THE ALGORITHM

The glow of Alex's laptop screen cast spectral shadows across his living room, now transformed into a makeshift research center. Two weeks had passed since Nathan's inheritance had arrived, two weeks of eighteen-hour days spent consuming everything he could find about financial markets. Empty coffee cups formed a ceramic archipelago on his desk, while printouts of stock charts papered the walls like the workings of a beautiful mind teetering on the edge of obsession.

Sleep had become an inconvenience, a biological interruption to the current of knowledge flowing through him. When exhaustion finally claimed him, his dreams were colored in the red and green of price movements, the rise and fall of digital heartbeats measuring the world's financial health.

Alex leaned back in his chair, rubbing his eyes. Outside, Seattle continued its cautious pandemic existence, people moving like hesitant ghosts behind masks, maintaining their careful distances. Inside, he'd created a different kind of isolation—a cocoon of concentration where the virus existed only as a market force, a variable affecting sectors and valuations rather than a threat to human life.

His browser history told the story of his evolution: basic investing websites giving way to technical analysis forums, YouTube tutorials on reading candlestick patterns, obscure papers on market psychology. His father's book had become a constant companion, its margins now filled with Alex's own observations, a dialogue across time with the man who had abandoned him.

Emily had called twice since he'd told her about the inheritance. Each conversation ended the same way—her practical suggestions for how he should use the money, his noncommittal responses, the growing silence between her words.

"You could pay off your credit card," she'd said yesterday. "Or put it toward your student loans."

"I'm still figuring it out," he'd replied, eyes fixed on a particularly promising stock pattern while they spoke.

"Alex, are you even looking for jobs anymore?"

The question had hung between them, unanswered, because the truth would only widen the growing distance. No, he wasn't. The collapse of his marketing career now seemed like a liberation rather than a catastrophe—the shedding of an ill-fitting skin.

His phone buzzed with a notification, pulling him back to the present. A new video from MarketMaven, a YouTube channel he'd discovered three days ago. The thumbnail showed a young man with perfectly coiffed hair and an expensive watch, gesturing at a chart with the confident smile of someone who had deciphered the universe's secrets.

"THE ALGORITHM THAT TURNED $1K INTO $30K IN 60 DAYS!"

Alex had grown adept at filtering the signal from the noise in the cacophony of financial content he consumed. Most of it was recycled wisdom at best, dangerous misinformation at worst. But something about MarketMaven had caught his attention—the analysis was sharper, the predictions more consistently accurate than the others. Behind the flashy presentation and hyperbolic titles, there seemed to be genuine insight.

He clicked on the video, adjusting his earbuds.

"What's up, Market Mavericks!" The host, Ryan Matthews, flashed his trademark grin. "Today I'm finally doing it—I'm revealing the proprietary algorithm that's been crushing the markets since this pandemic started. No more secrets. No more holding back. It's time to share the wealth."

Alex leaned forward, skepticism warring with curiosity. He'd watched enough of these videos to recognize the familiar pattern: dramatic promise, personal testimonial, and ultimately a pitch for an overpriced course or subscription service.

But as Ryan began explaining his approach, Alex's skepticism began to waver. The analysis was sophisticated, combining technical indicators with sentiment analysis of COVID news coverage, identifying correlations between specific phrases in press releases and subsequent price movements in related stocks.

"Look at this pattern," Ryan said, highlighting a chart of a pharmaceutical company that had skyrocketed. "Two days before they announced preliminary results for their COVID treatment, there was unusual options activity. And it wasn't just insiders—it was the market responding to subtle changes in the company's language in their PR. They switched from 'ongoing trials' to 'promising developments'—barely noticeable unless you're tracking the specific word patterns like my algorithm does."

Alex scribbled notes furiously, the gears of his mind turning. It wasn't just what Ryan was saying, but how the pieces fit with observations Alex had already made independently. His own nascent theories about market behavior during the pandemic seemed to be confirmed by someone who had already systematized the approach.

The video continued for forty minutes, diving deeper into the methodology. Ryan demonstrated back-testing results, showing how the algorithm would have performed over the past three months—a period that included some of the most volatile market days in history.

