A modern rendering of a moment where proximity to a source does not result in consumption.
The glass wall reflects a pale hand hovering over a cold ceramic cup.
The hum of the HVAC system is a low, vibrating weight against my eardrums. It never stops. It is the only sound in the room except for the liquid clicking of the tickers on the six monitors. My knuckles are white where they grip the edge of the desk. The desk is cold.
The steam from the fifth espresso has long since vanished. I lift the cup. The liquid is black, oily, and smells of burnt earth. I swallow. It sits in my throat, a stagnant pool that won’t descend. My stomach does not acknowledge it. There is no warmth, no rush of caffeine, only the physical volume of the fluid resting in the pipe of my neck.
I look at the clock. 03:14. Tokyo is mid-session. The numbers on the screen are lime green. They bleed slightly into the dark grey background.
The intern is still here.
He is sitting three desks away, slumped in an ergonomic chair that costs more than his monthly rent. His head is tilted back. The skin of his neck is stretched taut. I can see the rhythmic pulse in his carotid artery from across the bay. It is a slow, heavy throb. Thump. Thump. It is the only thing in the room that has a cadence.
The HVAC hums. I reach for an energy drink. The aluminium tab snaps with a sharp, metallic crack that echoes off the floor-to-ceiling windows. I pour the neon-colored syrup into my mouth. It tastes of chemical citrus and salt. I hold it in my mouth, waiting for the spark, the chemical jitter that the others describe. Nothing. It is just wetness. I swallow, and it joins the espresso in the cold reservoir of my gullet.
My eyes track the Yen. It is dropping. I need to move, but my fingers are stiff.
I stand up. The movement is silent. My joints do not creak. I walk toward the breakroom, passing the intern’s desk. The smell of him hits me—warmth, salt, the faint metallic tang of iron, and the scent of processed sugar. It is thick. It has a texture. I can almost feel it on my tongue, a sharp contrast to the cold, watery film of the energy drink.
The HVAC hums.
I stand over him. He doesn’t wake. His pulse is visible even in the dim light of the standby monitors. The skin there is thin. I can see the blue vein beneath the surface. My jaw aches. The muscles at the back of my head tighten until the pressure behind my eyes becomes a dull, throbbing heat.
I reach out. My hand stops an inch from his shoulder. I can feel the heat radiating from his body. It is a physical pressure, like standing near a radiator.
I pull my hand back.
I go to the break room. I take another pod from the bowl. I insert it into the machine. The pump groans. The coffee drips out, thin and steaming. I watch the bubbles form on the surface. They pop, one by one.
I walk back to my desk.
The intern stirs. He rubs his eyes, his skin flushed pink with the sudden movement of blood. He looks at me and blinks.
“Late night, boss,” he says. His voice is raspy, thick with sleep.
“The market doesn’t close,” I say.
The HVAC hums.
I sit down. I pick up the new cup. The heat of the ceramic should burn my palm, but I only feel the hardness of the material. I drink. The hot liquid slides down, hitting the cold mass already there. It does not mix. It just layers.
On the screen, the Yen continues to slide. I click the mouse. The sound is a plastic snap. I click again.
The pressure in my jaw is a constant, grinding force. I open a third energy drink. The smell of artificial taurine fills the immediate air around my face. I drink it all in three long gulps. I wait for the heart to race, for the nerves to fire.
The room remains silent. The HVAC hums.
The intern stands up, stretches, and walks toward the elevators. The scent of him trails behind, a fading wake of heat. I watch the elevator light go from green to white.
I am alone.
I look at the empty cans. Five. The espresso cups are stacked. Six. I feel heavy, filled with useless, stagnant weight. My vision is clear, sharper than it should be. I can see the individual pixels on the monitor. I can see the dust specks dancing in the light of the Bloomberg terminal.
The HVAC hums.
I reach for the mouse. My hand is steady. It does not tremble. I buy another block of futures. The numbers update. I watch them. I wait for the morning.