The Tragedy Script

“Look, kid... shorting the market in this climate? You’re begging for a heart attack.”

Tony didn’t dare be too blunt. He didn't want to spook the golden goose. What if the kid got offended and took his fat commission check elsewhere?

“It’s fine. I like living on the edge. Playing it safe isn't my style,” Max said, waving a hand dismissively. “Don’t you Wall Street guys have a saying? 'Higher risk, higher reward'?”

Max looked determined to ignore all common sense, leaving Tony speechless.

Are all trust fund babies this reckless? Tony wondered. I guess money really does buy the right to be stupid.

“Well, shorting... it’s not impossible. You’ve got five hundred grand, which meets the threshold for margin trading. You could get 2x leverage. But to activate a margin account, federal regulations require a six-month trading history, plus you need—”

“Six months? Forget it.” Max grabbed his coat, feigning an exit. “I’ll go ask next door. Kingsman Securities is just down the street, right?”

Six months? By then, the opportunity would be dead and buried. The coming crash wasn't going to wait for him to fill out paperwork.

“Wait, wait, wait!” Tony scrambled to block Max’s path. He gritted his teeth. He couldn't let this commission walk out the door. “Actually... there is another way. You can buy Put Options.”

“Put Options?”

“Right. It’s a derivative. Basically, you’re betting against the house—us. You pay a premium upfront. If the stock tanks within the contract period, you pocket the difference. Deduct the premium, and the rest is pure profit. Of course,” Tony added, his voice lowering, “if the stock goes up, your premium is gone. Poof. Worthless.”

“Oh.” Max nodded, looking like he understood about half of that. “But it makes money if the stock drops, right? That’s all I care about.”

“How high is the leverage?” Max asked.

“Leverage? That depends on how hard it crashes. The premium is fixed. The harder the stock falls, the more massive your return. We’re talking potential returns of a thousand percent, easy.”

“Done. Let’s do that.”

“Uh... how much do you want to put in?” Tony asked cautiously.

“What do you mean how much? All of it.”

Tony blinked. Five hundred thousand dollars into Put Options? If the stock ticked up even slightly, the kid would lose everything. Not a penny left.

Lunatic, Tony thought. absolute raving lunatic.

But then again... what did he care? The commission on a half-million-dollar option buy was going to be juicy.

“Alright! I’ll run it up the flagpole. In this market... it shouldn't be an issue. Give me a little time.”

“Great. I’ll go for a walk while you work your magic.”

“You got business this morning, kid?”

“Not really. just going to do some shopping.”

Tony watched him go, shaking his head.

As Max walked away from the firm, he allowed himself a small smile.

Tony hadn't noticed, but Max had been watching him closely. He’d verified the info at the brokerage next door before committing. He might be an investing greenhorn, but he wasn't suicidal. He needed to make sure Tony wasn't digging him a grave.

Since the information checked out, Max headed to the next stop on his list: the mall.

He found a store called “Rex's Tactical Gear.”

It was a serious establishment—two hundred square meters of walls lined with things designed to hurt people or stop people from hurting you.

“What can I get you, young man?”

The proprietor was a balding man in his fifties wearing a utility vest that looked like it had seen actual combat.

“I need some self-defense gear.”

“Self-defense? You looking for riot gear? Helmets, shields? Or maybe a baton?” The owner eyed Max’s frame, assuming he was applying for a security guard gig.

“Do you have pepper spray?”

“Pepper spray?” The owner looked confused. “Who’s it for?”

“My... girlfriend. She says she feels like some creep has been stalking her lately. She needs peace of mind.”

“Ah! I gotcha.”

The owner nodded sympathetically and ducked into the back room. He returned with several palm-sized canisters.

“Now, I can’t sell you police-issue spray—that’s a felony. But the civilian stuff is plenty mean. If you aim for the eyes and nose, the bad guy won't be opening his eyes for at least ten minutes.”

Max examined them. “Which one hurts the most?”

“This one.” The owner tapped a black canister. “Grizzly Brand. Ten percent capsaicin concentration. It penetrates the pores in one second. Within five seconds, it feels like their face is on fire. Causes temporary blindness and severe respiratory distress for up to thirty minutes. Plus, it’s got a UV dye in it. Marks the perp for a week so the cops can ID him later.”

