Upper East Side, Manhattan. The Metropolitan Museum of Art (The Met).
1:15 PM.
The private exhibition hall was empty. Soft ceiling lights cast a vertical glow, illuminating the oil textures of the nineteenth‑century Post‑Impressionist paintings on the walls in minute detail.
Satsuki wore a thin, cream‑colored trench coat over a deep black silk short‑sleeved shirt, paired with a slim‑fitting skirt of the same color.
She stopped in front of a landscape painting by Paul Cézanne. On the canvas, the silhouette of Mont Sainte‑Victoire was divided and reorganized by large blocks of geometric color.
Satsuki stood with her hands in her trench coat pockets, her gaze moving slowly upward along the brushstrokes from the bottom right corner of the frame. The colors of the painting left mottled light and shadows on her retinas.
She took a soft breath and, with her left hand still inside her pocket, very discreetly pressed against her flat lower abdomen.
A very faint sensation of fullness—an illusion—still lingered in her stomach. Looking at the blue‑gray sky stacked with thick paint on the canvas, a faint smile gradually tugged at the corners of her mouth.
It felt quite good to be willful.
Actually, the day before yesterday, she had originally intended only to leave those bureaucrats hanging for a few hours.
But she had been childish enough to get competitive with a steak. Thinking that since she had already delayed things by a few hours, those older gentlemen probably wouldn't mind a few dozen more, right? While such behavior certainly had business negotiation considerations, overall it was still a very immature approach.
However, she had the power to do so. Must one work until dropping dead of exhaustion to be considered completely rational?
In her previous life, that young analyst on Wall Street, fighting for a few tens of thousands of dollars in year‑end bonuses, would have jogged straight into the conference room with a heavy briefcase the moment she got off the plane, even if her stomach was cramping so badly that she needed a handful of painkillers.
She would have feared that being even a minute late would get her cut from that multi‑hundred‑million‑dollar merger project by her superior.
Speaking of which, Satsuki thought, this painting is a fake, isn't it? I remember the real one should be in the gallery above the Crystal Palace.
At that moment, steady footsteps echoed on the oak floor of the corridor. Frank, carrying a black cowhide briefcase, stepped into the private exhibition hall and stopped two meters behind and to the side of Satsuki.
"Boss." Frank kept his voice very low.
"The New York branch of the Resolution Trust Corporation, Chief Liquidator Miller's office, just placed their fifth call."
He opened the brass clasp of his briefcase and took out a schedule confirmation sheet.
"The other party's secretary repeatedly confirmed your schedule for today over the phone, and I gave an affirmative answer. Is it certain we're attending the meeting today?"
Satsuki was still looking at the landscape painting, without turning around.
"Mm‑hmm. Let's make it today. It would be rude to break the appointment too many times. How are those gentlemen doing?"
"According to reports from our informant inside the RTC, in the past forty‑eight hours, Miller's team has recalculated the overdue interest and security costs for those twenty commercial buildings. The atmosphere at their departmental meeting this morning was very oppressive."
Frank laid the itinerary flat against the side of his briefcase.
"The Congressional Budget Committee has exerted immense pressure on them. Washington needs to see the bad debts cleared off the books. Miller must submit a substantive asset disposal report by next Wednesday."
"Those gentlemen sure have it hard…"
Satsuki turned around. She moved her hands from the edges of her trench coat pockets and let them hang naturally at her sides.
"Let's go see what kind of proposal they've prepared for us."
---
Midtown Manhattan, Resolution Trust Corporation (RTC) New York branch building.
When the cold wind from the driveway below rushed in, Satsuki left her thin trench coat in the car. She wore only a deep black silk short‑sleeved shirt today, a choice she regretted the moment she stepped into the building—the Americans kept their air conditioning as cold as possible, apparently on the principle that it was free.
Satsuki shivered and inconspicuously rubbed her bare arms, but it was too late to go back for her coat because Frank had already pushed open the door to Conference Room One.
