The traffic surge on the first day of launch was attributed to the success of suspense marketing, but the data trends over the weekend would be the true litmus test for the product's quality.
Even after the initial novelty of registering for free email accounts wore off, the enthusiasm of netizens showed no signs of waning. On Saturday and Sunday, go.com's daily clicks steadily remained above one hundred million.
Frank crushed his empty paper cup and tossed it into the trash can.
"Call the PR Director in," Frank instructed.
Ten minutes later, the PR Director entered the Operations Center with a notebook in hand.
"Find a professional photographer and bring the best equipment," Frank said, pointing to the monitoring screen behind him that displayed real-time click counts and concurrent user data. "Take a photo of these numbers. No retouching—I want the raw image."
The PR Director caught on instantly and noted the request.
"Contact the Tech Editor of the Los Angeles Times," Frank continued his instructions. "Send them the photo. Tell them Silicon Valley Online is providing this internal operational data exclusively to them. I want to see this photo on tomorrow's front page."
Sunday morning.
The Los Angeles Times, still smelling of fresh ink, was delivered to hundreds of thousands of subscribers across the country.
The headline on the technology page featured no flashy graphics—only a slightly dim photograph.
In the picture, a long string of red numbers pulsed on a Bloomberg terminal, set against the backdrop of rows of server racks in Silicon Valley Online's Operations Center.
The headline was blunt and direct: The New Internet Hegemon Behind One Hundred Million Clicks.
This officially leaked screenshot of backend data acted as the most lethal catalyst. The endorsement from traditional media laid bare Silicon Valley Online's terrifying traffic before every investor.
Wall Street's phone lines were blown out on Sunday night.
Countless trading orders were placed in advance, funds standing by in accounts. Everyone knew that Monday's Nasdaq would witness a capital strangulation.
Manhattan, New York, Monday morning.
The air was thick with the smell of coffee and cheap tobacco.
In front of the electronic displays on the Nasdaq Trading Floor, the crowd surged.
Thirty minutes before the opening bell, the market maker's desks were already besieged by a dense crowd.
Over the weekend, a single screenshot of backend data from the Los Angeles Times' tech section—which had garnered a hundred million views—had completely shattered the weekend rest of Wall Street's fund managers.
They had spent two days rebuilding their valuation models, only to arrive at a conclusion that was startlingly unanimous:
Buy.
Buy at any price.
George Fischer of Goldman Sachs yanked his tie loose and roared into his phone, "Ignore the limit orders! Sweep the market! If anyone is selling, take it all!"
9:30 AM.
The opening bell rang.
SVOL—Silicon Valley Online.
The numbers behind the ticker symbol flickered.
There was no buffer, no tentative probing.
The stock gapped up, opening directly at $31.20.
The trading floor erupted in a chaotic roar.
"Buy orders are backed up to two million shares!"
"There are no sell orders! The institutions are all locking their positions!"
Shares had become the rarest of resources. The pitiful amount of floating stock held by retail investors was swallowed by the massive pool of capital before it could even stay on the trading terminal for half a second.
The stock price surged upward at a defyingly steep angle. $32, $35, $38.
A peculiar phenomenon was unfolding. Normally, a sudden spike would trigger a sell-off by profit-takers.
Today, even the most conservative hedge funds chose to play dead.
Everyone knew go.com's traffic was still growing exponentially.
Selling now would be like handing over a money-printing machine.
Redwood City, California.
Frank stood before the floor-to-ceiling window of his office, holding a cup of black coffee that had already gone cold.
Tom Kalinske sat on the sofa, staring at the laptop screen on the coffee table.
"It's at $38," Tom announced, taking a sip of water. "The Wall Street crowd has gone mad. We were only at $26 before we went live."
"They're not mad; they're smarter than anyone," Frank said, turning around. He walked to his desk, pulled open a drawer, and retrieved a document. "Spending tens of millions of dollars for a ticket to future Internet hegemony is a bargain."
He tossed the document to Tom.
"Look at this. The M&A Department just sent over this letter of intent this morning." Frank pointed to the document. "Last Friday, those two teams optimizing database image storage were still holding out for a thirty-million-dollar valuation. This morning, they called us proactively, willing to accept a twenty-million-dollar offer—on the condition that it's paid entirely in Silicon Valley Online stock."
Tom flipped open the document and burst out laughing.
"Trading heavily overvalued stock for real technology and teams." Tom closed the letter of intent. "This is a classic kongshou taobailang—making a fortune from nothing. No wonder Takuya insisted on launching go.com at this exact moment."
"This is what you call capital leverage," Frank said, leaning back in his chair and crossing his hands behind his head. "As long as our stock price is high enough, every startup in Silicon Valley is just a supply depot for us."
The landline on the desk rang.
Frank glanced at the caller ID, picked up, and put it on speaker.
Donald Valentine's voice came through.
"Frank, Sequoia's phones are ringing off the hook. Fidelity and Vanguard are knocking on our door, offering a fifteen percent premium to buy out some of our old shares."
"Did you sell?" Frank asked.
"I told them all the Sequoia partners are on a group vacation in Hawaii and won't be back until next month." Donald laughed loudly on the other end. "What a joke. If I sold shares now, the Board of Directors would kick me out."
"Stay steady. The best is yet to come." Frank cut the line.
Four o'clock in the afternoon. The closing bell rang right on time.
The trading floor, which had been buzzing all day, fell into a brief silence before being overturned by an even louder roar.
SVOL Closing Price: $41.80.
After fermenting over the weekend, the stock market's hype for Silicon Valley Online had reached a new level. By the close, its stock price had nearly doubled compared to before the launch of go.com.
Its total market capitalization broke through the four billion dollar mark.
This was no longer just an ordinary tech company; it was an all-consuming Internet behemoth.
Tokyo, Ōta Ward.
On the top floor of the Sega Headquarters Building, the neon lights of the city's nightscape shimmered outside the window.
Takuya Nakayama sat behind a spacious desk, flipping through last month's sales report delivered by Oguchi Hisao.
The encrypted private line on the desk rang.
He picked up the receiver.
"Boss," Frank's voice couldn't contain his excitement. In the background, the faint sounds of champagne popping and cheers could be heard outside the Redwood City office. "$41.80. We did it. Silicon Valley Online's current market value is enough to buy half of Nasdaq's rising stars."
"Congratulations," Takuya Nakayama said, turning a page of the report, his tone steady.
"Wall Street's expectations for us have gone through the roof. As long as the Olympics Special Edition goes live next month and the data surges again, we'll be able to firmly secure the throne as the number one Internet stock." Frank began planning the next step.
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