Bear Markets and Empty Calories

Marcus stared at the terminal, the red numbers bleeding into his retinas. Another bear market, another cycle of panic selling he'd have to navigate for clients who wouldn't listen. His third vitamin D supplement of the day sat untouched on his desk—his doctor had warned him about the deficiency, the aches, the fog that settled in his brain like London smog.

"You're running yourself into the ground," Elena had said that morning, not looking up from her coffee. She'd stopped asking when he'd be home for dinner months ago.

He'd met her during the last bull run, when everything he touched turned to gold and they'd toast with expensive champagne in their high-rise apartment. Now the market had turned, and somehow their marriage had followed the same downward trajectory.

"It's just volatility," he'd told his junior analyst earlier, watching the young man's eyes widen at the cascading numbers. "Fear and greed. That's all this is."

But standing in the office kitchen at 2 AM, microwaving another cup of coffee, Marcus wasn't sure anymore. He caught his reflection in the darkened window—hollow cheeks, eyes that had forgotten how to rest, a body running on caffeine and ambition and nothing solid.

The vitamin bottle mocked him from his desk. He swallowed three dry, thinking about how he'd spent his thirties chasing returns he couldn't spend, building a portfolio that couldn't buy him back the years he'd lost.

His phone buzzed. Elena: "I'm at my mother's. Don't wait up."

Outside, the city churned. He imagined a bear somewhere in the woods, lumbering toward winter, doing what it needed to do. No existential crises. No quarterly projections. Just survival.

Marcus picked up his phone and typed: "I think I'm done."

Then deleted it. The opening bell would ring in six hours.

He dry-swallowed two more vitamins and returned to his screens.