Waiting for the Wind

Seattle, 15th floor of an office building, operations center.

The air was filled with a strange smell, a mixture of over-burning caffeine, sweat, and some indescribable odor—a blend of fatigue and excitement after a digital battle.

On the huge curved main screen, the stock price chart of Northwest Logistics Group (NLG) resembled a wound that had been repeatedly struck by a heavy hammer and was barely maintaining its distorted shape, oscillating listlessly and directionlessly in a narrow range between $42.50 and $43.80.

The dramatic surge and precipitous drop of the past few trading days seem to have come to an end, and the market has entered a strange, exhausted period of calm. The final decline settled at -11.2%, with a market capitalization loss of over $300 million relative to the peak.

But beneath this calm surface, Undercurrent undercurrents are brewing.

Richard Thorne stood in front of the control panel, looking more tired than he had a few days ago, but the light in his eyes was even sharper.

He had just finished an encrypted call with several major stock lending brokers, his fingers unconsciously rubbing his throbbing temples. Seeing K emerge from the side lounge, he immediately grabbed a freshly printed data summary and hurried to meet him.

"Mr. K," Thorne's voice was hoarse and visibly anxious, "The situation has changed. We're almost out of NLG shares we borrowed through regular channels that we can use for short selling."

K stopped, took the data summary, and calmly scanned the numbers. Total investment amount, remaining funds, number of shares borrowed, average borrowing cost... all were clearly displayed.

"I contacted Goldman Sachs, Morgan Stanley, JPMorgan Chase, and a few other 'friendly' second-tier brokerages," Thorne said quickly, clearly this problem had been bothering him for a while.

"They should still have NLG bonds in hand, but the borrowing rate they're offering is... ridiculously high."

They are generally 30% to 50% higher than the market rate, and some even suggest that the price can be 'negotiated' if an urgent, large amount of vouchers is needed.

This is clearly opportunistic profiteering, or... being instructed to deliberately tighten supply, raise our short-selling costs, and even create a potential short squeeze risk.

He paused, looking at K's expressionless face, and added somewhat uncertainly:

Should we continue to accept their high prices, maintain or even increase our short positions, or... take a break?

At the current price level, unless more significant negative news emerges and the short-selling pressure weakens, we could be in a very passive position if bullish funds launch a counterattack or NLG implements strong market support measures. Moreover, such high margin lending rates will continuously erode our profits.

K handed the data summary back to Thorne, his face still expressionless. He didn't answer immediately, but instead slowly walked to the huge screen, looking up at the curve representing NLG's stock price, which seemed to be struggling like a trapped beast. The light from the screen reflected in his dark pupils, flickering.

A few seconds later, he turned to face Thorne, suddenly reached out, and gently patted the chief trader's tense shoulder. The movement was light, even carrying a rare, almost comforting tone.

"Ignore those big brokerages." K's voice was calm, even strangely relaxed. "If they want to hoard and speculate, let them hold on. Prices 30% higher than the market? Ha, let them sleep with those numbers."

Thorne paused, somewhat puzzled. "Then... what about our position? What if NLG rebounds later...?"

"Gather those scattered, small-scale stock options on the market," K interrupted him, his tone decisive and leaving no room for argument. "Don't focus on volume, focus on consistency. As for price, we can accept any premium as long as it doesn't exceed 20%. Small steps add up. The important thing is to maintain the 'sound' and 'trace' of NLG stock being lent out and shorted in the market, keeping the bearish sentiment alive."

He looked into Thorne's confused eyes, and the corners of his mouth slowly and subtly curved upwards. It wasn't a smile, but more like a knowing understanding of some inevitable trajectory.

"As for the rest," K's gaze returned to the struggling stock price curve on the screen, his voice low but clear to Thorne, "We'll just wait and see."

"Wait?" Thorne repeated subconsciously, his brows furrowing even more.

"Waiting for what? Waiting for NLG to run into problems on its own? Waiting for new negative news to emerge in the market? Mr. K, in short selling, timing is everything."

We've gone to great lengths to drive down prices and create a climate of panic. If we falter now and NLG recovers, releases an unexpectedly strong quarterly report, or announces some positive partnership, market sentiment could reverse instantly! Then we might be...

He wanted to say "short squeeze," but looking at K's calm profile, he didn't say the rest.

K slowly turned around, facing Thorne, and also the other traders in the hall who, though busy, were all listening intently to their conversation. The expression on his face was one Thorne had never seen before—a peculiar look that combined absolute patience, cold calculation, and a kind of almost prophetic certainty.

"Waiting for the wind to come."

K said softly, only three words.

Thorne opened his mouth, wanting to ask what "wind" it was and when it would come, but when he looked into K's eyes, all his questions suddenly got stuck in his throat.

That gaze was so deep, so still, as if it could already see the storm gathering on the distant horizon, sweeping in unstoppable.