"Now, I know what you're thinking," Ryan said, his expression growing more serious as the video neared its conclusion. "If this works so well, why am I sharing it? Two reasons: First, the market is big enough for all of us. My trades aren't going to move the needle. Second, I remember what it was like to be on the outside looking in. To feel like the game was rigged against regular people."

Alex nodded unconsciously. The sentiment resonated with the frustration he'd felt navigating job applications, always somehow missing the invisible qualifications that seemed obvious to insiders.

"So here's what I'm offering," Ryan continued. "I've coded this algorithm into a simple alert system. For the next twenty-four hours, I'm making it available to my subscribers for just $149. That's not a monthly fee—that's lifetime access. After that, the price goes up to $499."

Alex sat back, the spell broken. There it was—the sales pitch he'd been waiting for. He started to close the video, but Ryan's next words stopped him.

"And to prove I'm serious, I'll show you the next three alerts my system is generating right now. These are free—whether you sign up or not."

Ryan displayed a slide showing three stock symbols: NVAX, MRNA, and a smaller company Alex hadn't heard of, BNGO.

"These three are showing the exact pattern that precedes a major move. Not financial advice, just what my algorithm is detecting. Check back in a week and see if I was right."

The video ended with the usual like-and-subscribe requests. Alex sat motionless, staring at the final frame with the three stock symbols still visible. He opened a new tab and checked their current prices, then their charts over the past month. The patterns did match what Ryan had described earlier in the video.

If he was right about these three, would that validate the algorithm? Or was it simply a clever marketing tactic—name enough stocks and some are bound to move, allowing you to claim credit for the winners while quietly ignoring the losers?

Alex glanced at his brokerage account. After opening it with $4,000 of Nathan's inheritance (keeping $1,000 in reserve for emergencies), he'd spent the past two weeks paper trading—practicing without risking real money. His simulated trades had yielded modest successes and instructive failures, but he hadn't yet taken the plunge with actual capital.

A voice that sounded suspiciously like Emily's whispered caution in his mind. This was his safety net, his buffer against the unforgiving pandemic economy. Gambling it on an unproven algorithm promoted by a YouTube personality was precisely the kind of impulsive decision she would cite as evidence of his immaturity.

But another voice—newer, yet somehow more familiar—countered with his uncle's words: *The market gives and takes. Learn to listen to its whispers.*

Were these stocks the whispers Nathan had mentioned? Or was Alex simply hearing what he wanted to hear, finding patterns in randomness because the alternative—that the market, like life, was fundamentally unpredictable—was too frightening to accept?

He closed his eyes, trying to quiet the competing voices. When he opened them again, his gaze fell on a passage he'd highlighted in his father's book:

*"Every decision not to act is itself an action. There is no neutral position in markets, only deliberate choices and their consequences."*

Alex took a deep breath and entered a buy order for NVAX—$1,000, a quarter of his capital. His finger hovered over the confirm button for a long moment before descending with quiet resolve.

The transaction completed with anticlimactic simplicity. No fanfare, no dramatic music—just a small adjustment to the figures in his account and an email confirmation that arrived seconds later. He had crossed an invisible threshold, committing not just money but belief to this new direction.

He sat back, a curious lightness spreading through him. It wasn't euphoria or even excitement, but something more profound—a sense of alignment, as if disparate parts of himself were clicking into place. For the first time since the Zoom call that had ended his job, he felt the stirring of purpose.

The next morning, NVAX opened seven percent higher following an announcement about accelerated trials. By afternoon, it had gained another five percent. Alex watched the movement with a strange detachment, as if observing a natural phenomenon—the tide coming in, a storm gathering on the horizon. His $1,000 had become $1,120 in hours.

He bought MRNA next, then BNGO the following day. By the end of the week, his $4,000 had grown to $4,785.

That night, he subscribed to MarketMaven's alert service, charging the $149 to his nearly maxed-out credit card. It felt like tuition—an investment in education rather than an expense.

The alerts began arriving daily, each accompanied by Ryan's analysis explaining the pattern recognition that had triggered the notification. Alex didn't follow every recommendation, developing a system of secondary verification, cross-referencing the alerts against his own growing understanding of market behavior.

Two weeks later, his account showed $6,320. Three weeks after that, $9,145.

