The true darkest hour was just beginning.
Since the day L Bank collapsed, Ding Zhitong and Feng Sheng often chatted online, mostly about visas and job hunting.
L Bank’s HR finally gave Feng Sheng a definite answer: his employment status could be maintained until the end of September. After that, the entire securities trading department might be acquired by Barclays, with massive layoffs inevitable. Those with complicated foreign worker status like Feng Sheng would undoubtedly be the first to go.
This extra half-month didn’t make much difference for Feng Sheng. His H1B was certainly invalid now. The immigration lawyer told him that his OPT was still valid, allowing him to revert to his recent graduate internship status and look for another job. However, he could only be unemployed for 60 days during the OPT period, meaning he had to start job hunting immediately.
So Feng Sheng found himself back where he was a year ago, sending out resumes and reaching out to acquaintances. Unfortunately, the overall environment had changed. Despite being a former interview ace, he only got two interview opportunities in a month, both of which led nowhere.
Ding Zhitong felt somewhat responsible for this situation. Although she had clearly advised him to go to Hong Kong, and Feng Sheng had explicitly stated that he chose to stay in New York and work for L Bank purely for career reasons, she still felt guilty.
She expressed her apology indirectly, but Feng Sheng told her not to worry, as the situation in Hong Kong was similar.
The bonds issued by L Bank there had become almost worthless, investors had lost everything, the Hang Seng Index had nearly halved, and many financial institutions were laying off staff. Even if he had accepted the other offer back then, he’d likely be facing unemployment now.
“So what are you planning to do?” Ding Zhitong worried for him, knowing that even if he returned to Shanghai, finding a suitable job would be difficult. She recalled what he had told her about his family’s old villa on Fengyang Road, housing three generations, five families, and twelve people in total. And that 47-year-old bachelor uncle he had feared becoming since middle school…
In the end, it was Feng Sheng who comforted her, saying, “I’ve thought it through. Finding a job might be difficult for a while, so I’m planning to apply for an MBA program. After graduating in two years, I can start as an Associate in investment banking. It won’t be a waste of time at all.”
“Yes, that’s an option…” Ding Zhitong replied, but she knew that MBA applications usually required at least two years of work experience, and Feng Sheng only had a few months. Moreover, with so many financial institutions laying off entire departments, many people would likely be considering this route.
From mid-September to early October, the market experienced massive fluctuations, including two crash-like plunges, each lasting seven to eight trading days.
The S&P and Dow plummeted, Treasury yields dropped sharply, interbank lending rates soared, credit risk blacklists were updated multiple times a day, and various data charts showed unprecedented, bizarre curves. Bloomberg’s daily closing comments read like thriller novels. Information poured in relentlessly but without clarity, all pointing to one fact: everyone was panicking and desperately trying to cut their losses and flee.
The Treasury Department’s rescue plans were repeatedly introduced, rejected on Capitol Hill, revised, and resubmitted until the government had no choice but to intervene with funds. Ironically, the same people criticizing Asian governments for interfering with free markets during the Asian Financial Crisis a decade ago were now doing the same.
It wasn’t until October 13th, when stock indices surged 11%, that the financial markets seemed to have been saved. However, like the Great Depression following the 1929 Wall Street Crash, a severe economic recession was about to begin. The true darkest hour was just starting.
The chaos on investment bank trading floors over the past month was unimaginable, and IBD was exceptionally busy. Many people didn’t have ongoing deals, but no one dared to be idle, fearing that any relaxation might result in a layoff notice. Ding Zhitong was no exception, constantly assigned to different VPs and managers, doing pitches even when there were no live deals, even if it was busy work.
It was during this time that Gan Yang sold his 1966 Mustang.
For a while, Ding Zhitong frequently called the dealership to inquire about the car. The broker always told her it was still there. She even considered buying it herself more than once. Then she would mentally criticize Gan Yang’s redneck aesthetics. Because it was just a Mustang worth a few tens of thousands, she might have impulsively charged it to her card in a moment of confusion. If it had been a supercar, she definitely wouldn’t have entertained such a notion.
But suddenly one day, the broker called to inform her that the car had been sold, asking whether she wanted the payment transferred or sent as a check.
“It’s been sold?” Ding Zhitong could hardly believe it.
“Yes, it’s been sold,” the broker confirmed, adding that the car had been modified so well that it would have sold much earlier at different times.
