41: Chapter 41 The Search for the White Glove: The Invisible God of Wall Street

Brooklyn Heights, safe house.

The rain outside was still falling, drumming against the bulletproof glass with a dull thud.

The room was dark, lit only by the eerie blue glow of three large monitors, which illuminated Chen Mo's expressionless face.

His fingers tapped against the keyboard with astonishing speed, and data streams cascaded down the screen like a waterfall.

[Hacking Mastery (Blue)] operating at full power.

In this moment, Chen Mo was no longer the forensic pathologist stitching up corpses in the morgue, nor was he the thug wielding a glock to kill.

In the world of the internet, he was a god.

"What are you looking for? The Holy Grail?"

George held a glass of bourbon, leaning against the sofa, brow furrowed as he stared at Chen Mo's superhuman operating speed.

He had tried to follow Chen Mo's train of thought earlier, but the speed at which the code flashed made even a veteran agent like him feel dizzy.

"I'm looking for trash," Chen Mo said without turning his head, his voice as calm as if he were reading an instruction manual.

"Wall Street generates countless amounts of trash every day. Traders fired by major investment banks, analysts pushed out for sticking to their principles, and geniuses blacklisted because they knew secrets they shouldn't have."

"The White Glove we're looking for cannot be one of those polished, glamorous partners. Those people are too smart, too protective of their reputations, and surrounded by spies from those families."

Chen Mo hit the enter key. The cascading data on the screen instantly froze, then began to filter rapidly, as avatars and profiles popped up and were just as quickly dismissed.

"We need a mad dog," Chen Mo said, taking a sip of the coffee beside him.

"A mad dog capable of biting a lion to death, but one that has had its legs broken and been thrown into the mud to wait for death."

George shrugged. "That sounds like you're looking for the me from back in the day."

"No, what you needed were guns and C4. But this dog needs to understand K-line charts and leverage."

Chen Mo closed his eyes, and the memories of that Ponzi scheme fraudster, Jonathan Rockefeller, surfaced in his mind.

The unspoken rules of Wall Street, the networks of connections, and those buried names reassembled in his mind like a jigsaw puzzle.

Excluding: those with histories of gambling or alcoholism, those with family weaknesses, and those with mediocre abilities who relied only on luck.

Finally, only one name remained on the screen.

Jack Martin.

The man in the profile photo had messy brown hair, gloomy eyes, and dark circles under his eyes so heavy it looked like he'd been punched twice.

"Jack Martin, 31 years old. Wharton School dropout," Chen Mo read from the data on the screen.

"Five years ago, he was the youngest macro strategy analyst at Goldman Sachs. He accurately predicted the liquidity crisis in 2019 and advised the firm to short the market. But his boss, wanting to protect his year-end bonus, suppressed his report and took a heavy long position instead."

"And the result?" George asked, interested.

"The firm lost 300 million. That boss dumped all the blame on Jack, claiming he had violated regulations. Jack had his license revoked and was blacklisted by the industry. For the past five years, he's been stuck in a basement in Queens, helping gangs launder small amounts of money or venting on shady forums."

George leaned in to look. "Sounds like a loser. But does he have the skill? I mean, to manage five million, or even more."

Chen Mo's lips curled slightly. His fingers tapped on the keyboard a few times, pulling up Jack Martin's anonymous posting history on an underground forum.

"Look at this. Three months ago, he advised buying call options for Northrop Grumman on the forum, arguing that the situation in the Middle East would escalate. No one believed him at the time; they even mocked him as a madman."

Chen Mo pointed to the K-line chart on the side. "Last week, that option went up fourteen-fold."

"And this, his prediction regarding the Federal Reserve's interest rate hike cycle, accurate down to the basis point."

Chen Mo stood up and walked to the floor-to-ceiling window, looking down at the brilliantly lit Manhattan in the rainy night.

It was the center of power, a coliseum of money.

"He has top-tier instincts, but he has no capital and no ticket to enter the game. Right now, he is a peerless, rusted sword stuck in a pile of dung."

"And I am going to pull him out."

George swirled the ice in his glass. "Where is this guy now?"

Chen Mo turned around, and the image on the screen switched to a live surveillance feed.

It was a cheap internet cafe located in Flushing, Queens.

In the corner of the frame, the greasy-haired man was curled up in a dilapidated chair, staring intently at the trend chart on the screen, holding half a cold burger in his hand, his eyes filled with a hunger that looked like he wanted to devour the screen itself.

It was a longing to win, and also a hatred for this world.

"Found him." Chen Mo picked up the trench coat hanging on the rack. "George, get ready. Tonight, we're going to meet the future King of Wall Street."

"Do you need me to bring a gun?" George asked.

"No." Chen Mo took a voice changer from his system space, attached it to his Adam's apple, and tested the sound.

His originally youthful voice instantly became deep and raspy, carrying a cold, metallic texture.

"For dealing with this kind of person, the best weapon isn't a gun."

Chen Mo put on a pair of rimless glasses, a prop he had just fine-tuned using the [Master of Disguise] skill, making him look older and unfathomable.

"It's hope."

...

Queens, Flushing, Speed Internet Cafe.

The air was filled with the smell of instant noodles, sweat, and cheap tobacco.

Jack Martin irritably scratched his hair, looked at the notification on the screen that his position had been liquidated again, and slammed his keyboard hard.

"Damn it! Damn it! I knew the main players were shaking out the market! Just give me five thousand... no, two thousand in margin, and I could have held on!"

He took all the money out of his pocket, a few crumpled bills that added up to less than twenty dollars.

It wasn't even enough for this week's rent.

The few teenagers playing games nearby cast disdainful glances, as if looking at a stray dog.

Jack gritted his teeth, that familiar, suffocating feeling of being abandoned by the world rushing back into his heart.

Five years ago, he walked on Wall Street in a custom suit; now, he was going crazy in a smoke-filled internet cafe over a few dozen dollars.

"Is this my fate?" Jack stared at the blank screen, muttering to himself.

"Maybe that asshole boss was right, I'm just trash who doesn't understand the rules."

Just as he was about to get up and leave, to ponder whether to spend the night on a park bench or go to a shelter, the black screen suddenly lit up.

It wasn't the system desktop, nor was it a blue screen.

Instead, a pure black dialog box popped up abruptly, taking over the entire screen.

There was no cursor, only a line of white text, like a ghost emerging from the abyss:

[Jack Martin. Do you want to take back everything that belongs to you?]

Jack froze.

He instinctively looked around. The teenagers were still shouting while playing games, and the internet cafe attendant was dozing off behind the counter; no one noticed his screen.

A hacker? A prank?

Jack's fingers trembled as he typed a line on the keyboard: [Who are you?]

The text on the screen disappeared, and new text appeared:

[I am the rope at the bottom of the cliff for you.]

[Tomorrow morning at 9:30, the US stock market opens. Go long on Titan Pharmaceuticals. Ticker symbol TTNP, target price: 4.2 dollars.]

Jack frowned.

Titan Pharmaceuticals? That was a junk stock about to be delisted, currently priced at only 0.8 dollars, with no positive news whatsoever.

[Are you sick? That company is going into bankruptcy liquidation tomorrow.] Jack typed rapidly.

The other party didn't explain, just left one last line of text, and then the screen flashed, returning to the normal Windows desktop as if nothing had happened.

[Watch it. Then, you will come to beg me.]

[— — Legacy]