The Last Bull

Marcus stood before his bathroom mirror at 6 AM, running trembling fingers through thinning hair. Fifty years old and the first one laid off—quarterly earnings called it a 'strategic pivot.' His father would've called it bullshit.

He'd been the firm's bull for two decades. Markets tanked, competitors fled, Marcus held his ground. Now his iPhone lay silent on the counter. No clients calling. No colleagues texting. Just the ghost of a career vibrating through Black Friday screensaver.

"You should see someone," Elena had said last night, twisting her own dark curls into a knot. "About the hair. There's treatments."

She meant well. That was the problem. Elena at thirty-two still believed problems had solutions, that effort equaled results. She'd come home after 10 PM, glowing from her startup's latest funding round, while he sat in the same armchair rehearsing his I'm-not-defeated-speech.

The market had turned without him. Crypto, AI, whatever buzzword anchored this week's rally—he'd stopped keeping up. Let the kids have their run. A bull market eventually bears itself out. He'd learned that from his father, who'd learned it the hard way.

His father had called himself a bull too. Stubborn. Unmoving. Right until the farm went under.

Marcus's phone lit up. Elena's sister. Something about dinner Saturday. He swiped it away, watching a single gray hair coil into the sink drain like a question mark.

The subway rattled toward Wall Street, packed with young men in suits too sharp, eyes glued to devices. They spoke a language he didn't recognize—NFTs, derivatives, plays on volatility that made his stomach turn. Once he'd been the youngest in this car, hungover and hungry, certain the world was his for the taking.

Now he was invisible.

His father's voice, rarely summoned anymore: You can't fight gravity, son. You can only choose how you land.

The office tower reflected gray sky like a tombstone. His keycard still worked, at least. The 44th floor smelled of coffee and desperation. Trading screens pulsed red.

"Marcus?" Sarah from HR, clipboard ready, manufactured sympathy dialed to seven.

He held up his phone. "Forgot this."

"Oh. Good." She checked something off. "And your personal effects?"

"Got them yesterday." The lie felt easier than truth. He'd walked away with nothing but a pen engraved with his name.

"We'll mail the final paycheck."

"Sure."

She hesitated. "You were... really something, Marcus. The way you held that position in '09. Legendary."

Bull market. Bullshit. Bull-headed. It all meant the same thing in the end.

"Thanks, Sarah." The elevator doors closed on a decade and a half of bonuses, exhaustion, certainty.

Outside, wind whipped hair across his face. He checked his phone—a message from Elena. Dinner with her sister Saturday. Make or break time.

The bull market had ended. Marcus called his wife.

"I'm coming home early," he said. "Let's talk about those treatments."