March 22, 2018. The Administration officially announced new tariffs. The trade war was on.


Domestically, everything looked normal on the surface. Taxi drivers were still acting like armchair experts, offering high-level geopolitical analysis between lane changes. Regular citizens went about their business—complaining about housing prices, arguing about video games, and drinking coffee while soft music drifted through Central Park.


But the economy is just a funhouse mirror of politics, and panic hit the stock market instantly.


March 23. The global markets opened, and the floor fell out.


By closing bell, the Dow Jones had tanked nearly 3%. The Shanghai Composite, Hang Seng, Nikkei, and Korean markets were all nosediving.


The internet, naturally, was losing its collective mind.


"What is happening? Why is my screen a sea of red?"


"Diagnosis: Acute Red-Induced Color Blindness. No cure except selling everything. Side effects include weeping, chest-beating, vomiting blood, and the sudden urge to jump off a roof."


"Where are the scouts? Someone check the news!"


"You've been living under a rock! The two global giants are brawling!"


"Is The Federation crazy? Don't they know the scorched earth policy hurts everyone?!"


"I don't know if they're crazy, but I'm about to be. I just dumped ten million in yesterday..."


"RIP. Not even the gods can save you now."


"Woke up early, checked my portfolio... fully invested. Excuse me while I go cry in a corner."


"Everyone chill. This is just a flex between superpowers. They'll lift the hammer high and put it down gently. Buy the dip!"


"Nice try. You just want someone to hold your bags."


"I predicted this in January. Follow me for more divine prophecies!"


"It's over. The big guys are mowing the lawn, and we're the grass. Please, have mercy!"


"I thought the stock market was supposed to be free money this year?"


"Didn't you know? The market isn't for making money; it's for population control."


"Cherish life. Delete your trading app. Amen."


The market had exploded, and the trolls were fanning the flames. But the only reason people could joke was that no one knew how bad it would get. Historically, when superpowers started barking, they usually made a deal behind closed doors later.


But the sharks—the business tycoons with noses for blood—smelled smoke. They were already moving, preparing to minimize losses... or make a killing.


"March 23, The Alliance condemns The Federation's behavior and vows to fight to the end..."


Max watched the news broadcast, a strange expression on his face. He pulled out his phone and checked the ticker for Horizon Energy.


8.82 per share. Sealed tight at the circuit breaker.


He let out a long breath. This was it. The big one.


He knew a crash was coming, but he hadn't expected the catalyst to be a global cage match between superpowers. Even though the "experts" on TV were swearing that the conflict wouldn't escalate, promising a bright economic future, Max's yield curve told a different story.


This fight was only going to get bigger.


It felt ridiculous for him—a humble insurance salesman—to be worrying about the grand stage of world politics.


Right now, that mountain looked like a pile of cold, hard cash waving at him.


Max was so happy he ate an extra croissant for breakfast.


Fueled by pastry and profit, Max practically skipped to the supermarket, humming a tune about being rich. He grabbed a cart and started the raid, following the "Vitality Protocol" shopping list he'd spent all night preparing.


Induction cooker, pans, oil, spices, syrup...


Millet, red beans, flour, oatmeal, bacon bits, lean meat, eggs, instant noodles, carrots, cucumbers, tomatoes...


He threw it all in. At the end, feeling extravagant, he tossed in two pounds of large shrimp and a whole sea bass.


You kidding? The trade war was on. The economy was tanking. Why should he pinch pennies now?


"Hello, your total is 3,650. Do you have a membership card?"


"Members get two percent off. Would you like to sign up?"


Max hauled the loot back to his studio apartment, panting as he dropped the massive shopping bags on the floor.


"Whew... I really need to start working out."


He collapsed onto the sofa to catch his breath. After a moment, he pulled out his phone, opened Pinterest, and prepared to attempt the first home-cooked meal of his life that didn't involve a college dorm hotpot.


"Mince the pork, bacon bits, and scallions. Toss the pork in a dash of cornstarch. Rinse the rice, dump it in a saucepan, add an appropriate amount of water, bring to a boil, then simmer for forty minutes. Add the meat. Stir. Add some salt. Drizzle with sesame oil. Serve."


Max watched the instructional video with the intensity of a bomb disposal technician. On the counter, he was chopping veggies and tossing rice into the pot in a flurry of panic.


Thirty minutes later...


Max stared down at the pot of indescribable black sludge bubbling before him. He fell into a deep, existential crisis.


So much for "entry-level." So much for "idiot-proof."


What exactly was a dash? How much was an appropriate amount? What does some even mean?


Why couldn't they give him numbers? Give him grams! Give him milliliters precise to the second decimal point!


It has to be the video, he told himself. The video is wrong.


Another thirty minutes later...


Max stared at a second pot of mystery goo. It looked exactly like the first batch and smelled like burning tires. Finally, the self-doubt kicked in.


But Max wasn't a quitter. He decided the dish was the problem. He'd pivot. He'd go for the easiest thing on the planet: macaroni and cheese.


Another thirty minutes...


Max lay paralyzed on the sofa, eyes glazed over, staring blankly at the ceiling.


Some people simply aren't meant to be allowed near a stove. Give him the same ingredients and the same tools as a Michelin star chef, and he would still manage to turn fresh food into a literal kitchen nightmare.


It didn't matter how colorful the ingredients were. Once Max touched them, the result was always a matte black void.


Phase One of the "Vitality Protocol" had failed. Catastrophically.


Crunch.


Max gnawed on a raw cucumber, officially abandoning his dreams of self-sufficiency. If he kept cooking, he'd probably give himself food poisoning and kick the bucket before he even had time to write his daily entry.


Speaking of which...


He pulled out The Chronicle. It was time for the daily update.


"Uh..."


The half-eaten cucumber slipped from his fingers and hit the floor.


Max froze. The page he had just opened was blank.