Emily's calls had become less frequent, her text messages increasingly perfunctory. Alex barely noticed, his attention consumed by the elegant dance of numbers and patterns, the subtle call-and-response between news and market movements. When he did speak with her, he found himself unable to articulate what he was experiencing—not just the financial growth, but the intellectual awakening that accompanied it.

"I'm figuring some things out," he said during their last conversation, aware of how inadequate the words were.

"That's great, Alex," she'd replied, her voice carrying the patient tone one might use with a child. "But what are you figuring out, exactly? What's the plan here?"

He hadn't known how to answer. The plan was emerging day by day, taking shape through action rather than design. To explain it would be to reduce it, to constrain the organic process of discovery within the limited frame of conventional career planning.

Now, entering the third month since Nathan's inheritance, Alex sat at his desk reviewing his latest trades. His account balance stood at $12,740—a 218% return that exceeded even Ryan's claimed results. The emergency $1,000 remained untouched in his checking account, a talisman against disaster.

His finger hovered over the buy button for Ryan's latest alert—a small biotech company rumored to be developing a unique COVID antibody test. The volume had been unusually high for the past three days, and the company had scheduled an announcement for tomorrow morning.

The pattern was familiar now, almost predictable. Buy today, ride the anticipation wave as others recognized the same signals, sell into the strength of the announcement. It had worked five times in a row.

Alex entered the order—$3,000 this time, larger than his previous positions. The confidence that had been building with each successful trade whispered that this one would be no different.

The confirmation appeared, and he leaned back with the satisfaction of a craftsman who has executed a difficult technique with practiced precision. Outside, summer had arrived in Seattle, the pandemic protocols relaxing slightly as infection rates plateaued. Alex had barely noticed the changing season, his world increasingly defined by the rhythms of market hours rather than days and weeks.

His phone rang—not Emily this time, but a number he didn't recognize. He almost let it go to voicemail, but some instinct prompted him to answer.

"Hello?"

"Is this Alexander Reeves?" A woman's voice, professional and direct.

"Yes, speaking."

"Mr. Reeves, this is Melissa Chen from the MarketMaven support team. There's an issue with your subscription that requires immediate attention. Could you verify the last four digits of your credit card?"

Alex hesitated. Something in her tone struck a false note—a dissonance he couldn't immediately identify.

"I don't think I'm comfortable sharing that information over the phone," he said cautiously. "Why don't I log into my account and check for any notifications there?"

"I understand your concern," Melissa continued smoothly. "The issue is that our system has detected unusual access patterns to our alert service. We're contacting all subscribers to verify their identities before we release today's critical alert."

Alex's pulse quickened. "Critical alert?"

"Yes, regarding VXRT. Our algorithm has detected unusual options activity suggesting a potential acquisition announcement. But I need to verify your identity before—"

"I didn't see any alert about VXRT," Alex interrupted, opening his email to double-check.

"It hasn't been sent yet. That's what I'm trying to explain. We're verifying subscribers before release because this information is particularly sensitive."

The dissonance grew stronger. Alex opened a browser tab and searched for "VXRT stock" while keeping the woman talking.

"How long have you worked for MarketMaven?" he asked, scanning the search results. VXRT had indeed been moving unusually over the past two days.

"I've been with the company since its founding," she replied without hesitation. "Now, if you could verify your information, we can proceed with—"

"Let me speak with Ryan directly," Alex said suddenly.

A brief pause. "Mr. Matthews is unavailable at the moment. He's preparing the detailed analysis for the alert."

"Then I'll wait for the alert to come through the official channel." Alex's finger hovered over the end call button.

"Mr. Reeves," the woman's voice took on a harder edge. "This is a time-sensitive opportunity. The market closes in forty minutes. If you want to benefit from this information before it becomes public, I suggest you—"

Alex ended the call, his mind racing. He searched for any mention of VXRT and acquisition rumors—nothing credible appeared. But the stock was up fifteen percent on higher-than-average volume.

He hesitated only briefly before entering a buy order—$2,000 for VXRT. If the information was legitimate, despite the suspicious delivery method, he didn't want to miss the opportunity.

