London, 11 a.m.
The sky over the City still carried the grey-blue haze of last night's fog.
The clouds hung low, as if the city hadn't quite woken from its nightmare.
On the trading floor, the air was unnaturally still.
Julian had just finished the team brief.
He stood in front of the screen, one shirt cuff still unbuttoned, collar slightly skewed under the light.
The charts were still glowing, red and green and blue lines blinking like a performance that refused to end.
He took one last look at the screen without turning around, then footsteps approached.
Greg walked in with a perfect smile and a cup of tea still steaming in his hand.
His pinstripe suit was grey, crisp.
He moved slowly, like someone about to announce a promotion.
"We finally have someone who can handle big clients again."
A round of applause followed.
It was tidy, well-timed, and completely devoid of warmth.
Emma didn't clap.
She kept her head down, arranging the papers in front of her like she didn't want to be part of any of this.
Ravi typed into Lync:
"Madman's really back."
One minute later, he deleted the message.
But everyone had already seen it.
Almost simultaneously, an HR system notification popped up:
Access Update: Full Execution / Direct Sign-off / Client Exposure
Julian clicked in.
The permission matrix lit up in front of him; every category maxed out.
The system background was pale grey, the access levels marked in red font.
It looked like the kind of reward screen you'd see in a game.
Tomatz leaned back in his chair, eyes flicking toward Julian's screen.
He said under his breath, "That's fast. Since when is Greg this generous?"
Greg overheard.
He turned, smiled thinner this time.
"When someone wins, we make sure they can keep winning."
Another round of applause followed.
Louder. Even more mechanical.
Tomasz finally looked up.
He didn't say anything, just watched Julian like he was watching a rehearsed ceremony unfold.
Julian nodded slightly. His tone stayed flat.
"Thanks. I'll review the files."
The meeting dissolved.
Greg's smile lingered. He stepped closer and gave Julian a firm pat on the shoulder.
"Enjoy the access. You've earned it."
For a split second, the air froze.
No one could tell if that was a reward or a sentence.
2:00 p.m.
Greg summoned Julian into a private meeting room.
On the table: a red folder.
Embossed cover, the paper slightly aged, like it had been pulled from a cabinet just moments ago.
Label on the front: Project: Hong Kong Reversal Fund
Greg slid it forward.
"High-profit deal. 6-week turnaround. Full authority's yours."
Julian opened the first page.
His brow furrowed almost instantly.
The data was messy, the KYC section was left blank, source of funds was listed only as a vague alphanumeric code.
Greg's expression was relaxed. His voice carried a hint of reassurance.
"Don't overthink. Legal's on standby."
Julian didn't respond.
Later, Tomasz caught him near the printer while waiting for a document.
"This one got rejected by Compliance last year. Greg's bringing it back?"
Julian asked just one thing.
"Who's on the CC list?"
Tomasz shook his head.
"No one from Legal."
Around the same time, the HR system quietly updated a backend field:
Primary Signer: J. Watanabe
Julian saw it. His eyes didn't even flicker.
He knew exactly what it meant.
He was now the sole signatory.
Every legal risk, structural liability, and audit trail—tied to his name alone.
That afternoon, on a compliance call, Greg said calmly:
"Let him sign it himself. Smart people like to own things."
His tone was level, nonchalant.
Like assigning desks. Or handing out lunch cards.
Julian returned to his desk.
The project file was already locked to his user ID.
He didn't hesitate.
In the bottom-right corner of the screen, he typed:
"Received. Executing per instruction."
The chat group lit up:
"Madman got full access?"
"Greg handed him a project? That's not a promotion. That's feeding time."
Julian stared at the screen for a few seconds.
Then he closed the chat window.
He knew.
This wasn't trust.
It was the second step in the ritual.
A welcome, masquerading as a victory.
And the entrance to the pit.
Tomasz was standing by the printer, waiting for an approval form.
The machine jammed. He tapped the touchscreen, trying to reset the queue,
But a different document flashed up.
A chat log.
Compliance and HR.
"Julian is unpredictable. Great tactical brain, not suited for client exposure."
He froze.
Top right corner:
Internal Assessment: Performance Risk Tiering – 3Q Review
Greg signed off on the final comment.
Across the office, Greg was mid-meeting with the CTO.
His voice carried through the half-open door.
"He's a volatility spike."
"We can't build a structure around him."
"When he's on, he wins deals. When he's off, he nukes the platform."
The CTO replied:
"If he delivers, use him. But keep him under control."
Greg let out a chuckle.
"He'll deliver."
"And then he'll die on his own signature."
When the meeting ended, Greg returned to his desk and drafted a new memo:
Subject: Structural Stabilization Review – Personnel Flag
He kept staring at the line of chat.
He finally understood.
Greg wasn't punishing Julian.
He was doing something far worse:
Training the system to reject anything it couldn't control.
Julian wasn't the enemy.
He was the exception.
And Greg was the man keeping the machine alive.
Julian sat alone in a glass-walled breakout room.
The red folder was open.
Project: Hong Kong Reversal Fund
He flipped to the last page.
The signature field was blank.
A system prompt appeared:
Direct Sign-Off Enabled. Authenticated Identity: J. Watanabe
Tomasz walked in and placed a hot coffee on the table.
He said nothing.
Julian didn't look at him.
He picked up the pen and signed his name, stroke by stroke, like he was filling out a reimbursement form.
"Understood."
Greg appeared at the doorway, smiling as if everything had gone according to plan.
"You'll do fine. Don't overthink it."
Then he left.
Tomasz hesitated, then sat across from Julian and opened Chat.
He typed:
"Good luck."
Julian replied:
"Luck is for beginners."
Julian closed the folder and stood up.
Walked to the floor-to-ceiling window.
The lights of Canary Wharf were already flickering on.
He stood there for a long time.
Didn't say a word.
No one knew he had just stepped into a cage.
Gold-plated. Perfectly engineered.
Julian was about to start fighting again.
Endlessly.
Like clawing through a spiral-shaped hell.
That night, after work.
Julian shut down the last trading terminal and hung his jacket back on the rack.
Only a single desk lamp lit the room, casting a warm pool of light over the notebook in front of him.
He opened to the first page. Wrote a line in pencil. Crossed it out. Wrote another.
Then he stood up and paced the room twice, as if searching for rhythm.
He mimed holding a microphone in the air. Cleared his throat.
And began to speak.
No audience. No spotlight. Just him and a blank wall. His tone rose and dipped, quickened and slowed.
He paused several times to revise, sometimes staring at the ceiling in thought, sometimes laughing to himself.
The page in the notebook remained half-filled.
The rest was deliberately left blank.
After an hour, he closed the notebook and slipped it back into the drawer.
He wasn't in a rush.
That open mic?
He'd get on stage eventually.