Act - 72: The Ripple

Somewhere deep in the Financial District, behind the sleek facade of a towering black-glass monolith branded Bramley-Keene Capital, the air was thick—cloaked in tension and the electric buzz of panic.

The trading floor, usually a tightly synchronized organism of clicks, calls, and controlled chaos, now reeled with unfiltered distress. Dozens of traders were hunched over monitors, the blue light illuminating pale, drawn faces. Graphs on their screens dipped and spiked erratically, red dominating green. The sharp clang of a fallen coffee mug went unnoticed, drowned beneath the rising pitch of frantic voices and furious keyboard clatter.

"Jesus Christ, who the hell is doing this?" barked a voice from the upper gallery.

Charles Whitmore, Managing Director and former Navy man turned Wall Street warlord, stood gripping the railing, knuckles white. His grey suit was immaculate, but his face was anything but—sweat beaded on his forehead as he stared down at the trading pit, nostrils flaring like a bloodhound on a scent.

His second-in-command, Irene Kostova, stormed toward him, a tablet clutched in her hand.

"We just lost another 1.6 million on the LuxAir short squeeze," she snapped, breath ragged. "TechGen rebounded harder than anyone expected. The bot flagged momentum too late. Our hedge positions didn't execute."

Whitmore turned slowly, his stare deadly calm. "Who's on the other side of those trades?"

Irene glanced at the tablet, then again. "We don't know. All offshore IPs. Looks like small-scale at first, but the timing is—" she hesitated, "unnatural."

"Unnatural?" Whitmore echoed, stepping in close. "You mean precise."

He turned back toward the floor. Screens across the office showed the bleeding charts of TechGen, LuxAir, GreenCell, and two more positions that had flipped them on their backs before they had even drawn their strategies.

Below them, Noah Mendez, one of their younger analysts, was nearly hyperventilating.

"They caught our gap at opening like they knew our entries," Noah muttered, more to himself than anyone else. "They're not just reacting. They're predicting our behavior... and flipping it."

"Who's flipping us?" Whitmore growled. "Goldman? BlackRock? Citadel?"

Irene shook her head. "No, it's not them. Whoever it is… they're small. Under the radar. But they're scalping with sniper precision."

Noah pointed at his screen, voice cracking. "Look—GreenCell got dumped right at the volume peak. Exactly two minutes before our AI model was set to buy in. And then LuxAir? They timed the press leak perfectly. Dumped before the news hit Bloomberg."

Whitmore's jaw clenched. "This isn't a hedge fund. This is guerrilla warfare."

He marched down the glass steps, the floor parting as traders made way. Phones rang, unanswered. Bloomberg tickers flashed updates that now read more like obituaries than news.

Whitmore reached the center terminal, slammed the keyboard, and pulled up a transaction trace.

"Find the pattern," he ordered. "I want names. This is coordinated. I want to know who's behind this yesterday."

Irene followed close behind, eyes never leaving the flickering data. "If they're not a fund... maybe it's an algo startup? Some rogue quant team?"

Whitmore snorted. "This isn't code. This is human. There's instinct behind these moves. It feels like... like someone knows us."

Another alert popped up on the central screen.

Notification: Bramley-Keene portfolio down 12.7% for the day.

Noah blinked at the number. "That's... that's over 30 million lost in five hours."

The floor fell silent for a beat, the only sound the whirring of machines that had failed them.

Whitmore didn't flinch. He stared at the screen as if it were an enemy staring back. Slowly, he muttered, "We're being hunted."

He looked up at Irene, a strange glint in his eyes. "Find the phantom. Whoever they are… they just declared war."

And somewhere, across the city, the ripple was already spreading.

**

The scent of espresso lingered in the air like warm smoke, curling around the chatter inside Roosevelt's Brewhouse, a favorite café of Manhattan's finance crowd. Nestled between high-rises on 46th and Park, the café wasn't flashy—it didn't need to be. The regulars in suits and silk ties gave the place its prestige.

I sat tucked in a corner booth, black Americano in hand, watching the room breathe. Evelyn scrolled through her tablet beside me, eyes flicking up occasionally to people-watch, while I just listened.

"…I'm telling you, it wasn't Goldman," one voice said, coming from two tables down. A man in a fitted navy suit leaned forward over his cup, speaking with hushed urgency. "Bramley-Keene lost millions before lunch yesterday. Their positions got nuked. You know how tight their models are?"

His companion, a woman in a gray blazer with the Wall Street Journal tucked under her arm, raised a brow. "You're saying some nobody outplayed BK Capital?"

The man nodded. "Not just outplayed. Out timed, outsold, outbought. They got slaughtered. Someone front-ran their positions like they had a copy of their playbook."

Another voice joined from behind me—young, eager, no filter. "They're calling them ghosts. Phantom traders. A few rumors say it's a rogue team operating off-grid. Tiny crew. Making millions a day."

"Millions?" someone echoed near the counter.

A barista chuckled while refilling the drip machine. "Heard someone made ten mil shorting LuxAir and flipping GreenCell the same morning. Clean exit, perfect timing. That doesn't just happen."

"They're small," the first man murmured again, more to himself than anyone else. "But they're bleeding the big firms dry. Whatever they're using—it's not just luck."

I took a slow sip of my coffee, letting the bitterness roll over my tongue, hiding the smile tugging at the edge of my lips.

They didn't know. Not yet. But the whispers were starting. The phantom team, the ghost traders—whatever they wanted to call us, it didn't matter. What mattered was that they were watching. Wall Street had felt the first tremor, and now the streets were humming with paranoia.

Evelyn tilted her head toward me, voice low and amused. "You enjoying the show?"

I set my cup down and gave a half-smile. "They always notice. Sooner or later."

She glanced around the room, catching the curious glances, the murmurs growing louder with every retelling. "Think they'll figure it out?"

"Not if we keep moving." I leaned back, eyes scanning the faces in the café—analysts, brokers, interns with dreams too big for their ties. All of them wondering who the hell was shaking the foundation beneath their feet.

I didn't need credit.

Just momentum.

And by the sound of it, we had both.

Dio Stat's Info:

Lvl: 16

Skill Count: 3 (Key selling point analyze) (Analyze) (Global Monitoring System)

Strength:35

Agility:24

Intelligence:31

Endurance:21

Charm:25

Dio influence, power & riches:

Money - 10.5 Million Kroner 

Associates - 11

Assets - 0

Digital Asset - 250 BTC

Goons - 10

Cars - 1

Guards - 2

Employers -53

Companies- 1