At 10:00 sharp, a chime sounded over the floor speakers. “All hands to the conference center on 44.”

Marcus’s boss, Julian Thorne, stood by the window with his back to the floor. Julian was a legend—fifty-two years old, three divorces, and a bonus every year that could buy a small Caribbean island. He didn’t turn around when Marcus approached.

Marcus left the breakout room in a daze. He walked back to his desk, sat down, and stared at his screen. The revised bonus number wouldn’t arrive for hours, but he already knew what it would say. $1.26 million. He pulled out his phone and texted his wife, Elena: Bad day. Don’t book the renovation.

He showered, put on a fresh Charvet shirt, and knotted his tie with hands that didn’t tremble but wanted to. Outside, the December air bit hard, but he barely felt it. The walk from his apartment to the glass tower at 85 Broad Street was a ritual he’d performed a thousand times. Today, every step felt like a drumbeat.

Marcus nodded. He knew the revenue number. What he didn’t know was the multiplier—the percentage of revenue that would become his bonus. Last year it had been 12%. A good year. This year, rumors were flying that the pool was up 30%.

“You said Sterling might not exist in six months,” Marcus said. “If that’s true, I need to know who’s buying us. Or who’s building a team elsewhere.”

She paused. A trader near the back whispered, “Oh God.”