The Orange Cat at Market Close

The trading floor went silent at 4:01 PM—the bear market had claimed another casualty, and this time it was Marcus's career. He packed his box with mechanical efficiency, ignoring the hollow ache in his chest.

At home, his orange cat waited by the door. Marcus had named the cat Bull, back when he'd still believed in upward trajectories. The irony wasn't lost on him now.

"You and me both, buddy," he muttered, setting the box down. The cat wound through his legs, purring insistently.

His phone buzzed. Elena.

"I heard," she said when he answered. "Want to come over?"

Marcus hesitated. They'd been dancing around each other for months—two analysts who'd spent too many late nights watching the same screens, sensing the same crashes before they hit. He'd always held back, too focused on the rise, terrified of the fall.

Now he'd fallen anyway.

"I'll bring wine," she said. "And that terrible orange cake you like."

"The one with too much frosting?"

"Exactly."

Marcus looked at Bull, who'd already settled on his favorite armchair, completely unbothered by the state of the economy or human unemployment. The cat stretched, luxuriant and indifferent—a master of survival in any market.

"I'll be there in twenty," Marcus said.

The bear had won, he realized as he locked his door. But sometimes, in the wreckage of a bull run, you found something worth more than profit. You found someone who'd bring you cake when your portfolio—and your life—lay in ruins.

Bull meowed at him through the window.

"Keep the seat warm," Marcus said. "I might be late."