Market Watch

The bull market had been charging for so long that Marcus had forgotten what a bear looked like. He sat on his thirty-fourth floor balcony, feet up on the rail, nursing a glass of water like it was whiskey. His wife had left him three months ago, taking the dog and the good knives, leaving behind only a half-empty bottle of multivitamins on his bathroom counter.

He still took them every morning.

"Force of habit," he told his therapist. "Reminds me I'm alive."

Below him, the city glittered with malicious intent. Somewhere down there, algorithms were eating people's pensions for breakfast, churning through retirement funds like they were nothing more than data points. Marcus had helped build those systems. He'd made millions breaking things he didn't understand.

His phone buzzed. Another margin call.

Marcus swallowed the rest of his water in one go. The glass had left a ring on the marble table. He stared at it, thinking about how his father had taught him to always use a coaster. "Respect what you own," the old man had said, before the drinking had gotten bad. Before the water tower.

The therapy bills were mounting faster than his losses. His therapist kept asking about the vitamins. "What do they represent for you, Marcus? Control? Hope? A belief that something can still be fixed?"

He'd stopped going last week.

The bull was tired now. Everyone could feel it. The market was breathing heavy, stumbling, and Marcus knew – he just knew – that the crash was coming. Had known for months. But he couldn't bring himself to sell. Couldn't bring himself to admit that the whole magnificent lie was finally falling apart.

He reached into his pocket and pulled out the orange bottle. Three vitamins left. He dry-swallowed all three.

"Respect what you own," he whispered to the empty city.

Then he went back inside to watch the world burn.