The Last Call

Marcus stared at his iPhone, the blue light washing over his face in the empty office. 2:47 AM. Another notification from Linda—something about the Q3 projections needing revision. He felt like a zombie, hollowed out by three years of this relentless grind, moving through days on autopilot.

The bull market had been raging when they hired him—fresh MBA, eyes bright with the promise of bonus structures and partnership tracks. Now the bronze bull sculpture downstairs mocked him every morning, its charging posture a reminder of momentum he no longer felt. Everyone else still bought into the myth. They still believed the hours meant something.

He'd told Janet he was working late again. She'd stopped asking when he'd come home. The iPhone buzzed—another Slack message, probably from that new analyst, the one who still had fire in her eyes. Marcus watched her sometimes, seeing his younger self, and felt a sickening mix of pity and jealousy.

"You okay, Marcus?" she'd asked yesterday in the breakroom. "You look... tired."

He'd almost told her everything. Almost said: *Run. While you still can.* Instead he'd smiled, that practiced corporate smile that had become his only face.

Now his thumb hovered over Linda's message. Behind him, the city lights twinkled through floor-to-ceiling windows, indifferent and distant. He thought about Janet waiting at home, about the life they'd postponed until "after the next bonus," about the version of himself that had died somewhere in year two.

Marcus typed: *Resignation effective immediately. *

His hand trembled as he hit send. For a moment, nothing happened. The bull market would rage without him. The notifications would stop. The iPhone would become just a phone again.

He stood up, grabbed his coat, and walked out past the silent trading floor. For the first time in three years, he didn't check his messages.