The orange warning sirens in the vaulted ceiling howled at one hundred and twenty decibels.
Red and amber warning lights flashed across the towering neoclassical columns, bathing the trading floor in the harsh glow of an imminent financial catastrophe. Trading slips rained down like paper snow across the floor pit as runners collided with each other in blind panic.
Up on the mahogany balcony, Victor Sterling grabbed a fresh porcelain mug of black coffee from a rolling hospitality cart. His hands were shaking so violently that hot coffee splashed over his knuckles, burning his skin.
He didn’t even flinch at the heat. He stared down at the electronic tape in absolute terror.
Five hundred dollars. Seven hundred dollars. One thousand dollars. One thousand five hundred dollars.
Taichu Global was not merely climbing; it was ascending like an orbital rocket that had completely shed its boosters.
Sterling stumbled backward, his polished Italian leather heel catching the ornate fringe of a Persian rug. The heavy porcelain mug slipped from his grip and shattered against the marble floor tiles, splashing scalding black liquid across the hem of his pinstripe trousers.
“One thousand eight hundred dollars?” Sterling screamed, his manicured hair coming undone in wild, greasy strands. “Cover! Tell every execution desk in London, Zurich, and Tokyo to cover our five hundred million short shares immediately! Buy whatever is on the market at any price!”