For a while, Ding Zhitong still felt it wasn’t real. How could someone buy such an impractical car in these times?
After hanging up, she hid in a bathroom stall for a long time, sitting on the toilet lid with her phone in hand, the screen lighting up and dimming, then lighting up again.
She hadn’t been like this when they first broke up. Nor when she helped sublet his apartment and pack his things. But now, it was the very end. She desperately wanted to dial his number in China, to hear his voice, coming so close to doing so.
In the end, she only sent Gan Yang a short message: “The car has been sold. How should I give you the money?”
After a long wait, she received a brief reply: “Keep it. Best wishes.”
Ding Zhitong didn’t know what to make of this. Perhaps it was similar to his habit of leaving 30% tips, a gesture both gentlemanly and generous, indicating an amicable parting.
But this polite response enraged her. She couldn’t understand why she had set herself up for such humiliation. She wanted to smash her phone but restrained herself, realizing she’d have to buy a new one. Instead, she broke down crying in the stall, not caring if anyone heard. After all, so many people were on the verge of breakdown during that period that even if someone overheard, they might not have guessed it was her.
After calming down, she called Wang Yi, asking him to help transfer the money.
Wang Yi agreed but seemed to imply that he hadn’t been in touch with Gan Yang for a while either.
They chatted for a bit longer on the phone, with Ding Zhitong constantly distracted and Wang Yi doing most of the talking.
In the months since his advisor’s death, Wang Yi had seen a therapist seven or eight times and had grown quite a few gray hairs. With his buzz cut, they were particularly noticeable. The school, probably fearing further incidents, had arranged for a professor with a similar research focus to take him on. They allowed him to compile the results of his previous project to see if it could be continued. If possible, he would complete it next year and publish the paper as a co-author. It would be later than originally planned, but he should still be able to graduate with at most a one-semester delay.
“…Then I’ll look for a job, or maybe do a postdoc for a while. Hopefully, the situation out there will be better by then,” Wang Yi couldn’t help but plan for the more distant future.
Ding Zhitong wanted to advise him not to think too far ahead, as there were still many uncontrollable factors. But she also knew that she was the same kind of person who tended to worry excessively.
“Gan Yang once talked about partnering with me to make shoes. Good thing I didn’t take him seriously…” Wang Yi joked, but immediately felt it was inappropriate.
Ding Zhitong’s heart twinged, but her voice remained cheerful. She wanted to tell Wang Yi it was fine, that she just found it ironic. Gan Yang always had strange ideas. Wang Yi hadn’t taken it seriously, but she had. Even knowing from the start that she shouldn’t, she still did. The mistake was hers.
After hanging up, she washed her face, reapplied her makeup, and returned to work as if nothing had happened.
Outside the glass curtain wall, the sky was gloomy and autumnal, but the office felt stuffy. Ding Zhitong seemed to be the only one feeling cold. At first, she thought it was anger over Gan Yang, but as the feeling persisted, she had to admit she might have caught a cold, though she couldn’t remember when she might have been exposed.
As night fell and the city lights came on, colleagues working overtime came and went, but she remained at her desk, shivering as she typed on her computer, rushing to finish a draft pitch book while enduring bone-deep aches.
When she finished, her manager had already left. She emailed her work and decided to go home early to sleep. Checking the time, she realized it was indeed early – the next day had just begun.
The predawn outdoors was even colder. She hugged herself tightly in her coat, took a taxi at the company entrance, and shivered all the way home, hoping she’d feel better after a good night’s sleep.
Over the past month, people often stood on Broadway in front of the company with signs listing their prestigious alma mater, certifications, and former positions. This seemed less about job hunting and more like performance art, mainly serving to make those still employed feel precarious.
This was no time to slack off, even for illness.
Back in her small Queens apartment, Ding Zhitong took another ibuprofen, shed her coat, and crawled under the covers. She fell into a deep sleep filled with chaotic dreams.
When her alarm jolted her awake, her breathing burned her nostrils, her throat ached severely, and she knew without checking that she had a fever. Daylight filled the small room through unclosed curtains, making her feel suffocated.
She considered going to work but suddenly didn’t want to push herself. She curled up on her single bed and cried quietly for a moment. Realizing crying only made breathing harder, she forced herself to calm down and catch her breath. For a moment, she even thought of JV, wondering if she too might be found unconscious in a rented room by strangers.