All he needed to do was guard the breach that had been opened and wait for the storm that would destroy everything, uprooting the prey's last resistance along with the very foundation it stood on.

A chill, mixed with an indescribable excitement, crept up Thorne's spine and up to the back of his neck. He asked no more questions, nodding vigorously. "Understood, Mr. K. I will adjust the strategy, maintain pressure, control costs, and then... wait."

K nodded slightly, said nothing more, and turned to walk towards the side door leading to the lounge.

Midtown Manhattan, a penthouse overlooking Central Park. The city skyline outside the floor-to-ceiling windows gleams in the afternoon sun, a symbol of boundless wealth and power.

Allen Derrick, head of global equities at Goldman Sachs, had just put down his encrypted satellite phone. In his fifties, he was very well-maintained, with his silver-gray hair neatly combed, wearing a custom-made dark blue Savile Row suit, and a smug smile that suggested he had been in a position of power for a long time and was in complete control.

He had just ended a "friendly" phone call with Old Walton., vowing that he would never lend a single penny of NLG stock to "those malicious short sellers."

After hanging up the phone, the smile on his face didn't disappear, but the curve of his lips became somewhat meaningful. He leaned back comfortably in his high-backed leather executive chair, let out a long sigh, and then waved to his young female assistant, who had been standing quietly behind the desk, dressed in a smart Chanel suit, with her blonde hair neatly tied up in a bun.

"Jennifer, come here."

Jennifer, the female assistant, immediately approached with measured steps, her face displaying professional respect. "Mr. Derrick?"

Derrick didn't answer immediately. He first slowly adjusted the expensive platinum cufflinks on his sleeve, and then his gaze fell on Jennifer's exquisitely made-up face, with a scrutinizing look and... a certain undisguised amusement belonging to its owner.

"Have you received a reply yet?" he asked, his voice low.

"You mean... the inquiry from ' Mofeng Capital ' in Seattle?" Jennifer replied immediately, her tone professional. "There hasn't been a formal response yet. But our account manager reports that they don't seem very interested in our quote; they've only politely indicated they'd consider it. Boss,"

She paused, seemingly hesitant, but then added in a low voice, "Aren't our prices too high? And didn't you just promise Mr. Walton that you wouldn't ship to them? Won't this...?"

Before she could finish speaking, Derrick beckoned to her again, this time slower and more insistent, signaling her to come closer.

Jennifer was a little confused, but she obediently took two more steps forward, almost touching the edge of the large mahogany desk.

Just then, Derrick suddenly reached out with the hand that wore the Patek Philippe watch and grabbed Jennifer's carefully styled golden hair bun!

The movements weren't particularly rough, but they carried absolute control and an air of absolute authority, shoving Jennifer's head down forcefully amidst her soft gasp!

"Ugh!"

Caught off guard, Jennifer's upper body was forced to bend, her forehead and cheek slamming heavily against her legs with a dull thud.

She winced in pain, but dared not scream, only letting out suppressed whimpers. Her hands instinctively gripped the edge of the table, her body trembling slightly with fear and humiliation. The scents of expensive perfume and hairspray mingled with her suddenly rapid breathing.

Derrick ignored her struggles and pain, maintaining his pressing posture while casually loosening his tie with his other hand.

He tilted his head back slightly, closed his eyes, and his face showed an expression of relief and complete relaxation, almost a sense of contentment. He let out a deep, slow sigh of relief.

A few seconds later, he opened his eyes again, his gaze returning to its usual shrewdness and indifference. He released his grip, as if the brutal scene had never happened.

Derrick picked up the cigar cutter from the table and leisurely trimmed the cap of a Cuba cigar, as if he had merely brushed away a speck of dust. His voice returned to its usual magnetic and persuasive tone as he calmly addressed his still-shaken female assistant:

"Jennifer, darling, remember this: on Wall Street, the most important things aren't promises, or even legal statutes, but—" He tapped his temple with his cigar, "The stakes, and the timing."

He lit a cigar, took a puff, and let the rich smoke fill his mouth.

"As long as the majority of NLG's vouchers remain firmly in the hands of our major banks," Derrick exhaled a smoke ring, watching it slowly dissipate in the sunlight, his eyes sharp as an eagle, "Then, whether it's a Pyrrhic victory for that old bastard Walton, or the arrogant young man from Seattle who succeeds, or even a lose-lose situation... we will be the biggest winners."

He paused, a sneer playing at the corners of his lips.

"We can lend the shares to short sellers at exorbitant prices and earn amazing interest. We can also 'reluctantly' help Walton find some 'long-term value investors' to take over when he most needs to support the stock price, and charge high intermediary fees."

Furthermore, if the stock price falls deep enough, we can even quietly buy at the bottom with our own funds, and then sell the whole batch for a good price after the storm has passed. See how flexible and wonderful that is?

Jennifer listened with her head down to this blatant and immoral scheme, her body trembling even more violently, whether from fear or the cold, she didn't know.

