The trader wakes at four-thirty, before the alarm. Silence in his flat, just the hum of the fridge and distant sirens bleeding through thin walls. He slips into the same routine: espresso, black, no sugar. Screen on. Futures flickering—Dow down point eight, Nasdaq up two. Not a surprise. He’s learned not to flinch.
Lights on his keyboard glow blue as he logs in. Charts pull up like old friends, though they’ve cost him more than most. Yesterday he closed a short on Tesla at twenty percent; the day before, a crypto scalp turned sour and shaved two grand off the stack. Volatility’s the game, but it cuts both ways.
He rubs his temples. Last night, sleep fractured—dreams of red arrows raining on candlesticks. Wife left months ago, said the numbers owned him now. She’s not wrong. The fridge still holds her almond milk, untouched.
Five-thirty. Pre-market. He scans news feeds: Fed whispers rate cuts, oil dips after Iran talks stall. Orders queued. He’s riding a momentum play on NVIDIA, calls at four-twenty. Leverage set low—learned that the hard way after the twenty-twenty flash crash.
Six sharp. Bell rings. Heart syncs. Volume spikes, bids flood. He’s in. Watching the tape scroll like ticker-tape prophecy. “Buy,” the chart whispers. He hesitates—always does at the brink. Finger hovers. Sell. Locks profit at twelve percent. Breath out.
By nine, the desk’s a mess of half-empty mugs, crumpled printouts, Post-its scrawled “WTI SHORT”. Neck aches from the hunch. He paces, stretches, but the room shrinks around the glow. Phone buzzes—mom asking if he’s eaten. Lies yes.
Lunch? Forget it. Market’s your meal ticket. A burger wrapper from yesterday sits like evidence. He scrolls forums, Reddit r/wallstreetbets memes mocking the suits who lost billions on Archegos. Laughs, but it stings. He’s not them, but he’s close.
Afternoon lull. He shorts the pound after Brexit headlines flare. Cable drops fast—sterling like a stone. Out at the low, green ink spreading. Adrenaline washes cold, then warm. This is why. The math, the edge. But the high fades quick; silence creeps in again.
Three p.m. Volatility spikes—Trump tweets something wild. Indices whip. His stop hits. Loss stings sharper than win ever feels. Screams inside. Not out loud—can’t afford that noise. Resets. Scans for rebound. None yet.
Evening close. Positions flat, day up net four grand. Not bad. Not enough to quit, either. He stares at the ceiling, screens dark now. Wondering if tomorrow’s graph will bend the right way. Or if one day it’ll snap back, break him.
But he resets the alarm. Four-thirty. Same black coffee. Same pulse at open. Because out there, the market never sleeps. And neither does he.