The next day, December 24th, Christmas Eve, the crisp headline in The Wall Street Journal—Bates Empire Crumbles, Lane Capital Executes Lightning Harvest—hit like a bomb dropped into deep water, its heavy, lingering aftershock rippling across the Columbia University campus that morning.
When Hawk Lane stepped onto the grounds as usual, bathed in the morning light, he instantly became a mobile focal point.
"Hey, Mr. Reaper! Want a dash of 'bankruptcy liquidation' in your morning coffee?" A familiar classmate whistled across the lawn, drawing a round of laughter.
Hawk returned a lightly teasing smile. "As long as it's not Bates brand. The taste is a little sour right now."
His pace was light, as if the financial shockwave that rocked the world was just a class assignment he'd earned an A+ on. As his figure appeared on the stone walkway, it immediately drew the attention of the scattered students and professors. A low, "buzzing" whisper, like a disturbed beehive, suddenly intensified.
The stares—of searching, awe, envy, and calculation—pricked at him from all directions like thousands of fine needles. In everyone's eyes today, he was a young monarch who had just returned victorious from a terrifying arena of capital annihilation. Bates Capital—a name financial students once looked up to, a firm they desperately dreamed of getting an offer from after graduation—had become the most conspicuous offering at the foot of Hawk's throne.
His first class was Macroeconomics. The moment he walked into the lecture hall, the atmosphere became subtly charged.
Professor Finch adjusted his glasses, his gaze casually sweeping over Hawk. "Today's case study, coincidentally, involves 'market efficiency' and 'moral boundaries'… especially in certain… lightning-strike maneuvers." He stressed the word "lightning-strike" very clearly.
The entire classroom's attention snapped to Hawk. Hawk found a seat, felt the weight of the collective gaze, and looked back at the professor with an open expression. He spoke up, "Professor, isn't the core of market efficiency the timeliness of information and the speed of decision-making? As for moral boundaries… I thought the Business School championed 'maximizing value within the bounds of the law'?"
Professor Finch choked slightly, then scoffed, "A sharp tongue." He cleared his throat, suppressing all the murmurs in the room. "Very well. The eternal debate of 'Market Efficiency versus Moral Boundaries'—hostile takeovers. How do you view them, Mr. Lane?"
Hawk's lip twitched unconsciously. This stubborn old academic, he cursed internally.
Professor Finch paused, his eyes lingering on Hawk for a moment before scanning the entire silent classroom, and continued: "Regarding an acquirer leveraging market panic, information asymmetry, and even… carefully orchestrated liquidity traps, to swiftly and ruthlessly dismantle and cheaply seize the core assets of a company that was otherwise functional but temporarily distressed…"
Professor Finch's voice was not loud, but every word was distinct, carrying a cold, metallic undertone. "Hawk Lane, and all students present, do you believe this is the cold rationality of capital market resource optimization, or pure predation upon the dark side of the rules?"
Dead silence. Absolute dead silence.
The hundred-plus pairs of eyes in the lecture hall converged on Hawk Lane the instant the words fell. Adoration, curiosity, scrutiny, judgment, amusement, criticism… countless complex emotions wove into an invisible net.
Hawk sat in his usual front-middle seat, his back straight as a pine. He could clearly feel the weight of those countless stares, a tangible pressure on his shoulders. He briefly raised his eyes, met Professor Finch's murky gaze—which held a hint of judgment—and slightly parted his lips. But in the end, he remained silent.
Because, theoretically—in pure academia—the ruthless, even legally dubious methods used in the Bates Capital takeover were indefensible. But reality wasn't so easily summarized by textbook theories. For example, the textbooks offered no guidance on how to counterattack after being targeted for assassination by powered individuals. Nor did they tell you what to do if Hydra set its sights on you.
What to do? Call the police?
So, Hawk simply maintained his silence, as if posing the unspoken counter-question: So what? What are you gonna do about it?
The class bell rang out like a savior, the grating noise of chair legs scraping the floor breaking the suffocating silence of the lecture hall.
Hawk gathered the notebook on his desk. Just as he stood up, a warm gust of air, a mixture of expensive perfume and youthful hormones, gently enveloped him.
"Hawk!" A voice, sweet as melted maple syrup, spoke with a touch of perfectly feigned alarm. A petite figure with cascading blonde hair, wearing a tight white tennis skirt, seemed to trip over an invisible obstacle on the floor and tumbled toward him.
Hawk reacted instantly. Before she could actually fall, his strong arm was firmly around her waist. The feel was firm and soft. Golden hair brushed his jaw, carrying the expensive scent of shampoo.
"Oh my gosh! I'm so sorry! This horrible floor!" She lifted her small, exquisite face. Her sapphire eyes were wide with shock and vulnerability, a becoming flush rising to her cheeks. "I'm Catherine Miller, and thank you so much!"
Hawk's gaze flickered across the deep cleavage revealed by her bending over. A gentle smile played on his lips. "It's fine, Catherine. Be careful next time." His arm smoothly withdrew.
"Wow! I actually saw the legendary Hawk Lane up close?" Catherine's cheeks were flushed, and her blue eyes sparkled. "I just transferred from the Mathematics department yesterday. Oh, my God, what you did with the Bates thing—you're like a Wall Street rock star!" She held out her hand enthusiastically.
Hawk smiled, shaking her hand and feeling the warmth of her palm. "Welcome to the Economics Department. I'm no rock star; the market just happened to need a little… adjustment." He chose his words precisely, with a touch of youthful banter.
After exchanging contact information, Catherine skipped happily out of the classroom, looking as thrilled as if she'd received a signed photo from Michael Jackson.
Just then, a quiet clatter echoed as an extremely sharply sharpened HB pencil rolled accurately to a stop right by Hawk's shoe.
He finished the wine. "And that fear will be the strongest collar."
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