11:37 AM SAME DAY
The office held that particular quiet of late mornings when the work hasn’t started but the day already feels spent.
The HVAC pushed its steady nothing. Rain ticked against the window in uneven rhythms. I stared at Project Granite sprawled across the monitors like a city from above: rows of numbers, cascading triggers, tiny flags I’d placed and now barely registered.
The coffee had helped. The tea. A protein bar from the fully stocked kitchen. I could think again. That was the problem.
I ran my hand over the cold surface of my desk. The edge bit into my palm. Familiar. Even the bite. Years of suits and bright numbers had worn a groove in this spot, and in me.
Somewhere along the way, something had hollowed out. I caught my reflection in the darkened screen. The eyes there were careful, polite, performing. Beneath that, the engine was missing. Inertia and habit had carried me this far. Little else.
This portfolio was supposed to be proof. Proof I still understood how to move mountains with data and instinct. But Granite felt less like proof and more like a mirror. Real world abstracted into a facsimile of number. It reminded me of what I’d surrendered in silence. Trust. Excitement. A human energy that had once made the work feel like something other than work.
I wondered if I was still capable of understanding what I’d once been good at. Or if I’d been running on fumes so long I’d forgotten what the tank felt like full.
The Mikes had arrived at the usual hour. Their chatter was low, professional, but to me it was a spark against dry kindling. Energy I no longer owned.
Mike Dillingham, loud as always, dropping a comment about a misfiled data set with the precision of someone who genuinely enjoyed the hunt. Mike Scwyznski, quiet and methodical, catching inconsistencies before anyone else. Mike Chang, balanced, observant, holding tension in check while nudging others forward.
Together, they were a small sun in the dim office.
I told myself it was good to have them. Needed them. Their work was the bones I could flesh out. But every confident stride, every laugh, every “got it” between them reminded me of something I’d lost. Sons, almost. In a way I couldn’t let myself admit.
They’d come up through the same analyst class. The brightest graduates, parachuted into the machine, learning to slice billions in loans and receivables into forms almost unrecognizable. Senior, subordinate, residuals, equity. Rules and directions for all of them. Manufactured into acronyms for asset classes worth more than small nations. They’d learned it together. Shared humiliations, triumphs, those first flushes of power that come from speaking a language only a few can speak.
Now they were mine. Their energy a beacon. I envied them for their unbroken faith, their unspent courage, their willingness to burn the way I had once burned.
I couldn’t touch that part of myself anymore. Not without opening something that wouldn’t close.
The screens blinked. A row of numbers flagged red.
A tiny anomaly. Nothing catastrophic. But it wouldn’t let itself be ignored.
I leaned forward. Jaw tight. The Mikes noticed and gathered around.
“Look at this.” I pointed. “This doesn’t tie with the stated summary statistics.”
Mike Chang scrolled through, eyebrows raised. “Could be a misclassification. Maybe outliers excluded to—”
“No.” My voice came out harder than I intended. “We can’t assume. These are real assets. Real issues. Real returns.”
The weight I’d been trying to ignore settled back into my chest. From the beginning, Granite wasn’t just another portfolio. Another trade. Not for me. Not for whoever’s money was tangled in this if we missed something.
The office felt smaller. Rain slapped the glass harder.
I told the Mikes to dig deeper. Trace everything. Every tranche. Every underlying loan. Every assumption.
They went to work. Hands moving faster than mine, voices quiet but insistent. I watched them. Fearless. Alive.
Hours passed. The anomaly didn’t just persist. It led us to others, hidden elsewhere throughout the data room.
Pressure built at my temples. A slow tightening. Granite pulsed across the screens. Every flagged number whispered something I couldn’t quite name. Danger, maybe. Or consequence.
Outside, the world moved on. Except that somewhere, someone was watching. I didn’t know who. But the thought stayed with me, settling into that empty space I’d been carrying around all morning.
I rubbed my temples and leaned back. The Mikes had their bond. I had my ghosts.
Granite was still alive under our hands. Indifferent to who carried the burden.
The anomalies wouldn’t wait. The decisions I made in the coming days, or the ones I failed to make, would ripple outward. At this size, mistakes were rarely forgiven.
I leaned forward again. Fingers on the keys. Rain on the glass.
Somewhere beyond the numbers, something was starting to move.