The plastic spacer between the 'F' and 'G' keys rattled.
Ethan tapped the 'F' key again. The Bloomberg terminal on his third monitor blinked. A column of numbers flashed from green to red.
The air around his desk smelled like scorched paper and the dregs of three-hour-old bodega coffee. The paper cup sat sweating beside his mousepad.
He moved his cursor over the tech volatility matrix. He clicked the left button, held it, and dragged a pricing column over. The numbers didn't change.
The nylon wheels of an ergonomic chair dragged across the low-pile carpet.
Ethan didn't look up. He knew the squeak of that specific chair.
David slid into the narrow gap between Ethan's desk and the glass partition. David was a senior VP. His collar was perfectly stiff. His cuffs didn't have a single wrinkle.
David leaned in. He pointed a manicured index finger at the bottom left quadrant of Ethan's middle screen.
"You're laying off the risk on the back month, or..." David trailed off.
Ethan swallowed. His throat was completely dry. "Yeah, the back month. The spread was—"
"It's bleeding." David didn't look at him. He kept his eyes on the flashing red column.
Ethan brought his right hand up to his mouth. He tapped his thumbnail against his front tooth. A fast, irregular rhythm.
"I thought the client wanted to cap the downside," Ethan said. His voice came out a little too quiet. He cleared his throat. "If we adjust the strike—"
"You didn't hedge the gamma."
"I did. I put the order in ten minutes ago, it just hasn't—"
"The market moved four minutes ago." David pushed off the desk. His chair rolled backward. "Fix it before Linda gets out of her meeting."
David turned his chair around and wheeled back to his own cluster of monitors.
Ethan lowered his hand. He pressed his thumb against the edge of his desk. He found a loose piece of dry skin near his cuticle and peeled it back. It stung.
He stared at the red numbers.
Above him, the fluorescent lights emitted a relentless, low-grade hum. It sounded like a mosquito trapped inside a glass jar.
Ethan typed a new command into the terminal. The screen refreshed. The red numbers got larger.
He leaned forward. He pressed his forearms against the hard edge of the desk. The plastic dug into his skin.
He needed to sell the calls. He needed to buy the puts. He needed to do it before the algorithmic traders pushed the price further out of reach.
He dragged his mouse. He clicked.
An error message popped up. Limit Exceeded.
Ethan blinked. He stared at the yellow text box.
Bryce, the junior analyst sitting at the desk to his left, started clicking his mouse very fast. Bryce was staring rigidly at his own screen. He was aggressively chewing a piece of peppermint gum. He was pretending he hadn't heard David.
Ethan reached for his coffee cup. He lifted it. It was too light. He tilted it back anyway. A cold, bitter drop hit his tongue. He set the paper cup back down.
He clicked out of the error message. He split the order into two smaller batches.
He hit execute on the first batch.
A heavy, thick paper file slapped against the desk mat right in front of Ethan's keyboard.
Ethan flinched. His elbow knocked against his empty coffee cup. It tipped over.
Linda kept walking. She didn't break her stride. She was already two desks away.
"That tech hedge is sloppy, Ethan," Linda said. She was looking down at her phone.
Ethan spun his chair around. "I'm re-pricing the back month right now."
Linda stopped. She turned her head just enough to look at him over her shoulder. Her blazer was perfectly tailored.
"Don't re-price," Linda said.
"I can tighten the spread if I—"
"Just don't do it again." She turned back around. She walked toward her glass-walled office.
Ethan sat there. He looked at the back of her blazer until she disappeared behind the frosted glass door.
He turned slowly back to his screens.
Bryce stopped clicking his mouse. The chewing sound got louder.
"Rough," Bryce said to his monitor.
Ethan didn't answer. He looked down at the file Linda had dropped. It was a risk assessment report for the upcoming quarter. His name was printed on the routing slip. Someone had drawn a small circle around it in red ink.
Ethan leaned back in his chair. The mesh backing suddenly felt like a slab of concrete against his spine. He let his hands fall into his lap. He pressed his palms flat against his thighs.
The red numbers on the terminal kept flashing. He watched them for a long time.
The metallic wheels of the downtown 4-train ground against the curved tracks. The screech echoed off the tiled walls of the tunnel.
Ethan sat on the orange plastic seat. The train car was almost empty.
A discarded newspaper slid across the sticky floor as the train lurched around a bend.
Ethan rested his elbows on his knees. He held his phone in both hands. The screen brightness was turned all the way down to save battery. It cast a dim, gray light over his knuckles.
He stared at an advertisement plastered on the curved wall opposite him. It was for a dermatology clinic. A woman with flawless skin was smiling next to a list of laser treatments.
He looked down at his phone. He opened his messages. He tapped on his mother's contact name.
The cursor blinked in the empty text box.
His right thumb hovered over the keyboard. It was shaking. Just a tiny, rapid tremor in the joint.
He pressed his thumb against the side of his index finger to force it still.
He typed: Busy week.
He stopped. The train slowed down. The brakes whined.
He typed: Everything is fine.
He stared at the words.
The train doors slid open. A rush of damp, garbage-scented air blew into the car.
Ethan hit the backspace button. He held it down until the text box was empty.
He locked his phone. He shoved it into his jacket pocket.
He leaned his head back against the window. The glass was vibrating. It rattled against his skull. He closed his eyes.
When the train stopped at his station, he stood up. His knees felt hollow. He walked out onto the platform.
The walk from the station to his apartment building took twelve minutes. The wind off the Hudson River was sharp. It cut straight through his wool coat. He didn't zip it up. He just kept his hands jammed deep inside his pockets.
He reached the front door of his building. The glass was smudged with fingerprints.
He pulled his keys out of his pocket. They clinked together in his palm.
He walked into the lobby. The overhead light fixture was missing a bulb.
He took the elevator to the fourth floor. The carpet in the hallway smelled like stale curry and damp dog hair.
He stopped in front of door 4B.
He pushed his key into the deadbolt. He tried to turn it.
The lock stuck.
Ethan pulled the key out a fraction of an inch. He twisted it to the right. It wouldn't catch.
He rested his forehead against the cold, painted wood of the door.
He jiggled the key. Up and down. He twisted his wrist hard.
The metal cylinder clicked.
Ethan pushed the door open with his shoulder.
He stepped inside. The apartment was completely dark. The air was heavy. It smelled like trapped radiator heat and old laundry sitting in a hamper.
He didn't reach for the light switch.
He pulled the key out of the lock. He pushed the door shut behind him. It clicked into place.
He walked three steps into the narrow entryway. He held his hand out in the dark. He found the ceramic bowl sitting on the edge of the cheap console table.
He dropped his keys.
They hit the ceramic with a sharp, loud clatter. The sound bounced off the bare walls of the living room.
Ethan didn't take his coat off. He didn't bend down to unlace his shoes.
He just kept walking forward. His rubber soles squeaked slightly against the fake hardwood floor.
He walked past the kitchenette. He walked past the unmade bed in the corner of the studio.
He stopped in front of the bathroom door. It was slightly ajar.
He pushed it open.