The Bull Market's Last Breath

Marcus sat at his desk at 2 AM, the Bloomberg terminal glowing green across four monitors. Another bull market, another record-breaking quarter, another night he'd forgotten to eat dinner. His thinning hair—what the sales team jokingly called his 'recession cut'—had started falling out three years ago and never stopped. At thirty-seven, he looked fifty. He felt like a zombie, moving through meetings and mergers on autopilot, his soul eroding with each commission check.

The elevator dinged. Sarah, the new associate, stepped in, clutching a takeaway box. She was twenty-six, with thick dark hair that refused to stay tucked behind her ears, eyes that still believed in something.

"You're still here," she said, not a question.

"Somebody has to monitor the Asian markets."

"My grandmother says that's how they get you. One extra hour becomes one extra day becomes one extra life." She held out the box. "Bulgogi. My mom made too much."

He almost refused. Marcus didn't do small talk. But something in her voice—so unlike the hollow enthusiasm of his colleagues—made him pause.

They ate on the floor of the breakroom, Sarah cross-legged, Marcus leaning against the cabinets. She told him about growing up in Queens, her mother working two jobs, her father who'd been a bull rider in Texas before an injury ended everything. "He said the rodeo taught him everything about life," she said. "Eight seconds of terror and glory, and the rest is just waiting in the dirt."

Marcus stared at his plastic fork. "What's he do now?"

"Hair stylist. Cuts hair for old money on Park Avenue. He says the difference between a ten-dollar cut and a three-hundred-dollar cut is the story you tell while holding the scissors."

Something cracked open in Marcus's chest.

"I haven't felt real in three years," he heard himself say. "I'm just... moving. Like I'm already dead but my body forgot to stop."

Sarah studied him, really looked at him, not through him like everyone else did. "Then stop."

"I can't. The firm—"

"The firm will replace you by Tuesday. They already have your zombie personality cloned in five other associates." She smiled, but it wasn't unkind. "My dad says the trick isn't staying on the bull. It's knowing when to let go."

Marcus looked at the monitors still glowing green, the numbers ticking upward, meaningless as distant stars. He stood up, turned them off one by one.

"Can I get your number?" he asked. "For lunch. Not at my desk."

Sarah's smile was the first genuine thing he'd seen in this building in a decade.

The bull market would open in six hours. Marcus would not be there to watch it.