Around 10 AM, she called her manager to call in sick, her voice thick with congestion.
Perhaps fearing she might spread the virus at the office, her manager said, “Rest well. I’ve reviewed your draft and sent it back with some changes. Just get it to me by tomorrow morning.”
“Rest well” and “by tomorrow morning” – Ding Zhitong pondered these contradictory instructions as she said goodbye and hung up.
After sleeping for two more hours, she was woken by her vibrating phone. It was Feng Sheng, saying he’d just returned from a Philadelphia interview and asking to meet for lunch. She vaguely remembered declining and hanging up before falling back asleep.
In her dream, she was back in the Upper West Side apartment, coming home late from work and collapsing on the sofa as before. Gan Yang, also as before, sat beside her, removed her high heels, and gently placed them on the carpet.
“You’re back?” she asked, looking at him.
“How could I leave you here alone?” he smiled at her.
Then she heard knocking and the sound of a key in the door. Fresh air rushed in as someone entered. For a brief moment, she truly believed it was him and smiled contentedly. But as her vision cleared, she realized it was Feng Sheng.
“I’ll take you to the hospital,” he said, trying to help her up and get dressed.
She refused to move, saying, “I don’t want to go. I’ve already taken medicine. I’ll be fine after some sleep.”
The landlady peered in from outside. Feng Sheng closed the door and crouched by the bed to talk to her.
“What medicine?”
“Ibuprofen.”
“When did you take it?”
She thought for a moment but couldn’t remember.
“Then let’s go to the hospital,” Feng Sheng urged again.
Ding Zhitong still refused, saying, “They’ll just tell me to come home and drink more water.”
This was the truth. For colds and fevers here, people usually just bought medicine from the pharmacy and stayed home drinking hot water to recover. Feng Sheng didn’t know what to do either, but her condition seemed serious to him.
Feeling awkward about sleeping in front of him, Ding Zhitong forced herself up and negotiated, saying she’d taken the medicine before sleeping and would take another dose now. If her fever didn’t break, they could reconsider. Feng Sheng agreed, went downstairs for warm water, and watched her take another ibuprofen, showing no intention of leaving.
Her room was small, with only one chair at the desk. They stood awkwardly, unsure what to do. Ding Zhitong used hunger as an excuse to send Feng Sheng out for food. When he returned with takeout, she had freshened up and was sitting at her desk with her laptop.
“What are you doing?” he asked, walking over.
“I have a pitch book to submit…” she answered, having just read her manager’s email and making the required changes.
Feng Sheng took away her laptop without a word, replacing it with the food container.
Ding Zhitong clicked her tongue and turned, seeing him sitting cross-legged by the bed with her laptop on his knees, reviewing the content.
“What are you doing?” she asked him.
Without looking up, Feng Sheng retorted, “Haven’t we worked on assignments together countless times?”
Ding Zhitong was speechless, seeing her former study group member again and feeling touched.
After a moment of silence, Feng Sheng joked, “L Bank has collapsed, so there’s no competition between your company and me. Just treat me as an unpaid intern.”
Perhaps due to her cold, Ding Zhitong felt tears welling up as she looked at him.
So, she ate while he helped revise her draft.
Unfortunately, his taste was still questionable; the boxed meal he bought looked unappetizing. With her severe cold suppressing her appetite, she managed only a small portion before giving up. However, the draft revision went surprisingly smoothly. He understood almost everything without explanation – how to develop the argument, where certain numbers came from, and which models were used.
They soon switched places, with Feng Sheng clearing away the food containers and working at the desk. Ding Zhitong initially sat on the edge of the bed but soon dozed off on her pillow as the medicine took effect.
When she woke again, it was dark, and the room was quiet. For a moment, she thought Feng Sheng had left. Still groggy, she opened her eyes briefly before closing them again, about to drift off.
Then she heard a voice near her ear: “Wake up and drink some water. You’ve sweated a lot; I’m worried about dehydration.”
Ding Zhitong opened her eyes and turned to look at the speaker, taking a while to fully wake up before sitting up to accept the water glass. As their skin touched, she realized their body temperatures were similar, and the burning sensation in her body was gone. She knew her fever had broken.
“I hope I didn’t infect you,” she said slowly, staring at the bottom of the glass as she drank.
He also looked at the glass, shaking his head, “It’s alright…”
She wasn’t sure if he meant he wouldn’t catch it, or that it didn’t matter if he did.