Saturday morning. Little Red Mansion.

  Mengshu greets me at the door, her smile warm but mischievous.

  "You don't need me to arrange a girl for you, do you?" She teases.

  "No. I've got the best girl across the continent." The words come easily, a lifeline I cling to.

  She sighs, a sound weighted with old sorrows. "I really envy you two. I hope your love can stand the test of time."

  The test of time. So few pass it. But I have to believe we will.

  I retreat to my room and book the ticket. One way to Heathrow. British Air. Monday morning, 12:45 p.m.

  I send the details to Sonora via Telegram, then we video call for hours. Her face on the screen is the only thing keeping the walls from closing in. We talk until dinner.

  Dinner at the mansion is served early. Mengshu eats with the girls in a communal cafeteria. The food is decent enough. What unsettles me is everything else—women everywhere, an endless sea of them. Beautiful. Polished. Watching. I'm the only man in the room.

  No one speaks to me except Mengshu. But I feel their eyes. Curious. Assessing.

  Two days, I tell myself. Just two more days. Monday morning, I'm gone.

  … …

  Monday, June 1st. Haitong Securities Building.

  At 9:30 a.m. sharp, the A-Share market opens. HiTV hits the 10% down limit instantly. Another ten million in my pocket.

  I'm about to liquidate everything when the turret rings. Claire.

  "David," her Cantonese lilt floats through the line, deceptively sweet. "I've got cash ready. Whatever you can sell—ten billion."

  "I have inventory. But there's risk." I pause, weighing my words. "Someone broke into my apartment Saturday. Planted bugs. Cameras."

  "Oh God, David. Are you hurt?" Her tone shifts instantly, genuine concern bleeding through.

  "No. But I think it's connected to these trades."

  "Thank you for telling me." A beat of silence. Then, lighter: "You're such a gem. If you ever want something more with me, just ask."

  "Cut it out, Claire." I exhale sharply. "Do you still want ten billion?"

  "Fifteen," she says without hesitation. "This may be my last chance."

  I marvel at her nerve. But I sell her fifteen billion—shorting not just tech, but a wide spectrum of overvalued stocks. Even the Index.

  The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

  "Aren't you worried the market stabilizes?" I ask.

  "The market will collapse under its own weight. The window to short is narrow. And closing fast."

  I hang up and go back to liquidating positions, then begin spreading my sixty million across fifty accounts. Everything on the company computer—my own laptop may have been compromised.

  The transfers are tedious. Maddening. By the tenth account, the phone rings again.

  John. Another fifteen billion. Then another call. And another. Foreign firms, mostly. People I've never dealt with before, all clamoring for shorting positions. By the time I finish, I've sold forty-five billion worth.

  Finally, I'm ready to leave. I delete files, uninstall banking software, scrub transfer logs as best I can. Then I grab my Michael Kors bag and head for the door.

  I glance into Hansen's office as I pass. He's hunched over his desk, rubbing his temples, face drawn tight. Something's eating at him. I quicken my pace.

  The taxi ride to the airport drags. Traffic is heavy, sluggish. My chest tightens with every stopped light. There's time—plenty of time—but dread coils in my gut like a living thing.

  At the terminal, I nearly sprint to the ticket counter. The line stretches endlessly. When I finally reach the agent, she asks, "Any checked bags?"

  I shake my head.

  She looks at my hand bag, her expression flickering with curiosity. Flying international with just this? But she doesn't ask. She prints my boarding pass and hands it over.

  I exhale. A small victory. I follow the crowd through security, then toward border control.

  The officer takes my passport. Scans it. The machine beeps.

  He frowns. Scans again.

  My pulse spikes.

  His brow furrows deeper.

  "You're not allowed to leave the country," he says.

  The words hit like a fist to the sternum. The air thins.

  "Why?" My voice cracks.

  "It doesn't say." He stares at the screen, bewildered. "You're not wanted by the police. No court order. But the system won't let you through."

  "I've already bought my ticket. Made arrangements. Spent money. Could it be a glitch?"

  He scans again.

  "I've scanned it three times. Same result every time." He presses a button. A moment later, a supervisor approaches.

  The supervisor scans my passport again, then leans in to whisper something to the officer. I can't hear what he says through the glass.

  Finally, he turns on the speaker. "This happens more often than you'd think. You're not allowed to leave. But we're not instructed to detain you or confiscate your passport. You're free to go back. You just can't cross the border."

  "This is going to cost me a fortune," I say, though the words sound hollow even to me.

  "That may not be your biggest problem right now." His voice is flat, almost sympathetic. "There's always a reason. Maybe not one they can put in the system. Maybe not one they'll tell you. But there's always a reason."

  I stare at him. He's just doing his job. There's no point arguing. But my chest feels like it's caving in.

  "Come with me." The supervisor steps out from the booth and leads me down the row of counters. He points to a narrow corridor with an escalator. "Go back down from here. You might still have time to retrieve your luggage at check-in." Then he walks away without another word.

  I stand there for a long moment, numb. The corridor stretches before me like a throat swallowing me whole.

  I find a bathroom for people with disabilities, lock the door, and pull out my phone. My hands are shaking. I Telegram Sonora.

  Her reply comes almost instantly. "Don't panic. I'll get help. Go back to the Little Red Mansion."

  I stare at the screen. The Little Red Mansion. Again.

  Only this time, there's no Monday morning flight. No escape hatch. No end in sight. Could I have left on Saturday, when Sonora told me to leave immediately? Maybe. But regret is useless now.

  I pocket the phone and walk back through the terminal. Every step feels heavier than the last. Outside, the sky is pale and indifferent. I hail a taxi.

  As the car pulls away from the airport, I glance back one last time. The terminal recedes in the distance, a monument to a freedom I no longer have.

  The cage has closed. And I didn't even hear the lock click.