Julian left twenty minutes early, preparing for this ordinary Friday night like he was about to step onto a stage.
He took a detour, riding two extra stops on the Tube, just to swing by that Ginza-style barbershop, not for a haircut, but to use their free hairspray at the entrance. He knew the staff didn't recognize him. But the mirror did. The mirror knew he couldn't afford to lose tonight.
He stood in front of his wardrobe for fifteen minutes, trying on four shirts.
In the end, he chose the light blue one that one voted "Most Appealing to Female HR Staff" at the last company party. That was data he had quietly gathered months ago.
Julian trusted data. Especially in fields without emotion.
Before leaving, he polished the face of his Omega twice with a glasses cloth, then practiced three rounds of the "casual wrist tilt—logo reveal" motion.
Each gesture was precise, like tweaking the gamma exposure of an option.
He slid his credit card into the most visible slot of his wallet.
Not because he expected to pay.
But just in case, just in case she wanted to buy a drink,
just in case she joked "your treat,"
just in case she wanted to split the tab,
he needed the reflex ready.
This wasn't a flirting strategy.
This was a beta test of a financial man's response to a social protocol.
He didn't need to be the hottest guy in the room.
But he had to be the one people remembered.
Julian rolled his wrist just enough for the Omega logo to glint in the space between cuff and spotlight.
The girl noticed. She pointed at his watch.
"This looks nice… uh, is it a Seiko? My dad has one too."
Julian's brain glitched for half a second.
At least she said Seiko, not Casio…
Then she added:
"Or maybe Casio? My dad's was like, 100 bucks."
Julian kept his polite smile, but his pupils contracted—just a little.
She was smiling, eyes bright, voice innocent.
Like a college freshman who just started recognizing brand names,
earnestly recalling something her dad used to wear.
Julian held his expression.
His mouth still smiled, but inside, it felt like the Canary Wharf servers had just thrown up a "Disconnect" error mid-market open.
Casio?
[Omega Speedmaster. 38mm. Black dial, silver bezel. Steel bracelet.]
[Bought with last year's winter bonus. Took two weeks of price-tracking on Chrono24.
Got a discount in-person at Bond Street after charming the sales rep.]
[She called it "engineer-core elegance," perfect for men in tech with taste. So he bought it.]
He began mentally replaying the entire purchase,
like backtesting a failed trade.
Each decision node flashing red.
Was it:
The diameter? Too small?
The steel band? Not shiny enough under club lights?
The sleeve? Covering too much of the dial?
Or… did she just not care? Just said the first brand she could think of?
He didn't reply. Just took a sip of his drink.
His movement subtly angled to show the dial—
the same watch he once believed was the key to Tier 2 social access.
Now, it looked like nothing more than
a quiet, forgettable ornament.
Not loud enough to be seen.
Not bold enough to matter.
He almost explained it,
that it's a limited edition Speedmaster,
with a rocket engraving on the back.
But the words jammed in his throat.
Instead, he smiled faintly and said:
"Yeah… close enough."
Then he looked down at the watch.
Omega Speedmaster. 38mm. Black and silver.
The one he pulled six consecutive night shifts for,
telling himself it was a symbol of quiet success.
But that one line:
"Looks kinda like a Seiko."
landed like a market dump.
Not a fatal loss.
But one of those drawdowns
that makes you question if the entire strategy was flawed from the start.
He stared into his drink like it was a strike price he couldn't reach.
"Why not… the Submariner?"
The rest of the evening played back in his head like a backtest gone wrong.
Frame by frame, signal by signal, combing for where the model misfired.
There under the dance floor lights, a guy stood in silence for almost an hour.
Didn't speak once.
But every time he lifted his glass, the green bezel of a Sub caught the beam just right.
He wasn't aloof.
He was saying: I just leveled up to Tier 3.
A few steps away, another guy gripped his whisky in his left hand,
making sure his IWC Portuguese, white dial, blue hands, leather strap caught the eyes of anyone who still believed in subtlety.
"Taste," it whispered.
Nothing louder.
And then there was that bro with no watch at all.
Just a featherweight Goyard cardholder and a story about being stuck in a ski lift in Chamonix for five hours.
Julian had no idea if it actually happened.
Didn't matter.
Nobody cared if the story was true.
Only if you had one.
That's when it clicked.
Women don't care about the Omega on your wrist.
They're clocking rent zones, posture, teeth, and accents.
They see one crooked incisor, a pause before your "whereabouts,"
a cadence too rehearsed.
They know you didn't grow up in Knightsbridge.
Then, just like that, their subconscious Reproductive Index takes a dive.
But men?
Men only see the watch.
He got it now.
Only bros understand watches.
What you wear on your wrist isn't time.
It's rank.
It's a passcode.
A dialect.
A table invite.
An AP says: "You and I can talk."
A VC says: "I've arrived."
A Patek says nothing because you're already listening.
Julian lifted his wrist again.
The Omega caught the light, barely.
It flickered the way a trading terminal blinks just before your access gets revoked.
The kind of flash that says:
You almost made it.
He didn't speak to the girl again.
Didn't blame her.
She wasn't wrong.
In that room, the Speedmaster did look like a Seiko.
She blinked as if realizing Julian was easier to talk to than she thought.
She relaxed, changed the subject.
"So… do all of you here work in finance?"
Julian nodded. "I do quant trading."
"Oh… is that like, um, stocks?"
"Not really. I mostly run backtest models. You know — using data to hunt for alpha."
She tilted her head. "What's alpha?"
Julian opened his mouth, then paused.
Smiled.
Lifted his glass and tapped hers.
"Just a word that doesn't matter much."
She laughed kindly, even letting him off the hook.
But Julian's ears had already picked up a conversation across the room:
Two bros debating the authenticity of a Submariner's green bezel.
He looked down at his own watch again.
Suddenly, the dial felt small.
The night breeze was sharp. He hadn't brought a coat.
Just a single-breasted blazer thin, business-casual.
It felt less like he'd attended a social mixer,
more like he'd run a full treadmill sprint in the shape of a man.
At the subway platform, the crowd had thinned out.
Julian took out his phone, opened Chrono24.
Renamed his favorites folder.
From: "Target Models"
To: "Never Mention This Again."
He stared at the screen.
Thumb hovered.
Then he tapped Save.
By the exit, a watch boutique still had its lights on.
In the window, a Grand Seiko sat quietly on velvet.
He stopped, looked.
Like nodding to an old acquaintance.
Didn't go in.
Didn't take a photo.
Just sighed and walked away.
That party had cost him more than he expected:
a bit of dignity, a sliver of hope,
and a full evening's worth of wrist fatigue from over-rotating for light reflection.
But he learned something.
His Omega would never make a woman's heart skip.
But that bro under the dance floor beam with the Sub's green flash bouncing off the ceiling.
Everyone remembered him.