Dead Cat Bounce

Marcus dragged himself through the office doors at 7:45 AM, another **zombie** in the endless march of corporate existence. His **palm** sweated against his coffee cup—a physical manifestation of the anxiety that had become his baseline state since the layoffs began.

The trading floor buzzed with nervous energy. **Cable** news channels blared from every monitor, analysts breathlessly declaring that this **bull** market would never end. Marcus knew better. He'd seen the numbers. The algorithmic models he'd built over sleepless nights were screaming correction, but nobody wanted to hear it—not when bonuses were on the line.

"You gonna tell them, or should I?" Sarah asked, leaning against his cubicle wall. She'd started **baseball** metaphors recently. "Bottom of the ninth, two outs, full count. That's us, Marcus."

He glanced at the palm tree swaying beyond his window—so different from the ones outside his childhood home in Miami. These were manicured, expensive, as artificial as everything else in this glass tower.

"They won't listen," Marcus said. "Nobody listens until it's too late."

The crash came three weeks later. Marcus watched from his couch, disconnected from the digital chaos by choice. No cable, no endless updates, just silence and a bottle of whiskey. Sarah called him at midnight, crying. Her portfolio was gone. Her engagement—called off.

"You knew," she said. "Why didn't you make me listen?"

He'd wanted to. God, he'd wanted to. But what do you say to someone sprinting toward a cliff? That tomorrow always comes, and eventually, gravity always wins?

Marcus turned off his phone. Outside, palm fronds whispered in the wind, and somewhere distant, the crack of a baseball bat echoed through the night. The zombie curse had lifted—he felt everything now. And that was the problem.