IPO

Raymond Kwokson finally woke after what felt like years: there was actual quiet, a soft-sided bliss, at 8:30 am. No red-eye emails, no punctilious markups, and—miracle of miracles—no deadlines nipping at his spine. Emerging zombie-like from his bedroom, he wandered to the kitchen, longing only for a bowl of fish congee and some colourful Hong Kong-style pickles, finally, a break from the world's constant pings.

Instead, he found himself confronted by a new mystery. Spread across the counter, stacked on the chairs, wedged even between the rice cooker and the pantry: fifty copies of a thick, glossy prospectus, each stamped with the Wongtaisin logo. The familiar legal font mocked him. His temple throbbed. Raymond blinked once, twice. Had he stumbled into another work hallucination?

Muttering "What the hell?" he sat down, spoon hovering over fish congee, the steam stirring up both comfort and confusion. The fresh ink from the prospectuses perfumed the kitchen as assertively as any pressed onion. His head was still too foggy to process it.

Viappa, his family's helper from Indonesia, bustled in with the mop. "Oh, Mister Raymond!" she exclaimed, "Your mum tell me must collect as much those prospectus books from the branch of Lions Bank nearby! I walk three times, very heavy, bring home. She say recycle factory will buy, can get good money!"

Raymond's chopsticks drooped. Months of work—his work—boiled down to nothing more than fodder for the city's waste circuit. He almost laughed, almost cried.

But there it was. His most significant accomplishment of the year would now be traded for pocket change per kilo at the local waste reserve. Raymond's mind spun back, inevitably, to how they got to this point.

Hong Kong, mid-2006. The city pulsed at full tilt. Victoria Harbour sparkled under relentless sun. The International Finance Centre—IFC—stood as a twin-pronged glass giant, gazing smugly over the city's finance universe. Inside, every floor was an anthill of ambition, caffeine, and swagger. Bason & Co.'s crowded legal offices buzzed with the usual IPO fever.

This time, Wongtaisin, a property developer from Suzhou, just across the border in Mainland China, was launching its Initial Public Offering. Or, as Mr. Lee from their own compliance team quipped through tired laughter, "IPO stands for 'Infinite Paper Output' or, maybe for us, 'Insomnia Producing Ordeal.'"

Raymond, twenty-six, felt both the pride and fatigue of a solicitor trainee earning his stripes. His shoes perpetually shiny but scuffed by the city's slick Central pavements, his wardrobe a study in modest Hong Kong style: slim-fit, perfectly-creased navy slacks, boxy but practical grey jacket, and always a handmade pocket square—just enough color to say 'I care' but not enough to be accused of flashiness. His wristwatch, discreet and not gold, spoke to punctuality rather than showmanship.

He knew his Hong Kong colleagues were a league of understated perfectionists: elegantly tailored suits, minimalist accessories, shoes that whispered refinement—the birthright of a city where sharp looks and sharper wits met. In contrast, Wongtaisin's delegation arrived from Suzhou, bringing with them all the colour, pride, and subtle audacity of the mainland's rising elite.

Their executives wore navy and burgundy jackets that gleamed, gold logo belts cinching waists, silk-blend socks, brooches shaped like phoenixes, and ties in colours as bright as the Suzhou canals. The mainland women tended toward sharp scarlet blazers, gold pins, and high, relentless heels, while the men's suits shimmered a touch too brightly for Hong Kong's taste. Here, the clothes were conversation; elsewhere, they were punctuation marks.

But the real dogfight wasn't about style. It was the edits—the racing of never-ending, back-breaking edits towards deadline fulfilment. Raymond, infamous for his eagle eyes, had spent three months embedded in a prospectus vortex. Every clause, comma, and footnote was scrutinised until the soul left its body. Precision mattered: "One error and the SFC will eat us alive," Andy from the Lions Bank, sponsor of the IPO, had warned, his highlighter moving with surgical focus.

Yesterday night, the boardroom at Bason erupted into the kind of barely-controlled chaos that only the sleep-deprived can manage. Red ink everywhere. Three screens blasting out different drafts. Raymond's head throbbed.

At 11 pm, Mrs. Shen, Wongtaisin's legal chief, marshalled her team from the head of the table—scarlet shoulder pads sharp as opinions, brooch aglitter. Andy, the rookie banker, was deep in battle for his beloved Oxford comma. The air crackled with mighty questions: Did 'has been completed' have more authority than 'was completed'? Should power verbs replace every passive phrase? Could the font itself, Andy argued, traumatise elderly investors into selling?

However, there was no time for discussion, as the prospectus had to be printed before midnight and the copies then distributed to various parts of Hong Kong for public viewing by 5 am.

Then came the "Press Button" moment. The Ricoh printer—hero and villain, leader and laggard, humming with the wisdom only a 1,000,000-page career can bring—sat glowering at the conference room door. Everyone hushed. Raymond's hands trembled. The Mainland team exchanged theatrical glances; Andy and the Hong Kong teams held polite poker faces.

Mrs. Shen announced grandly, "Print!"

She pressed the button and the Ricoh stirred. It purred. Then flashed 'Paper Jam.'

Mrs. Shen sighed loudly. Everyone was panicking. All eyes were fixed on the touchscreen of the printer. Amid the uncomfortable silence, Raymond took a step. He walked forward to the printer, pulled out the jammed paper, then pecked at the cartridge tray, earning finger smudges. The Suzhou team exchanged theatrical sighs, while the Hong Kongers maintained a stoic "we've suffered worse" silence. At last, after a collective inhaled prayer, Mrs. Shen pressed the button again.

Then the Ricoh coughed, shook, and spat out the first copy in Comic Sans. An intake of breath ran around the table like a minor earthquake. Mrs. Shen managed a noise somewhere between a sigh and a low growl.

The second print emerged upside down, as though the gods of formatting had staged a private rebellion. The room's patience thinned with every beep and misaligned margin. Only on the third attempt did the Ricoh, by now glistening with anxious fingerprints, finally yield a prospectus that was both upright and tastefully fonted. In the silence that followed, even the printer seemed to take a bow.

The document was, ultimately, perfect. But Raymond realised it hadn't been the IPO—the numbers, compliance, or strategy—that had sapped his energy. It was the relentless, almost comic micro-management: punctuation feuds, tense debates, and the suspicion that one more email could dissolve sanity itself. Only when the final copy was clicked free and the team's tense focus broke, allowing printing to proceed by the deadline, did relief, banter, and a few strained laughs emerge.

Raymond realised, standing there in his sweat-dampened suit beside a fearless printer and two teams united only by exhaustion, that this was what an IPO meant. Not so much the numbers and strategies, but the glorious absurdity of last-minute edits, fashion stand-offs, and the collective will to not let a font—or a misplaced comma—undo months of toil. And the deadlines.

Now, with cold congee and an army of prospectuses awaiting their lowly fate, he half-smiled at the irony. In Hong Kong, fortunes could pivot on grammar. Triumph might be measured by kilos, and sometimes, exhaustion could be as rewarding as gold. The city outside began to stir. So did Raymond, spoon in hand, ready again to face his next Infinite Paper Output adventure.