The Sphinx of Wall Street

Marcus stared at the orange glow of his Bloomberg terminal at 3:17 AM, the artificial sunrise illuminating the hollows beneath his eyes. The bull market had been raging for three years, an endless parade of green candles and champagne bonuses that had hollowed him out from the inside.

"You look like shit," Sarah said, sliding into the chair beside him. She smelled like expensive gin and exhaustion. "Still chasing that riddle?"

"The sphinx doesn't give up its secrets easily," he murmured, fingers flying across the keyboard. The anomaly he'd found — a recurring pattern in the cable company's quarterly reports, something that shouldn't exist — had become his obsession. A puzzle wrapped in an enigma, wrapped in derivatives and dark pools.

"It's just numbers, Marcus. Let it go."

"No." He turned to face her. "Someone's hiding something. Billions in phantom revenue, and the SEC won't touch it because the CEO plays golf with the right senators."

Sarah reached for his hand, her thumb tracing the scar on his palm — the souvenir from the night they'd both almost been fired for refusing to sign off on that mortgage-backed securities fraud, back when they still had ideals. "And what if you prove it? What changes? The bull keeps charging. The casino stays open."

"I need to know I'm not crazy."

She studied him for a long moment, then pulled an orange from her bag, peeling it slowly. The citrus scent cut through the stale office air. "You're not crazy. You're just the only one who still gives a damn."

Marcus caught the segment she tossed him. "Coming with me?"

"To oblivion?" Sarah smiled, that tired, brilliant smile he'd fallen for seven years ago. "Always."

Together, they sent the report to the Journal. The sphinx had been solved, but as Marcus watched the orange sunrise crest over Manhattan, he knew some riddles, once answered, could never be unanswered again.