Dead Men's Pool

I've been a zombie since the merger announcement, a hollowed-out shell moving through the trading floor on autopilot. Three years of十四-hour days will do that to you—strip away everything except the desperate need to survive one more quarter.

The betting pool sits on Sarah's desk, a spreadsheet tracking who'll be next. Some asshole analyst keeps updating it with fresh odds, his fingers dancing over the keys like he's placing bets at a racetrack instead of gambling with people's livelihoods. I'm currently listed at 3:1. Not great, but better than the new guy in compliance.

"Bull market's keeping us afloat for now," Marcus had told me yesterday, his eyes darting toward the glass-walled office where the partners huddled like carrion birds. "But you know how it goes. When the tide goes out, you see who's been swimming naked."

I'd wanted to punch him. Instead, I'd nodded and taken another sip of lukewarm coffee, wondering if he knew I'd seen him at the hiring gala last weekend, cozying up to our competitors like a corporate spy. Or maybe he was just playing his own game of survival. In this economy, everyone's selling something.

That's when Jessica found me by the emergency stairwell, her face a careful mask of concern. We'd started together, survived the 2019 crash, shared more bottles of wine than either of us could count. She was supposed to be my friend.

"Heard about the rumors," she said, not meeting my eyes. "Thought you should know."

I almost laughed. She wasn't warning me out of loyalty—she was distancing herself, making sure she wasn't collateral damage when I went down. The pool odds would shift tomorrow. Sarah's spreadsheet would update.

"Thanks," I said, and meant it. At least she was honest about her dishonesty.

The fluorescent lights flickered overhead, illuminating the dead pool on Sarah's desk. I looked at my name, at the odds, at the inevitable ending waiting for all of us. Then I picked up my phone and called the headhunter. Time to place my own bet.