The order confirmed just as a new email arrived—an official alert from MarketMaven, but not about VXRT. Instead, it warned about unusual caller activity:

*URGENT SECURITY NOTICE: We've received reports of individuals posing as MarketMaven staff calling subscribers to solicit financial information and promote certain stocks. MarketMaven NEVER calls subscribers or provides alerts via phone. All legitimate alerts come ONLY through our secure email system or app notifications.*

Alex stared at the screen, the realization washing over him in a cold wave. He immediately tried to cancel his VXRT order, but it was too late—the transaction had already executed.

By market close, VXRT had given back half its gains. Overnight, it dropped another twenty percent following a company statement explicitly denying any acquisition talks and announcing a dilutive share offering instead.

The next morning, Alex watched with numb detachment as his position lost sixty percent of its value in the first hour of trading. His $2,000 dwindled to $800 before he finally closed the position, accepting the loss.

But the financial damage was only the beginning. That afternoon, a new video appeared on the MarketMaven channel. Ryan's usual confident demeanor was replaced by something more subdued, almost contrite.

"I need to speak with you all about something serious," he began. "It's come to my attention that some of our recent alerts have been... problematic."

Alex leaned closer to the screen, a cold premonition forming in his stomach.

"The SEC has contacted me regarding potential pump-and-dump coordination related to several stocks we've featured. I want to be completely transparent with you all. I'm cooperating fully with their investigation."

Ryan paused, running a hand through his usually perfect hair, now visibly disheveled.

"I've always believed in the algorithm, in the patterns we've identified together. But I've also failed to disclose certain conflicts of interest. For some of the stocks we've featured, I or affiliated parties have held significant positions prior to issuing alerts."

The words landed like physical blows. Alex scrolled rapidly through his transaction history, checking the timing of his purchases against the alerts he'd received.

"I'm suspending all alert services effective immediately. Subscribers will receive prorated refunds." Ryan's voice cracked slightly. "I'm sorry. I genuinely believed we were helping level the playing field. But in trying to beat the system, I became part of it."

The video ended abruptly, without the usual outro or call to action. Alex sat motionless, the implications rippling through him like concentric waves from a stone dropped in still water.

He pulled up his account balance: $10,614. Still a significant gain from his initial investment, but nearly $2,000 less than yesterday. And now, the foundation upon which those gains were built had been revealed as fundamentally compromised.

Had any of it been real? The patterns, the correlations, the apparent edge he'd believed he was developing—were they genuine insights or merely the manipulated perceptions of a novice being led precisely where the puppet master intended?

Alex closed his laptop and moved to the window, gazing out at the city he'd barely noticed for months. People walked below, masked but moving with purpose, navigating a changed world with cautious determination.

He felt a strange kinship with them now—all of them learning new rules for a game that kept shifting beneath their feet, all of them vulnerable to forces beyond their control or comprehension.

His phone buzzed with a text from Emily: *Haven't heard from you in weeks. Are you okay?*

Alex stared at the message, unsure how to respond. Was he okay? The question seemed simultaneously too simple and too complex.

He had lost money today, yes. But he had gained something perhaps more valuable—a visceral education in market manipulation, in the sophisticated mechanisms by which insiders extracted wealth from outsiders, in the dangerous allure of easy answers to complex questions.

His father's book lay open on the desk, a passage underlined in red: *"The market's greatest lessons are taught through loss, not gain. Anyone can be a genius in a rising tide. Character and skill are forged in the crucible of drawdown."*

Alex picked up his phone and typed: *Still here. Learning some hard lessons. Can we talk tomorrow?*

Then he returned to his desk and opened a new document. At the top, he typed: "Manipulation Patterns: Indicators and Red Flags."

The algorithm had failed him. Or rather, he had failed by surrendering his judgment to an algorithm he didn't fully understand, controlled by someone whose interests weren't aligned with his own.

But the experience itself—the pattern of deception, the warning signs he'd missed, the emotional hooks that had bypassed his rational defenses—could be analyzed, understood, incorporated into a more robust approach.

Outside, the summer evening softened the edges of the city. Inside, Alex Reeves began to write, transforming loss into something that, while painful, might ultimately prove more enduring than any fleeting gain.