Derrick looked at her and suddenly chuckled, a laugh filled with worldly wisdom and undisguised contempt.

"As for friends? Heh..." He shook his head, put the cigar back in his mouth, and gazed out the window at the Manhattan jungle, a symbol of endless wealth, muttering to himself, as if giving a final lecture:

"Here, only money, and information that can bring you more money, are your only trustworthy 'friends.' Everything else is a commodity that can be sold at any time... including promises, relationships, and even..."

His gaze swept meaningfully over Jennifer's still-lowered, flushed cheeks and disheveled blond hair. He didn't finish his sentence, but the meaning was self-evident.

Jennifer shuddered and lowered her head even further.

Derrick stopped looking at her, waved his hand as if shooing away a fly:

"Go out. Keep an eye on both sides. If Seattle inquires again, tell them the price is negotiable, but we need to see 'sincerity.' As for Walton... well, tell him we're doing our best to stabilize market sentiment, but 'the market has its own rules,' and tell him to 'remain patient.'"

"Yes... Mr. Derrick," Jennifer replied in a barely audible voice, almost fleeing as she quickly retreated from the luxurious yet cold office with her head down.

The door closed gently.

Derrick sat alone behind his enormous desk, smoking a cigar and gazing out the window. The sun shone brightly, and the city bustled.

His face showed no remorse or unease, only a pure joy, like someone sitting calmly, waiting for a bountiful harvest.

When the snipe and the clam fight, the fisherman benefits. And he, Allen Derrick, is happy to play that most patient, and also the most greedy, fisherman.

That same afternoon, in a members-only upscale steakhouse in Lower Manhattan, three casually dressed but undeniably shrewd men sat by the window. Half-eaten steaks and empty bottles of red wine sat before them, but their conversation was clearly not about the food.

"Have you heard? Over on the West Coast, someone is heavily shorting NLG." A man with frameless Glasses and slightly curly hair said in a low voice as he cut meat on his plate.

"That's old news, Michael." A bald man with an earring across from him took a sip of red wine and chuckled. "NLG has dropped more than ten points in the past week. Quite a stir. Judging by the method, it was pretty aggressive, just a hard sell, not much skill involved."

"Have you found out who it is?" The third man, who had been listening quietly, finally spoke, his voice steady.

"It's very mysterious. The funds come in through multiple layers of offshore shell companies, and the trading seats are also very scattered. It points to a newly emerging capital firm in Seattle called ' Silent Wind,' but there's a lot more to it than meets the eye," the bald man analyzed.

Michael raised an eyebrow. "No wonder they're so direct. But short selling isn't war; ruthlessness and money alone aren't enough. NLG isn't made of clay either. How many years has the Walton Family been operating on the West Coast? They're deeply entrenched. I've been watching the market these past few days; that short-selling firm has probably run out of leverage and their firepower is waning. Right now, they're just putting on a brave face and creating panic."

"What do you mean?" the composed man asked.

"What I mean is," the bald man put down his glass, leaned forward slightly, and lowered his voice, "If that short-selling firm really runs out of 'ammunition,' and if NLG's fundamentals don't have any real, fatal problems, then this current position could very well be a short-selling trap. Walton only needs to spend a little money to prop up the price, or wait for a not-too-bad quarterly report, and the stock price could very well rebound sharply. At that time, all those short sellers will be crushed."

Michael stroked his chin thoughtfully. "So, we... wait and see? Not in a hurry to leave the field?"

"What's the rush?" The bald man leaned back in his chair, revealing a seasoned hunter's smile. "Whether that mysterious Eastern kid ultimately smashes through NLG with brute force, or Walton's shrewd counterattack successfully stabilizes the situation... for us, this is a feast, isn't it?"

The composed man nodded slowly, indicating his agreement. "If the bulls win, we can buy the dip and profit from the valuation recovery. If the bears win, we can pick up even cheaper shares in the ruins after the crash, or... participate in the division of Walton's other assets. Most importantly, this battle has muddied the waters and exposed NLG's weaknesses. From now on, it will no longer be that insurmountable nut to crack."

The three exchanged a glance, and in each other's eyes they saw the same cold and greedy glint.

They raised their glasses and clinked them together lightly.

"For the sake of chaos."

"For the sake of opportunity."

"In order to... reap the rewards."

The crystal glasses clinked together, producing a crisp sound that was drowned out by the soothing background music and the low murmur of conversation in the steakhouse.

Outside the window, the traffic in Manhattan continued unabated. In the vast, never-sleeping arena of the financial markets, the bloody battle had temporarily reached a stalemate. But everyone knew that this was merely the calm before the storm.

Hunters wait, speculators observe, and fishermen weigh their nets.

Meanwhile, the wind is quietly gathering its destructive power on the distant horizon.

It's just waiting for that thunderclap, or that Spark, to ignite it completely and sweep it away.