James Johnson stood in his corner office at The IPO Express, the glass walls catching the reflection of market data streaming across his screens. The trading floor outside moved in a steady rhythm—phones ringing, keyboards clacking, traders calling out numbers as the morning tightened. James shifted between monitors, tapping keys with practiced precision.
He reached for a glass of water. His hand paused mid‑air. A faint tremor ran through his arm. He steadied himself against the desk with his other hand, holding still until the tremor passed. He straightened, adjusted his jacket, and kept reading.
Janis walked past the open door; a folder tucked under her arm. She slowed down when she saw him leaning forward, one hand braced on the desk. “You alright?”
James didn’t look up. “Fine.”
The break hit fast.
His stomach tightened. His throat constricted. He bent forward as vomit splattered across the polished floor, streaking the leg of his chair and the edge of his desk. Papers slid off the surface. A pen rolled toward the door. The sound echoed off the glass walls, sharp enough to make two traders glance up from their monitors.
Janis rushed in, stopping short when she saw the mess. “James—”
He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, breathing unevenly. “I’m going home.”
“I can call someone.”
“No.”
He reached for the desk again, steadying himself as he stood upright. His balance was off. His movements were slower than usual. He grabbed his coat from the hook behind the door and stepped into the hallway.
Employees looked up from their desks as he passed. A few whispered. James never left early. He never looked weak. He moved past them without responding, one hand brushing the wall for support as he walked toward the elevators.
He pressed the call button. The elevator doors opened with a soft chime. He stepped inside and leaned against the rail as the doors closed. His breathing was shallow. He pressed the lobby button with a shaky hand and watched the numbers descend.
The elevator opened to the lobby. The receptionist called his name, but he didn’t respond. He walked through the glass doors into the afternoon light, blinking against the brightness. His pace was uneven. His coat hung loosely over his arm.
He crossed the parking lot, unlocked his car, and sat behind the wheel. He rested both hands on the steering wheel, unmoving. His shoulders rose and fell with each breath. He stayed like that for a moment, gathering himself.
He started the engine. The dashboard lights flickered on. He shifted into reverse, backed out of the space, and pulled toward the exit. The building towered behind him, its glass surface reflecting the movement inside—the world he controlled, the world that depended on him.
He drove away from it for the last time.