Market Hours

The elevator doors opened at 6:47 AM, and Elena stepped into her office on the 42nd floor, her espresso still warm against her palm. She moved through the open-plan space like a zombie—eyes half-lidded, responding to greetings with automatic nods, her body performing rituals her mind had abandoned years ago.

The screens were already blazing: red numbers cascading down futures markets. Another bear territory morning. Marcus, her direct report, caught her eye and mouthed 'We're fucked.'

She nodded and kept walking.

In her office, she checked her messages. Three voicemails from David, all from last night, each one progressively more drunk. He wanted to talk about 'us' and 'the future' and whether she'd ever actually loved him or if he'd just been another acquisition in her portfolio of emotional safe bets. She deleted all three.

Her phone buzzed. A text from her mother: 'Your father died at 4 AM. The service is Thursday.'

Elena stared at the screen. She felt—nothing. No grief, no panic, no anything. Just a hollow ringing in her chest where some profound emotion was supposed to live.

'You okay?' Marcus leaned against her doorframe, looking surprisingly concerned. 'You look like you've seen a ghost.'

'My father died,' she said, and heard how flat her voice sounded.

'Shit. Elena, I—'

'It's fine.' She picked up her coffee. 'I have a meeting with the Shanghai office in twelve minutes. After that, we need to discuss our position on the semiconductor ETF.'

Marcus stared at her. 'Your dad just died.'

'The market doesn't care about my father, Marcus.' She met his eyes. 'Neither does Shanghai. Neither does the quarterly report.' She paused. 'Neither do I, really.'

The truth of it settled between them.

Later that night, she found herself at a bar she hadn't visited in years. David was there, nursing a whiskey at the far end of the room. He saw her and hesitated, then stood up.

She walked over and sat beside him.

'Your mom called me,' he said quietly. 'About your dad.'

'The bull finally broke his horn,' she said. 'Eighteen years of running himself into the ground, and now he's just—gone.'

'I'm sorry, El.' His hand covered hers.

She didn't pull away. 'I didn't feel anything, David. When I heard. I still don't.' She looked at him. 'What's wrong with me?'

'Nothing.' He squeezed her hand. 'Maybe you're just tired of living like this.'

The zombie metaphor returned to her, uninvited.

'Come home with me,' she said.

He hesitated.

'Not like that.' She swallowed. 'Just—come home. We'll order takeout and watch terrible movies and I'll tell you about my father, and you'll tell me about your sister. We'll be real people for one night.' She looked at him. 'Please.'

David studied her face, then nodded. 'Okay.'

They left together as the bar TVs announced another market plunge. Elena didn't look back.