The financial crisis, no longer a regional problem, was a full-blown pandemic, tearing through Southeast Asia. Currencies weren't just falling; they were evaporating. For a time, the entire financial market was in shock, a state of frozen, wide-eyed panic. Companies and banks that had been celebrated as "miracles" just months before were suddenly facing total collapse.
And yet, publicly, the spokespersons for these nations were a mask of calm, patronizing confidence. They urged their people to believe, to trust that their governments would restore stability. Some even went on television, issuing bold, angry statements, warning that the international speculators would "come to regret" their actions.
On July 20th, the head of Malaysia's financial control department, a man who could clearly see the writing on the wall, attended an emergency ASEAN summit. His voice was strained, his face pale.
"Gentlemen," he pleaded, "we can't just wait and see anymore. We must act, or it will be too late! We should be applying for assistance from the International Monetary Fund now!"
He was met with... sneers.
The heads of state present responded to his desperate, logical plea with open contempt. They knew the crisis was serious, but it was like a hurricane happening in the next town over. They were safe in their own houses.
The representative of Singapore spoke, his voice bored. "Our Singapore dollar is strong. This 'turmoil' in the foreign exchange market is temporary. I assure you, we have the ability to survive. We do not need the IMF."
"We also oppose it," the representative from the Philippines added with a scoff. "We are a major nation. We are not Thailand, to be toppled so easily."
"Exactly," the Indonesian representative chimed in, leaning back in his chair. "Have we all forgotten the Asian economic miracle? The miracle we built over the last few decades?"
The Thai representative, who had been forced to sit there in silence, felt a hot, dark rage building in his stomach. Bullying. This was nothing less than bullying. His country was on fire, and they were treating it like a spectator sport, all while congratulating themselves on not being the one to get burned.
When a reporter dared to ask about their own currencies' depreciation, they laughed it off. "Minor," they said. "Regular market turbulence."
...
Back in Los Angeles, Zane watched a clip of the meeting on the news. A short, cold laugh escaped him.
"The Asian miracle," he scoffed at the empty room, shaking his head in disbelief. "It was a magic trick. A prosperous illusion driven by policies a first-year econ student could see through. And you idiots... you actually believe it's real."
His mind, like an analyst's scalpel, cut to the truth. These nations, in a desperate bid to attract foreign cash, had done the stupidest thing possible: they'd maintained a fixed exchange rate (to look stable) while simultaneously abolishing all capital controls (to invite money in).
"Idiots," he muttered. "You opened the front door, the back door, and all the windows, invited the whole world in for a party, and then acted shocked when the wolves showed up to eat."
To keep this fake, fixed rate, they'd been burning through their foreign exchange reserves for years, covering their debts, all while their real foreign debt just climbed higher and higher.
"It's simple," Zane whispered, as if explaining to a child. "When your short-term debt is massive, and the foreign cash starts leaving instead of coming in, and your national piggy bank is empty... your currency doesn't just fall. It dies."
He looked back at the smug face of the Indonesian representative on the TV.
"You're not just overconfident," Zane said to the screen, a predator's smile on his face. "You're dead. You just haven't hit the ground yet."
...
It didn't take days. It felt like hours.
The "crazy depreciation" that Zane had predicted became an avalanche. The once-proud governments and regional authorities, who had been so arrogant just last week, were now in a full-blown, screaming panic.
The international speculators, wielding a combined, terrifying war chest that had swelled to over 7 trillion dollars, stopped nibbling at the edges. They attacked. They descended on the markets of Southeast Asia with a frenzied, unified intensity.
They plundered the wealth of entire nations.
In less than a week, the losses were no longer abstract. They were apocalyptic. Billions lost here. Tens of billions vaporized there.
"How can this be?!" "Oh my God... they're... they're too ruthless!" "The situation is out of control! It's completely out of control!" "Our foreign exchange reserves... they're gone! They're incapable of dealing with these... these wolves!" "It's over." "Our foreign exchange market is finished."
The authorities of Southeast Asia were dumbfounded. They had been caught completely, humiliatingly, off guard.
On July 31st, the first domino fell for all the world to see. The Malaysian government, the same one whose representative had pleaded for help, was the first to make the announcement.
"Due to our country's insufficient foreign exchange reserves, we have decided... to abandon our efforts to defend the ringgit."
They didn't just lose. They surrendered.
On that single day, the ringgit fell 7.8% against the US dollar. The coalition of speculators, led by the Wall Street giants and the Quantum Fund, made a fortune.
And so did Zane.
Henry Jugenberg's voice was audibly shaking when he called Zane that afternoon. "Boss... holy god, boss. One day. In just one day, in the Malaysian market... we made 30 million dollars."
Henry had every reason to be excited. It was, by a massive margin, the single highest-profit day Gale Capital had ever had.
Zane, standing in his quiet L.A. office, closed his eyes. His fist clenched, so tight his knuckles went white. A hot, sharp surge of pure adrenaline, of victory, shot through him. He had done this. He wasn't just a passenger; he was a player. His knowledge was limited, his background wasn't in finance, but he had seen this. He'd had the guts to act.
He had used 200-to-1 leverage.
It was the first time he'd used that kind of insane, terrifying exposure. The risk was almost unbearable to think about. A single, tiny fluctuation, one wrong move, and he wouldn't have just lost; he would have been vaporized.
"I was right," he whispered to himself. But the thrill was already being replaced by a cold, hard caution. "But that was... that was too close. The next steps must be taken steadily."
Time moved into August. The "wolves" didn't stop. They relentlessly crushed the remaining markets.
Following Malaysia, the Philippines, Indonesia, Singapore... all the "export-oriented" economies... they fell, one after another, like dominoes.
The currency devaluation was insane.
The leaders of Southeast Asia finally, brokenly, declared it: "The overall situation is lost. It is completely out of control."
It wasn't until the IMF and the UN finally intervened that the freefall was "somewhat stabilized."
But it was too late. The damage was done. The region was a financial wasteland, a complete, smoldering mess.
Forty-five days after the crisis began, Soros's Quantum Fund had cleared over 2 billion dollars. The Wall Street banks had made even more.
And in the middle of this ocean of sharks, among the titans who had just feasted on nations, was Zane's Gale Capital. A "small shrimp," as the analysts would have called it.
A small shrimp that, in 45 days, had realized a total profit of 260 million U.S. dollars.
Zane looked at the final financial report in his hand. The numbers barely seemed real. He allowed himself a slight, satisfied smile.
"This," he said to the empty room, "is just the first wave."
He had no intention of touching the Hong Kong or Taiwan markets. That was a political minefield he wanted no part of.
"But the Yen," he thought, his eyes already on the next target. "And the Won... oh, they're next."
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