The leverage was the final, irrevocable step. It was the difference between riding a wave and becoming the storm itself. When Rakesh confirmed that the margin had been approved and the new positions in Microsoft and Dell were active, a new, cold electricity seemed to course through Harsh's veins. The portfolio was no longer just a collection of assets; it was a living, breathing entity, a predator he had unleashed upon the global markets. He was no longer just a spectator with foresight; he was an active participant, using the future itself as his capital.
The physical toll deepened. Dark circles settled permanently under his eyes. He dismissed his cook, finding the elaborate meals a distraction, and subsisted on black coffee and plain toast brought by a silent, nervous attendant. Sleep became a fragmented, elusive thing. He would doze in his office chair, only to jolt awake hours before dawn, his first instinct not to check the factory production reports, but to power up the secure terminal and connect to the Hong Kong broker's server. The pre-market activity in New York, a faint, ghostly tremor of the day to come, was more real to him than the rising Indian sun.
His interactions with his team became increasingly transactional, stripped of the human warmth that had once defined them. Sanjay burst in one morning, ecstatic about a feature in a prominent international electronics magazine that praised the 'Sargam' player's sound quality.
"Harsh Bhai! Look! They call it 'a masterpiece of value engineering'! This is huge for our global brand!" Sanjay thrust the magazine at him.
Harsh took it, his eyes scanning the page. He saw the words, understood their meaning, but felt nothing. A "global brand" was a slow, plodding beast. The portfolio, in the time it had taken Sanjay to walk to his office, had likely fluctuated by more than the entire marketing budget for the 'Sargam' launch.
"Good. Use it in the next ad campaign," Harsh said, handing the magazine back without a smile. "Increase the production target for the Gulf by fifteen percent. We need to capitalize on this."
Sanjay's smile faltered, confused by the sterile, mechanical response. "Yes... yes, of course, Harsh Bhai."
The real drama, the only one that could stir his deadened emotions, played out on the financial screens. A rumor swept the market that Intel was facing production delays with its new Pentium processor. The stock began to dip in heavy trading. It was a classic market overreaction, a temporary blip. But for Harsh, leveraged and exposed, it was a moment of pure, undiluted terror.
He watched the numbers fall, his knuckles white as he gripped the edge of his desk. The paper losses mounted with each tick downward. Fifty thousand dollars. One hundred thousand. The margin account was being tested. Rakesh, monitoring from his own terminal, sent a terse message: "Volatility is high. Do we hold?"
Harsh didn't respond. He was paralyzed, not by fear of the loss, but by the violation of his certainty. This wasn't in the script he remembered. Had his actions, his very presence in the market, already begun to alter the timeline? Was the future he knew so assuredly now a fluid, changing thing?
For a full ten minutes, he stared at the screen, a cold sweat beading on his forehead. This was the crucible. This was the moment that separated the gambler from the visionary. The gambler would panic and sell. The visionary would see the distortion for what it was and hold firm.
He took a deep, shuddering breath, the first one he felt he had taken in hours. His knowledge wasn't just about specific events; it was about the fundamental, unstoppable trajectories of technological change. The world needed faster processors. Intel would deliver. This was noise.
He typed a single-word reply to Rakesh: "Hold."
He then entered a new order, his fingers steady on the keys. He used the dip to buy another $250,000 of Intel stock. It was an act of supreme defiance, a doubling-down on his own fractured reality.
The market, as if sensing his conviction, began to steady. Then, a news flash crossed the wires. Intel CEO gave an interview, vehemently denying the delay rumors, reaffirming the launch schedule. The stock didn't just recover; it rocketed upward, soaring past its previous high on a wave of short-covering and renewed confidence.
In the space of three hours, Harsh had not only erased the paper loss but had turned it into a massive gain. The leveraged bet had magnified the victory. The portfolio swelled, the BH-1 account's value climbing to a dizzying new height.
A strange, soundless laugh escaped Harsh's lips. It was not a laugh of joy, but of manic release. He had faced the abyss, stared into the possibility that his greatest weapon—his foreknowledge—was flawed, and he had emerged victorious. The high was more potent than any drug. It was a confirmation of his own infallibility.
When Rakesh entered the office later, his usual composure was replaced by a look of stark admiration mixed with fear. "That was... breathtaking, Harsh Ji. The risk was enormous."
"Risk is a variable for those who cannot see the constants," Harsh replied, his voice hollow, his eyes still glued to the screen, watching the numbers settle. "The constant is progress. The constant is the network. The constant is processing power. We are not betting on stocks, Rakesh. We are investing in inevitabilities."
He had crossed a new threshold. The fear was gone, replaced by a terrifying, god-like serenity. The market's gyrations were no longer threats; they were opportunities, waves to be surfed by the one who knew the shape of the ocean floor.
He was an addict, and the algorithm of the future was his fix. The ghost in the machine was no longer a passenger; it was the pilot. And it was heading for destinations from which there could be no return. The world of radios and cassette players, of Deepak's loyalty and Sanjay's enthusiasm, faded into a dull, monochromatic background. The only reality that held any color, any life, was the brilliant, pulsating glow of the trading screen. He was lost to it, and he had never felt more powerful, or more utterly alone.