The Last Goodbye

The **bull** market had died three months ago, taking David's portfolio and his marriage with it. He stood on the balcony of his vacated penthouse, the **iPhone** in his hand glowing with unanswered texts from his lawyer, his brother, and Sarah — whose messages had stopped weeks ago.

He adjusted the brim of his father's old fedora, the only **hat** he'd kept from the life he was dismantling. It had smelled of stale tobacco and regret when he'd pulled it from the back of the closet last week, like David himself now.

The charging **cable** lay severed on the marble countertop inside, cut deliberately with kitchen shears. No more notifications. No more emails from creditors. No more news feeds tracking the destruction he'd helped orchestrate.

He'd been the golden boy, the one who'd bet everything on oil futures when everyone else was playing it safe. The firm had called him a visionary right up until the margin calls started coming.

"You wear so many **hats**, David," Sarah had told him the night she walked out. "Husband, trader, provider, risk-taker. I don't know which one is real anymore."

Neither did he.

His phone pinged one last time — battery dying, message incomplete. Something about the boys. He didn't need to read the rest to know they were better off without him.

Below, the city glittered with the same manic intensity that had once defined him. The **bull** was dead, but the streets ran with something else now — people like him, pretending tomorrow would be different than today.

David placed the iPhone on the railing. He adjusted his **hat**, the brim catching the wind. The city below didn't look like opportunity anymore. It looked like a circuit board, and he'd just pulled the **cable**.

He stepped back from the edge, turned toward the empty apartment where his children had grown up, and finally exhaled.