Four men in dark suits sat around a long walnut conference table. Hearing the sound of the door opening, Miller, the chief liquidator at the head of the table, stood up first.
"Good afternoon, Miss Saionji, Mr. Frank."
He walked around the table and came to the door to greet them. His smile was very polite, showing no sign at all of having been intentionally stood up for forty‑eight hours by a willful young lady.
Both parties shook hands and took their seats. Miller's assistant brought coffee and even asked Satsuki if she wanted to switch to hot tea.
"Has your health recovered?" Miller asked after sitting back down.
"The temperature fluctuations in New York this season are large; many people find it hard to adjust. If you need to rest during the meeting today, just say the word."
His concern sounded completely natural, as if he were genuinely worried about a guest from afar—even though his own life was not easy.
The RTC had a timetable for disposing of these assets, and the Congressional Budget Committee's hearing was next month. Every day of delay added another layer of pressure.
Satsuki had made him wait forty‑eight hours, and not only could he not rush her, he had to turn around and show concern for her health.
"Thank you for your concern. I'm much better now," Satsuki said, her tone carrying a well‑measured hint of apology.
"I'm sorry for delaying everyone's time."
"Think nothing of it." Miller waved his hand. "Health is most important."
Frank sat down next to her and placed his black cowhide briefcase flat on the table.
Satsuki's gaze swept across the tabletop. In front of Miller and his subordinates, besides the newly printed asset evaluation booklets bound with colored covers, there were also several old legal records piled up.
On the edge of the topmost file, she could see English phrases like "failed bid" and "failed auction." Next to these documents lay a stack of forms with RTC internal accounting watermarks, the edges of the paper still holding a bit of warmth from the printer toner.
The header read "Forty‑Eight Hour Maintenance and Interest Accrual Calculation Sheet." It seemed some people were indeed very anxious.
Satsuki folded her hands on the table. Miller straightened the hem of his suit and pushed a colored evaluation booklet half an inch forward.
"Miss Saionji," he said, crossing his hands on the table and getting straight to the point,
"regarding the list of core Manhattan commercial real estate that your side previously expressed interest in acquiring, our team has spent the last two days re‑organizing and classifying them."
He glanced at his subordinate, who immediately distributed several bound evaluation booklets to Satsuki and Frank.
"These twenty buildings are currently either halted or vacant due to the original developer's broken capital chain." Miller's eyes stayed on Satsuki.
"Washington has extremely high expectations for the disposal of these assets. We have a responsibility to taxpayer funds and must ensure the maximization of asset value recovery."
Satsuki listened quietly. She did not open the evaluation booklet in front of her.
"Therefore, the committee has decided to split these assets."
Miller's fingers tapped lightly on the table.
"We are stripping out five properties in prime locations to be sold as an independent Class A asset package. Among these five buildings is that twenty‑story classic trust fund building."
He paused for two seconds.
"Their locations are impeccable, and their underlying value remains strong. We will sell them individually at a price slightly below current market valuations. As for the remaining fifteen properties, they will be bundled as a Class B asset package. If S.A. Investment is willing to take them over, we can offer you a very sincere discount on the price of the B package."
The only sound in the conference room was the hum of the air conditioning. Frank turned his head and exchanged a very brief look with Satsuki. Then he opened his briefcase and pulled out a thick due diligence report.
"Mr. Miller," Frank said, laying the report flat on the table,
"our engineering assessment team completed on‑site surveys last week regarding the Class A asset package you mentioned. That classic trust fund building contains a large amount of asbestos materials left over from the seventies in its internal ventilation ducts and fireproof interlayers.
To return it to commercial operation, an asbestos abatement project that meets the Environmental Protection Agency's highest National Emission Standards for Hazardous Air Pollutants must be conducted."
Frank flipped to the fourth page of the report, pointing at the budget table.
"This abatement project alone, plus the subsequent internal load‑bearing wall reinforcement, has already exceeded twenty million dollars."
