Terminal Velocity

David's iphone buzzed against the nightstand like a dying insect. 3:47 AM. He stared at the ceiling, Sarah's side of the bed cold and empty for three months now. The divorce papers sat on his desk, next to his trading terminal—dark screens reflecting a man who'd lost everything in the bear market that destroyed the bull run he'd ridden to fortune.

He laced up his running shoes, the ritual automatic. The streets of Chicago were silent except for distant sirens. His breath formed clouds in the October chill as he ran past closed storefronts, past the gym where he and Sarah had met, past the restaurant where he'd told her he'd made their first million.

The lake appeared like a bruised plum under predawn light. David slowed to a walk, his iphone heavy in his pocket. No messages. No one missed him anymore. The water lapped at the concrete shore, hypnotic, promising something like peace.

He remembered the last argument. Sarah screaming about how he'd become a monster chasing the next big score, how the bull market had turned him into something unrecognizable. She'd said he cared more about numbers than people. She'd been right.

The wind cut through his sweat-soaked shirt. David stood at the water's edge, phone in hand, thumb hovering over his broker's contact. He could liquidate the remaining assets, start over. Or he could step forward, let the cold water take him like it took his father thirty years ago.

His thumb moved. Not to the broker. To Sarah's number. The last text he'd sent had been cruel—something about how she'd never understand what it took to build an empire. Now he typed three words: 'You were right.'

He hit send. The message delivered. No reply came, but for the first time in months, the weight in his chest lifted slightly. The bull was dead, but the man who'd existed before the money—that man might still be alive, drowning somewhere beneath the surface.

David turned away from the water and began the long run home.