wire act. But I went all in—leveraged 80%. The risk was real. The payoff, spectacular.

  Erjuan’s exposé hit like a bomb. The counterattack was brutal—they abducted her partner, tried to silence her—but she held the line. She prevailed.

  Then came the FRC investigation. Precise. Devastating. HiTV stock buckled—slammed on circuit breakers three days in a row. My 20 million surged to 50.

  By Monday morning, 9:30 sharp, it’ll be 60 million.

  At least on paper.

  Sonora wants me to liquidate everything then. Leave the Republic. Sixty million—more than enough to vanish into a quiet English life. But I know there’s more to take. The bleeding has just bugun.

  After ending the call, I step out for breakfast. The proprietress spots me and smiles, her voice warm and familiar.

  “The usual? Tofu pudding, fried dough sticks, fresh shrimp soup dumplings?”

  I nod. A smile flickers, unbidden.

  This is what I'll miss. The small luxuries that make life in the Republic so comfortable. Street vendors who know your order by heart, serving steaming buns at dawn with practiced grace. Hole-in-the-wall restaurants where owners treat regulars like family, where xiaolongbao arrives with perfect timing and the right amount of vinegar—unasked. Barbers who spend forty minutes on a ten-minute haircut, massaging your scalp as if you're the only customer that matters. Foot massage parlors where attendants work with genuine care, asking about your health, adjusting pressure, bringing tea without prompting.

  It's the people I'll miss. The working class of the Republic who approach humble work with dedication bordering on artistry. They take pride in what they do. In the States, service is transactional. Here, it's personal. Almost familial. These are the people who have poured their modest savings into stock market, hoping for something better.

  And because of what I'm doing, many of them will watch those savings evaporate.

  … ...

  When I return home, I approach my door with deliberate caution. The key slides in. The lock clicks. I push the door open—just a crack.

  Then I freeze.

  The hair is gone.

  I push wider. There—on the floor just inside the threshold. A single strand.

  I'd placed it across the doorframe at chest height, a technique Sonora taught me. A strand of hair, secured with dabs of saliva. Long enough to check by opening the door a crack. If it's gone or broken, someone's been inside.

  Now it lies on the floor.

  My apartment has been breached.

  I stand motionless, heart pounding, every nerve on alert. The living room looks untouched—books in their usual chaos, laptop on the desk, coffee mug on the side table. But someone was here. Someone walked through my space. Touched my things.

  I step inside slowly, scanning. My hands tremble.

  I pull out my phone. Telegram Sonora.

  Me: Someone’s been inside.

  Sonora: Stop using WeChat. Call John.

  I check my essentials—passport, cash, bank cards. All there. Then I call John.

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

  He picks up instantly.

  After listening to me explain what happened, he says, "Wait there. Don't move. Read a book. I'm sending someone."

  “They didn’t take anything,” I say aloud.

  John answers. “Sure. I bet they left quite a few things.” Then he hangs up.

  I sit on the sofa. Pick up a spy novel. It feels suddenly, absurdly relevant.

  Fifteen minutes later, John arrives with another man—short, compact, eyes like steel ball bearings. Before I can speak, John raises a finger to his lips.

  The man pulls out a handheld bug detector. No words. Just work.

  He's methodical. Robotic. Starting from the doorframe, he sweeps in slow arcs—walls, light fixtures, bookshelf. The device hums softly, antenna twitching. He checks electrical outlets, picture frames, desk edges, the underside of the coffee table.

  John stands silent near the entrance, arms crossed. I stay on the sofa, the novel limp in my hands, heart hammering.

  The man crouches beside the television. Suddenly—a sharp beep. He freezes. Moves closer. Another beep, insistent. He reaches behind and emerges with something tiny between his fingers. A black disc, no bigger than a coin. He drops it in a small metal box.

  He moves to the bedroom. Drawers open. Closet doors creak. Two more beeps—sharper. He returns with the box, now holding three devices. Shakes his head grimly at John.