One of Miller's subordinates immediately opened the file in his hand and leaned forward.
"Mr. Frank, asbestos issues are very common in old buildings in Manhattan. We have already deducted twenty million dollars in expected remediation costs from the overall valuation of Package A."
The subordinate responded quickly. "Even taking into account the renovation costs, the core location premium still exceeds our offer."
"Twenty million dollars is merely the engineering cost itself," Frank said, his voice steady.
"This does not include the chain reaction it will trigger." He flipped the report to the next page.
"Once asbestos removal begins, inspectors from the Environmental Protection Agency will immediately move into the site, triggering extremely tedious work‑stoppage review procedures.
At the same time, the Manhattan Construction Union will never allow workers to enter an asbestos‑contaminated area without the highest level of hazard pay. This will spark protests over dangerous working conditions, or even a full‑scale strike lasting months."
Frank looked at the subordinate opposite him.
"In the current credit crunch environment caused by the savings and loan crisis, no domestic commercial bank in the United States will approve a renovation loan for a building with such serious environmental defects and strike risks.
On your books, this building is a quality asset, but in reality it is a liquidity quagmire that cannot be financed and must be constantly filled with pure cash."
The subordinate was silenced by this detailed, data‑driven counterattack. He opened his mouth, trying to find a new angle, only to realize that the other party's logical chain was airtight. He turned his head and looked at Miller for help.
Miller maintained his posture with his hands crossed, his thumb pad rubbing forcefully against the back of his hand twice.
"Mr. Frank's due diligence is very meticulous," Miller said, adjusting his sitting position.
"However, these problems are not unsolvable. We can further adjust the weight of the remediation costs in the valuation model."
Satsuki extended a finger clad in a thin leather glove and tapped twice on the smooth mahogany tabletop. The crisp sound interrupted Miller's defensive rhetoric. She looked up, her gaze meeting Miller's directly.
"Mr. Miller, in these forty‑eight hours, your finance department should have already recalculated the bills."
Her gaze fell on the sheet still warm from the toner in front of Miller.
"These twenty buildings are generating high property maintenance and security fees every single day."
She reached out with her right hand, pinched the edge of the "Forty‑Eight Hour Maintenance and Interest Accrual Calculation Sheet," and pushed it back across the mahogany tabletop until it stopped right under Miller's nose.
"The budget in your hands is constantly hemorrhaging money on these vacant concrete frames. Those multi‑hundred‑billion‑dollar holes left by bankrupt banks need massive amounts of cash to fill, and the congressional committees in Washington need to see the book deficits balanced."
Satsuki placed her folded hands on the table. "S.A. Investment rejects any form of asset splitting. We accept only a bulk sale: Package A and Package B must be bundled together.
Furthermore, the total package price for these twenty assets must be discounted by another seventy percent on top of your current total valuation. A seventy percent discount for the closing."
The air in the meeting room froze for a few seconds. The young liquidator beside Miller suddenly sat bolt upright.
"Seventy percent off? Miss Saionji, that price isn't even half of what the original developers paid for the land back then. Congress will never approve such a liquidation agreement!"
Satsuki did not spare the young liquidator a glance. Her eyes remained locked on Miller's face. "Mr. Miller," she said, her voice extremely steady,
"as long as we sign the letter of intent, this afternoon S.A. Investment will issue a cashier's check fully guaranteed by Chase Manhattan Bank.
This pure cash, amounting to hundreds of millions of dollars, will appear in the RTC's Federal Reserve account before the bank closes.
This money can wipe out the deficits on your books within minutes, allowing you to report back to Washington with a complete liquidation report.
In the current credit environment, there is no other institution on the market that can produce hundreds of millions of dollars in pure cash to swallow an entire distressed asset package in one go.
The choice is yours: either take this cash and finish your job, or continue to hold these vacant shells of steel and concrete and face the interest and security bills that will continue to soar tomorrow."
