Chapter 1

2022.

Wall Street, New York

- The Washington Post.

- The New York Times.

- The Wall Street Journal.

As I searched for 'Covid Bubble' and scrolled up on my smartphone, endless news articles flooded the screen.

On social media, tens of thousands of users were pouring out their anger, despair, and frustration over massive losses in tweets and comments.

"Chaos indeed."

Starting with a major plunge in the New York stock market this Wednesday, by today, Friday, 40% of the market had evaporated in just three days.

It had already lost 88% during the Great Depression of 1929, and now, half of that had been lost again. Wall Street, and indeed America, was in a panic.

Even I, who had become a ghost of Wall Street over the past 20 years, was laid off this morning from the hedge fund where I worked.

"Huh..."

I felt wronged.

I knew it was a bubble.

But the renowned investors had repeatedly said they didn't know when it would burst.

If the bubble hadn't burst, I would have been looking at Manhattan building prices with a special bonus instead of being laid off.

My luck was truly terrible.

"A -20% return rate, and I deserve to be fired."

It was a large project.

I had worked diligently with other department hedge fund managers to restructure a railway company, package it nicely, and was just about to list it on the New York stock market.

After sucking out as much as possible through stock buybacks, high dividends, and real estate sales, and normalizing the company through restructuring, the New York stock market crashed just before we could sell it.

I pulled my hair out.

"Who would have thought the stock price would plummet 60% in one go? What a lousy timing, really."

It was just before we announced the normalization due to restructuring.

The market capitalization of the railway company naturally plummeted, and so did my career.

I raised my head to the sky and roared.

"Ah, I'm thirsty for the Hudson!"

But my survival instinct, adapted to the wilds of Wall Street, started rummaging through my smartphone contacts without my permission.

My network, gathered from my days at J.P. Morgan to my recent success at the hedge fund, was alive and wriggling.

"J.P. Morgan, Morgan Stanley, Goldman Sachs, Quantum Fund, Barclays... Phew."

Seeing the solid network I had built over 20 years, I felt reassured.

But perhaps because I was a J.P. Morgan alumnus, the name J.P. Morgan still evoked a strong sense of nostalgia.

'The company that was a lifeline for me, a fresh graduate from Harvard.'

I quickly opened the phone keypad and dialed my former boss's number.

Ring. Ring.

Click.

"The party you are calling is currently on another call. After the tone, leave a message-"

I pressed the end call button.

I called in case he might pick up, but J.P. Morgan must be in chaos right now.

I quietly carried the box I had taken from the office and left the hedge fund's lobby.

Clang.

As soon as I stepped outside, the sound of breaking glass and the sight of protesters occupying Wall Street greeted me.

A few days ago, the protesters, who had only covered their faces with masks, had now turned into violent rioters armed with baseball bats and iron pipes.

"Oh, that's why the call didn't go through."

The glass of the J.P. Morgan headquarters lobby was shattered. They weren't busy; they were in danger.

Typical of a country of rebels like the United States.

Beep-

With the sound of a whistle, NYPD (New York Police Department) officers flooded Wall Street.

The fully armed officers in black uniforms, carrying shields and batons, charged at the protesters.

"Get off!!!"

As the riot control police arrived, the protesters quickly dispersed.

With the vast wealth of Wall Street investment banks, New York state politicians must feel as if they have a fire under their feet.

But for me, who had to pass through the angry crowd, it was a dilemma.

"How do I get through?"

Should I spend the night in the lobby?

My expensive suit, which clearly marks me as an intellectual, would be nothing but a tasty morsel for those violent rioters.

I didn't want to be scalped or have a few ribs broken, but with the protesters everywhere, I had no choice.

Screams. Save me.

But as they say, a person with bad luck will break their nose even when falling backward.

I met the bloodshot eyes of a sturdy black man in the crowd.

"YOU!!!"

"Damn."

As the black man pointed at me, the rioters, armed with iron pipes, started to charge at me.

I quickly turned around, but all I faced was a cold metal shutter, not a warm lobby.

Are these guys going to cut off my tail?

I shouted at the shutter in despair.

Bang! Bang! Clank-

"You bastards!!!"

Cursing and asking about my parents' well-being, I quickly ran down an alley.

"STOP!!!"

"Would you stop if you were me!"

Oh, I'm scared.

I threw the box I had taken with me at the approaching protesters.

Crash.

'Ah... my new Mac (MAC).'

As I shed tears of blood over my doomed Mac (MAC), I tried to run faster.

Thud.

But I was grabbed by the collar by the angry black man.

At that moment, only one future came to mind.

Being caught by the protesters who hate Wall Street capitalism and being subjected to a witch hunt.

Witch hunt.

Witch hunt.

Shit.

I'm really going to die.

"Let's see what you can do, you bastards!"

I flipped my eyes and struggled, tearing my shirt.

The black man's grip on my neck was firm.

From the start, his sturdy build and my desk job were no match.

"Let go, let go! You bastard!"

I pulled out a fountain pen from my suit pocket.

I shouldn't think about the Korean protesters.

America is a country where guns are legal and was founded by the strongest rebels in history.

If I'm caught, it's not a joke; I'll really die.

I opened the fountain pen cap and held it in reverse.

And I stabbed it with all my might.

Poke. Poke.

"Ugh-!"

"Ah! Let go! Damn it!"

The black man refused to let go, but when I stabbed his hand with the fountain pen, he threw me onto the street like a bug.

Whoosh-

"Uh."

The problem was.

I was thrown onto the road, not the sidewalk.

I looked with dazed eyes at the blinding headlights of a 10-ton truck approaching me.

Time seemed to stop, and I met the panicked eyes of the 10-ton truck driver.

At the same time, a ringing sound echoed in my ears.

'...I'm going to die!'

I squeezed my eyes shut.

Bang!

Immediately, an indescribable shock hit me, and my consciousness evaporated into whiteness.

Yuseong Shin.

He was 44 years old.

The End