Bull Market Zombie

Marcus stood on the trading floor at 3 AM, his iphone vibrating against the granite countertop like a dying insect. The bull market had been charging for nine months straight, and somewhere along the way, he'd forgotten how to sleep. The screens glowed green—fifty monitors like eyes watching him, demanding more, always more.

"You still here?" Elena asked, leaning against the doorframe. She held a tangled charging cable in one hand, her engagement ring catching the fluorescent light. They'd fought that morning, something about missed dates and prioritized profits. The specifics blurred together like everything else.

"Just waiting for the Tokyo open," Marcus said, though the truth was simpler: he was afraid to leave. The market was a living thing now, and if he looked away, it might turn.

His phone buzzed again. A client, panicked about currency fluctuations. Marcus answered automatically, his voice smooth, reassuring, disconnected. He watched his reflection in the dark glass behind the monitors—hollow eyes, slumped shoulders, a creature moving on instinct and caffeine. He'd become the thing they joked about at happy hours: the bull market zombie, animated by numbers, fed by adrenaline, forgetting that humans were supposed to feel something beyond profit and loss.

"Your cable's fraying," Elena said, setting it on his desk. "Like everything else."

She left without waiting for a response. Marcus stared at the white cord, wires exposed like veins. He thought about calling her back, about stepping away from the screens, about remembering what it felt like to want something that couldn't be quantified.

Instead, his iphone lit up with another notification. The bull was still charging, and Marcus was still running, legs moving, going nowhere.