The Last Bell

Marcus hadn't slept properly in three weeks. The bear market had clawed its way through his portfolio, his marriage, and now apparently his soul. He stood before the bathroom mirror at 3 AM, studying the hollowed-out man staring back. Eyes like smoked glass. Skin the color of old parchment. A proper fucking zombie, really.

'You look like hell,' Elena had said earlier that evening, pressing a glass of whiskey into his hand. They sat on his balcony, watching the city lights pulse below. She was his oldest friend, the only one who'd known him before the money, before the corrosive tide of options and futures had swept him out to sea.

'The bull run couldn't last forever,' he'd replied, swirling the amber liquid. 'Nothing does.'

She'd touched his shoulder then, fingers warm against his shirt. 'This isn't about the market, Marc. It's about you becoming someone you don't recognize.'

He wanted to argue. Wanted to explain how the adrenaline of a winning position made him feel alive in a way nothing else did anymore. How the losses weren't just numbers—they were amputations. But the words caught in his throat like splinters.

Instead, he'd said: 'I'm tired, El. That's all.'

Now, staring at his reflection, Marcus realized something with crystalline, terrible clarity: he'd been bearish on his own life for years. Shorting his own happiness, betting against his own joy, convinced the crash was inevitable so why bother building anything substantial?

He picked up his phone, thumb hovering over Elena's contact. It was 3:07 AM.

'Can't sleep,' he typed. 'I think I need to make some changes.'

The response came instantly. She was awake too.

'The market's still closed, Marc. But I'm here. Always will be.'

He set down the phone and for the first time in a long time, the zombie in the mirror looked almost like someone he might want to know again.