Miller did not answer immediately. He lowered his head and looked at the calculation sheet that had been pushed back.
The records of multiple failed auctions over several months were infinitely magnified before this cold reality: without credit support, no one was willing to take over these flawed heavy assets.
"Miss Saionji," Miller said, his voice lowered, "this level of discount… I need to consult with Washington."
"Of course," Satsuki replied.
"But Mr. Miller, Chase Manhattan Bank's business windows close at five o'clock this afternoon. The issuance of the cashier's check needs to be completed at the counter."
She glanced at the watch on her wrist.
"It is now 2:40 PM."
Miller was silent for a long time. He turned his head and exchanged an extremely brief look with the team members beside him. The subordinates looked at each other. The young liquidator who had just protested lowered his head and said no more.
Miller let out a long breath. He uncrossed his hands, picked up the fountain pen on the table, and unscrewed the cap.
"Mr. Frank," he said, his voice tinged with exhaustion, "please have your legal team bring over the bulk purchase letter of intent."
Frank nodded, pulled three thick legal documents from his briefcase, and pushed them across the table. The only sounds left in the conference room were the rustling of turning pages and the scratching of the pen across the paper.
The legal teams and liquidators checked the exclusivity clauses and floor price lock‑in details on the letter of intent word by word.
At 4:15 PM, Miller signed his name at the end of the final letter of intent. Frank also completed the signature in the buyer's column.
The closing floor price of a seventy percent discount was thus locked in. The subsequent congressional audit and formal transfer process would be left to the legal teams of both parties to advance.
"It was a pleasure working with you, Miss Saionji," Miller said as he stood up. But there was no joy on his face—only a sense of relief after shedding a heavy burden.
"It was a pleasure working with you, Mr. Miller," Satsuki replied with a slight nod.
Miller picked up his suit jacket from the back of the chair and led his team out of the conference room with slightly heavy steps, heading to the legal department to handle the subsequent filing procedures. The heavy wooden door slowly closed behind them, and the lock made a crisp clicking sound.
Only Satsuki and Frank remained in the conference room. The tense business pressure in the air vanished the moment the door closed.
Satsuki's originally straight back slumped slightly, and her shoulders immediately hunched up. She crossed her arms, hugging her exposed arms outside her black silk short‑sleeved shirt, and rubbed them up and down vigorously. A layer of fine goosebumps appeared on her fair skin. She frowned slightly.
"Honestly, I should have made them sell it even cheaper, those savages who don't know how to take care of a lady."
Satsuki sniffled, her voice carrying a slight tremor from the cold.
"Are they planning to raise penguins in the conference room?"
Frank stood to the side, watching his superior's current appearance with a hint of a smile in his eyes.
He turned around, opened the black leather briefcase, and from an inner compartment took out a silver stainless steel thermos. He unscrewed the lid, and a rich steam smelling of sweet cocoa butter mixed with fresh milk diffused into the cold air.
He flipped the lid over and filled it with steaming hot cocoa, then held the cup with both hands and offered it to Satsuki.
"Prepared for you in advance to prevent you from feeling uncomfortable during the negotiations,"
Frank said, his tone steady.
"The temperature is just right."
Satsuki reached out her hands, took the slightly hot lid, and looked at Frank with serious eyes.
"Frank, you might be the last gentleman in America."
She held the walls of the cup tightly with both hands as the heat seeped in bit by bit through her palms. She lowered her head, gently blew away the rising steam, and took a small sip.
The rich hot cocoa slid down her throat, the chill in her stomach receded a little, and a hint of rosiness gradually returned to her cheeks.
Holding the cup, Satsuki stood up and walked to the floor‑to‑ceiling window of the conference room.
The Midtown Manhattan skyline cut jagged silhouettes in the afternoon light. Those giant blocks of steel and glass curtain walls were currently bathed in a pale gold sunset.
Some of them, from today onward, were hers.