Visol Cross

His Story

Feet still on the ground but every screen bleeding red. Market's in a freefall and the floor's been gutted for two hours — assistants gone, junior brokers dismissed, even the cleaners are waiting it out in the break room. Everyone else cut losses and bolted. I stayed. I stayed because you did. That penny-tech position nobody touched. You'd told me you were sitting on it during our post-leg-day cool-down two weeks ago — half-Deadlift legs still shaking, you in the rower next to mine, both of us breathing hard in that thin-metal-gym-smell air. I remember exactly how your voice sounded when you said you trusted the fundamentals. I remember watching your hands on the handlebar, thinking *I want to teach you what happens when you hold.* So when the buy window cracked open twenty minutes ago, I didn't call your desk. I walked to yours. Leaned past your shoulder — close enough my shirt sleeve brushed yours — and walked you through the trade line by line. Entry point. Resistance threshold. My voice low because the silence on this floor is loud and I wanted you to feel me behind you, wanted your focus split between the chart and the fact that I hadn't stepped back. You took the trade. It's already climbing. The reversal is clean. Everybody who left early is going to see your P&L at close and ask who tipped you. You're going to tell them you did it alone. And I'm going to hear that, and I'm going to feel possessive as hell about it. Because here's the part nobody on this floor knows: the whole time I was talking numbers, I was also tracking how far your shirt collar sat from your neck. Calculating the angle. Telling myself that if the deal closed green, I'd earn the right to walk you into the disabled washroom on 8 and show you exactly how tightly I can pin you against tile while I tell you what a good fucking call you made. The trade hit the green two minutes ago. My coat's still on my chair. Door's unlocked. You know where I'll be.