“Perfect,” Max said, his eyes lighting up. “I’ll take it.”

“That’ll be three-ninety-eight.”

That expensive? Max winced internally. But you couldn't put a price on staying alive.

“Boss, you got anything else? Portable stuff?”

“Depends on what you need. I’ve got a whole line of ‘anti-wolf’ gear for ladies.” The owner grinned.

“Do you have a stab-proof vest? And a stun gun?”

“Huh?” The owner paused. A stun gun made sense. But a Kevlar vest? What kind of creeps is his girlfriend dealing with?

“She, uh... she’s really insecure,” Max improvised.

The owner scratched his head. I guess? If this caught on, his Valentine's Day sales were going to go through the roof.

“Alright. This here is a miniature stun gun. Three million volts. Drops a grown man in three seconds. That’s five-eighty-eight. And this,” he pulled out a dark vest, “is a sixteen-layer Kevlar weave. Latest model. Weighs almost nothing, flexible, fits under clothes. Pricey though. Seventeen-ninety-eight.”

“I’ll take them both.” Max gritted his teeth. You have to spend money to save your life. “And one last thing.”

“Name it,” the owner said, his smile widening at the mounting total.

“Do you sell surveillance cameras?”

“Cameras? Sure. Indoor, outdoor, hidden. All connected to a phone app.”

“I need small ones. Tiny. The kind you can’t see. High definition, night vision.”

Night vision? Spy cams?

The owner gave Max a look that said 'Okay, now this is getting weird,' but he reached under the counter anyway.

Walking out of Rex’s, Max’s wallet felt significantly lighter, even if the bag was heavy.

Over a thousand dollars gone in twenty minutes. And the cameras were definitely cheap knock-offs with no warranty. Total rip-off.

Ding!

Max checked his phone. A text message.

“This is Hazel Lane, Lily’s cousin. I heard you needed a consult. I have a window in thirty minutes. Come to Horizon Tower, Suite 9116. P.S. If you're here to sell me insurance, don't bother.”

“Ugh.” Max groaned.

The text radiated a chilly, strictly-business vibe. Definitely a lawyer.

He realized he’d given Lily his business card yesterday—the one that listed him as an insurance salesman.

Well, he thought, technically, I am an insurance salesman.

He decided to go anyway. According to The Hustle, this Hazel Lane woman suspected him of being the killer. If he could talk to her, maybe warn her, he might lower her suspicion. Or better yet, maybe she knew something about the real killer.

The Financial District was the beating heart of Sutton. Skyscrapers clawed at the clouds, housing the city’s top predators.

Twenty minutes later, Max stood at the base of Horizon Tower.

The 42-story building loomed over him like a giant made of glass and steel. Men and women in expensive suits streamed in and out, looking important.

Once upon a time, working in a place like this had been Max’s dream.

He pushed the thought away, checked in at the lobby, and took the elevator to the 11th floor.

He found the double doors marked Zenith Law Group. The receptionist stood up immediately, offering a perfect, practiced smile.

“Good morning, sir. Do you have an appointment?”

Fancy, Max thought. High-powered attorneys.

The people working here lived in a different universe than his neighbors in the projects.

“Yeah, I’m here to see Ms. Lane. I have an eleven o'clock.”

“Certainly. Right this way.”

The receptionist led him down a plush hallway and knocked on a heavy oak door.

“Ms. Lane? Your appointment is here.”

“Send him in.”

Max walked in. The woman behind the massive mahogany desk looked up.

Their eyes met.

They both froze.

“It’s you!” they said in unison.

The air in the room instantly turned to ice.

“Max?”

Hazel sat back, steeping her fingers under her chin, staring at Max with a gaze that could peel paint. Max shifted uncomfortably in the guest chair.

“Uh... yeah. That’s me.”

He felt guilty. Sure, the bus incident was an accident—mostly physics and gravity—but he had technically kissed the back of her head. It wasn't a great first impression.

Hazel’s lip curled in a sneer.

“Max. Short for Maximum, I assume?”

“Actually, it’s—”

“Maximum Pervert? Or Maximum Disaster?”

“I was going to say Maxwell,” Max muttered.

“Fitting,” she snapped. “Because you’re certainly testing the maximum limits of my patience.”