  On the desk, he finds the first camera—pinhole lens embedded in the lamp. In the bedroom, a second—disguised as part of the smoke detector above my bed.

  Each discovery makes my skin crawl.

  Finally, he completes the sweep. Returns to the living room. Holds up the metal box: three listening devices, two cameras. His expression is grave.

  John nods. The man closes the lid and leaves without a word.

  Only then does John step inside.

  “Who would do this?” I ask, voice low, throat tight.

  “Hard to say.” His tone is clipped. “Stop using WeChat. No texts. No calls. Here’s my Telegram. Use that.”

  I nod.

  “Watch for tails. They’re observing you. They knew you stepped out.”

  I nod again, mechanically.

  He points to my laptop. “Buy a new one. Throw this away.”

  I nod a third time.

  Then his voice softens. “How are you holding up?”

  “I’m fine.” But my back is soaked with sweat. My scalp tingles. My breath is shallow.

  "Take a nap," John says, his hand patting my shoulder. "If you feel unsafe, pack your essentials. Book a hotel."

  I nod one more time, jaw clenched.

  After he leaves, I spend five minutes to calm down, before I call Sonora through Telegram.

  The first thing she says is: "Leave."

  Her voice cuts through the line—sharp, immediate, final.

  "Now?"

  "Buy the first ticket to London. Come." There's no hesitation. No negotiation.

  "What about the money? The operation?" My voice is tight. "There's still money to be made."

  "Remember what you promised me?" Her voice cracks at the edges, urgency bleeding through. "The only thing that matters is your safety."

  "At least let me liquidate the 50 million. Otherwise, everything we've done is in vain." I'm gripping the phone too hard. My knuckles are white.

  "No." Her voice drops—quiet, fragile. "Operate from here."

  "You know it's impossible. I'm not qualified for Stock Connect Program, and even if I qualify, the Program doesn't allow me to trade derivatives."

  "You are not thinking straight, David." Her voice trembles. She's close to breaking. "All I want is you."

  I close my eyes. My chest tightens.

  I'm moved. Deeply. But the image of that evening—at the bar of the Club Room—is burned into my mind. The way she looked down, fingers tracing the rim of her glass, and said, "To buy time. Real time."

  A house built with bricks. Slow mornings. A garden that actually needs tending. Kids going through the British education system. Her dream life.

  Our dream life.

  "Wait until Monday." My voice is steady now. Final. "I'll take the flight in the afternoon."

  She pauses. I can hear her breathing—uneven, ragged. "What if these people come back?"

  "John suggests I check into a hotel."

  "David." Her voice becomes calmer, but the seriousness cuts deeper. "We are caught between two factions. Both are formidable. Both are relentless. The only way to survive is leaving at the first sign of danger."

  "Monday," I insist, jaw tight. "Once the market opens, I liquidate the positions, then leave."

  A long pause. I can feel her weighing every word, every risk, every consequence.

  Finally, she exhales—slow, resigned. "Pack your things. Go to the Little Red Mansion. Stay with Mengshu. I'll wait for you at Heathrow on Monday."

  "Deal." I swallow hard. "But how do I get the money out?"

  The Republic has strict currency controls, both in and out.

  "I'll send you 50 accounts. Transfer the money to them. Someone will convert it to Pound Sterling for us."

  "Excellent."

  We keep talking for ten more minutes. Her voice softens, becomes almost tender. She urges me to go to the Little Red Mansion. To stay safe. To be careful.

  When the call ends, I stand at the window, staring out at the sprawling city below—neon lights flickering, streets humming with life. The Republic pulses with energy, danger, opportunity. It's a place that devours ambition and spits out survivors.

  I think of Sonora, waiting across the ocean. I think of the house we'll build. The garden. The life.

  But first, I have to finish what I started.

  Monday. Just two more days.

  I grab my suitcase and head for the door.