Shane pushed open the heavy oak door, and crisp moonlight poured in like water, bathing the office in a silver-blue glow.
The soft rustle of leather shoes across the polished floor was the only sound in the still room.
At the center of the desk lay a document bound in gilded leather: "Vanguard Navigator Financial Trust." The name gleamed dark gold under the moonlight.
This was the beginning of a financial empire Shane had meticulously prepared over the past two weeks, guided by memories of his previous life. Old Henry's twenty-percent stake served both as a bond of cooperation and an invisible tether.
He recalled the old man's eyes watching him through the swirling cigar smoke during their signing. "Kid, this is your fulcrum to pry the world."
Henry tapped the contract with a gilded letter opener. "It's also the rope holding the hot air balloon. Don't let one success carry you away."
Moonlight streamed through the floor-to-ceiling window, casting mottled patterns on the dark wood desk. Shane's thumb traced the edge of the securities certificate; the paper's fibrous texture conveyed a subtle sensation beneath his fingertips.
A principal of $100,000, eight times leverage, Wright Aviation stock at $26 per share—these numbers formed his first official transaction with Henry. Although he could have used higher leverage with his knowledge, he respected the old man's limits, keeping risk manageable.
The bond paper felt heavy in his hands. Memories of the trading floor returned vividly.
The Volker brothers sat together on the sofa, eyes fixed on the contract.
Across from them, Tom and Linda leaned close, their knees brushing beneath the table, the rustle of paper unusually loud in the tense silence.
The invisible weight of eight-times leverage pressed down on everyone. When Volker lit a cigarette, all eyes converged on Shane's calm expression.
"This isn't gambling," Shane said, tapping the contract. "It's an investment. I know Wright Aviation's potential better than anyone." His voice echoed softly in the room. "Trust me, as you have before."
Volker was first, dipping his thumb in the inkpad and pressing it down, his brows furrowed as worry flickered in his eyes.
Mikhail followed, precise and brisk, yet his gaze flicked toward Volker for reassurance.
Vik's movement was the lightest; his fingertip skimmed the paper like a dragonfly touching water, leaving a slightly blurred print. The youngest dared not meet the numbers again.
Tom and Linda pressed their fingerprints onto the paper together. Linda's hands trembled imperceptibly; Tom held hers, silently lending strength. When his print landed next to hers, determination shone in his eyes, though veins still betrayed his inner turmoil.
"I'll advance the initial payment," Shane said clearly. "Then we'll gradually deduct it from your monthly salaries."
Two hundred shares each, eight-times leverage—$208,000 in total. These fingerprints represented more than money; they carried trust.
Outside, a searchlight swept across the Hudson River, reflecting on the certificate.
Two years later, Wright Aviation stock would soar to $280, then plummet. These papers could either unlock fortune or become worthless.
Shane tightened his grip, the paper crinkling slightly, reminding him of Henry's hot air balloon metaphor. Now, he held the rope.
Moonlight flowed across the certificate, animating the numbers with countless possibilities—glory or despair, hope or ruin—entirely dependent on his decisions.
Next to the document lay a Cuban cedarwood box. He opened it to reveal twelve cigars, each band marked with the date "10.28." A note in Henry's handwriting rested beneath: "For the next hunt."
Shane smiled and closed the box.
Outside, cargo lights glimmered along the Hudson. A freshly painted tugboat carried German glass for Manhattan department stores, the words "East Coast United" faintly illuminated in moonlight.
Shane placed his poetry collection and a note in the desk drawer, atop the Swiss bank cashier's check arranged by Henry.
Downstairs, workers hummed old dock shanties, moving crates that refracted the glow of gas lamps.
Linda meticulously checked each package, including crates of medical alcohol stacked separately.
Shane handed Volker a gilded letter opener. "Give this to Linda. She can use it at work."
"Arrange a piano for Mary at Steinway," Shane added, clicking the drawer shut and sliding the brass key into his pocket. "It should arrive on moving day."
He gazed at Manhattan across the river, lights twinkling like a galaxy. The Woolworth Building spire still stood proudly amidst the steel skyline, a relic of a bygone era.
The capitalist gamble was set, the gears of shipping in motion, and Shane, standing amidst the shimmering cityscape, quietly held the ropes connecting countless destinies.