When Alexei's modified Ford crashed through the barbed wire of the Brooklyn warehouse district, Song Zhixian smelled the distinctive ozone scent of a Tesla coil. Thirty-seven graphics card mining rigs hummed under tarps, their blue glow illuminating a Chernobyl ruin graffiti on the wall.
"Beautiful lady, your vital signs are Overdraft ing your combat readiness credit," the Ukrainian hacker pushed an energy drink toward her, his screen displaying real-time ECG waves of her heart, "17 ventricular premature beats per minute, like a Treasury yield curve being harvested by the Federal Reserve."
Yu Jin lifted his bulletproof vest to wipe his FN57 pistol, the barcode on his pectoral muscle flickering in the cold light: "Found it?"
"Quantum server cluster in the seventh basement of 23 Wall Street," Alexei brought up the dark web topology map, six blood-red nodes devouring financial data streams, "JPMorgan's neural interface Access the TOR network three years before the CIA; their shadow banking system launders two Kyiv GDPs every week."
Song Zhixian's medical tablet suddenly alarmed—the autopsy report showed the pursuers' blood contained anabolic steroids, a common "motivator" for employees at Wall Street private equity funds. When she zoomed in on the residual image in the deceased's retina, a set of bond codes leaped out: ISIN/US4642876521.
"The ghost bonds of the 1998 Russian sovereign debt default," she projected the image onto a rusted ventilation duct, "These bond codes should have been destroyed by DTCC three years ago."
Lightning split the Hudson River. Yu Jin suddenly grabbed her wrist, the carbon fiber watchband digging into her skin: "This is the capital channel for the world's largest drug trial. Your sisterhood uses Manhattan psychiatric hospitals as filters, transforming PTSD patients into living memory storage for financial codes."
A titanium alloy hum suddenly sounded outside the warehouse. Twelve Night Hawk drones shattered the glass, carbon tungsten cutting blades springing from their wings. Song Zhixian grabbed a scalpel and threw it at the main power switch. In the instant darkness fell, she saw Alexei also had a flame-shaped scar tattooed on the back of his neck.
"Move!" Yu Jin smashed open the emergency exit. Sewer water carried the residual heat of cryptocurrency mines, murky surfaces reflecting the green fluorescence of blockchain nodes. Song Zhixian's high heels sank into stinking sludge, suddenly touching something hard.
It was a titanium alloy access card engraved with the Morgan family crest, with bits of a CEO's subcutaneous tissue adhering to its surface.
The three emerged from a flood outlet in the outer wall of the Federal Reserve vault as heavy rainwash away ed the black granite of 33 Liberty Street. As Song Zhixian's pupils adjusted to the emerald laser security grid, she suddenly deciphered the flickering light points—they were real-time calculated Fibonacci sequences.
"The holy grail of cryptography," Alexei stuck nanobots into the ventilation vent, "The Fed uses the Riemann hypothesis to protect the vault, but their administrator ate ricin-laced Ukrainian dumplings in Flushing this morning."
The hum of quantum computers penetrated the earth's crust. When the blast door slid open, Song Zhixian's white coat was set off by negative pressure airflow, and haloperidol tablets from her medicine bottle played a symphony of panic in the air. Among the steel glacier of thirty-five rows of servers floated a vintage safe from the 1930s.
"Number match," Yu Jin swiped the access card she'd found across the console. The screen displayed the account holder: Eleanor Vanderbilt Song—Song Zhixian's grandmother's registered name in the Federal Reserve System.
The safe sprayed cryogenic nitrogen. Yellowed bond certificates bore OSS wax seals, alongside neuropharmacological samples labeled "MK-ULTRA." Alexei suddenly turned his gun on his companions: "Option agreements from the 1967 Chilean copper mine coup. Enough to buy the entire Donetsk."
Song Zhixian'sfingertip traced her grandmother's signature. A crack opened in her memory: the black Lincoln she'd seen at the Long Island manor at age seven, the men in breathing masks carrying lead boxes into the basement. Her asthma suddenly flared, and her inhaler rolled deep into the servers.
"SWAT signal source detected three miles out!" Alexei's alarm flashinged red. Servers began overloading, liquid nitrogen from cooling pipes painting deathly ice flowers on the floor. Yu Jin suddenly pushed Song Zhixian toward the east safety ladder, flinging himself toward the west laser array.
"Choose!" he Roar ed through the liquid nitrogen fog, three laser targeting dots on his chestups and downs ing with breath, "Go with the Ukrainian to find your genetic memory, or stay with me to uncover the Fed's scalpel."
Song Zhixian catch the falling emergency rope. As Alexei's EMP device paralysis ed the security system, she saw another item glinting in her grandmother's safe—a missing fourth edition DSM diagnostic manual from her mother's psychiatric hospital suicide.
Wall Street's air raid sirens Resonanceed with her tinnitus. 0.3 seconds before the quantum computer melted down, Song Zhixian finally read the handwritten annotation on the back of the bond certificate: "Subject 438 exhibits perfect traumatic compliance. Recommend expansion to Dow Jones index traders."
As liquid nitrogen drown ed her ankles, she suddenly realized the true disease flowed through New York's veins: neural synapses alienated by capital, collective trauma haunting financial data streams. When Yu Jin's sulfurous heat pounce on , her scalpel was already pressed against his carotid artery.
"Remember to quit imipramine before our next session," she bite through his lip amid the blast shockwave, "Your adrenergic receptors are betraying your pupillary constriction response."