The Last Sphinx on Wall Street

Marcus sat before his terminal at 3 AM, the blue light casting hollows under his eyes. His cat, a ragged creature named Sphinx after the riddle he couldn't solve—why keep living when you'd already lost everything—curled around his ankles, purring oblivious to the ruin on his screens.

The bear market had eaten his portfolio alive, month after month of red dripping down his monitor like blood. He'd been so certain. He'd ridden the bull to the top of the world in 2021, leveraged to the hilt, convinced he'd cracked the code. Now the margin calls were coming, and the house he'd bought for Maya—their sanctuary, their future—was about to be someone else's.

He'd promised her. That was the knife in his gut. She'd left anyway, said she couldn't bear his addiction to the next big win, the way he watched numbers instead of her. "You love the game more than you'll ever love me," she'd said, and he hadn't denied it.

Sphinx meowed, demanding to be fed. Marcus laughed—a dry, broken sound. Even the cat knew when the game was up.

His finger hovered over the mouse. One more trade. All in on a reversal. He could still win it back, still make her proud, still be the man who beat the house.

Outside, the first light of dawn grayed the sky. Marcus stood up, walked to the window, watched the city wake below. He thought of the real Sphinx—riddle after riddle, devouring those who couldn't answer. The riddle here wasn't about numbers at all.

He turned back to his screens, logged out, and picked up his cat. The market would open in three hours. He wouldn't be watching.