The Last Bull Run

David sat on his Midtown terrace, iPhone glowing like a dying ember in his hand. The message had arrived at 2:17 AM—timestamped from London, where Marcus should've been sleeping after closing a seven-figure deal.

Instead, Marcus had been forwarding David's proprietary trading algorithms to a competitor.

Ten years of friendship dissolved in one blue-lit moment. They'd met as junior analysts, survived the crash together, celebrated each other's marriages. David was godfather to Marcus's daughter. Now, scrolling through the forwarded emails on his iPhone screen, David understood that Marcus had been positioning himself for months.

"You're too optimistic," Marcus had joked last month, watching the bull market surge past yet another record. "Always seeing the upside. That's your fatal flaw, Dave."

David had laughed. He hadn't realized Marcus was preparing for when the upside ran out—and needed someone to take the fall.

The irony burned: Marcus called himself "the bear," pragmatic and cautious. But bears didn't betray friends. Bulls charged blindly, driven by force and fury. This was something colder than either animal.

Marcus's name glowed on David's iPhone. He could call. Demand an explanation. Listen to some bullshit about pressure, about business versus friendship, about how they'd still be brothers despite everything.

But the evidence sat in David's hand—bright as the screen itself, undeniable as gravity.

Tomorrow, he'd contact legal. Tomorrow, he'd protect his clients. Tomorrow, he'd dismantle the career of the man who'd been his best friend for a decade.

Tonight, David photographed the Manhattan skyline through his iPhone, capturing the city that had built them both and would now hold only one of them. Some markets always crashed. Even the strongest bull eventually learned that every charge ends against a wall.

He pressed delete on the message.

Then delete on the friendship.