Market of Remorse

The Analyst and the Anomaly

Chapter 2: The Analyst and the Anomaly

The door handle rattled again, more violently this time. Jianro’s heart hammered against his ribs like a trapped bird. His eyes darted from the glowing phone screen—Don’t answer—to the wooden slab that was the only thing separating him from the unknown.

"Jianro? Man, I know you’re in there! I can see the light under the crack of the door. Open up, it’s freezing out here!"

Jianro exhaled, the tension leaving his body in a shaky hiss. It was Makari. But his relief was short-lived. Why had the mysterious texter warned him?

He stepped toward the door, his hand hovering over the deadbolt. "Makari? You alone?"

"Yeah, of course I’m alone! Who else would I be with? The ghost of Christmas past? Open the door, we’re gonna be late for the gala."

Jianro unlocked the door and pulled it open. Makari stood there, adjusting a slightly crooked bowtie, looking every bit the eager junior partner. He pushed past Jianro into the cramped apartment, smelling of cheap cologne and nervous sweat.

"Why were you lurking in the dark?" Makari asked, tossing a garment bag onto the desk. "And why did you tell the bank to freeze the funds? Qadir’s people are losing their minds. I had to dodge three calls just walking from the subway."

Jianro locked the door behind him, his eyes scanning the hallway through the peephole one last time. "Did you see anyone else in the hall? Anyone following you?"

"Following me?" Makari let out a dry laugh. "Dude, we’re two guys with three hundred bucks in the bank. Nobody is following us unless we owe them for pizza. What’s wrong with you? You look like you’ve seen the end of the world."

"You have no idea," Jianro muttered. He picked up the garment bag. "The gala. It’s tonight."

"The Thorne-Vane Gala," Makari said, checking his watch. "The biggest networking event of the season. If we’re going to pivot away from Venn like you said—which, by the way, I still think is suicidal—we need a new lead by midnight. Get dressed. We’re leaving in ten."

*

The Thorne-Vane Gala was a sea of shimmering silk, expensive champagne, and the kind of high-octane ego that only existed in pre-crash 2014. The ballroom was a masterpiece of gold leaf and crystal, a stark contrast to the peeling wallpaper of Jianro’s apartment.

Jianro smoothed his lapels, his eyes narrow as he scanned the room. In his previous life, he had walked in here feeling like a king-in-waiting. Now, he felt like a soldier walking through a minefield.

"There they are," Makari whispered, leaning in close. "The vultures."

"You mean our 'colleagues'?" Jianro asked, his voice dripping with irony.

"Look at Silas over by the fountain," Makari pointed with his chin. "He’s been eyeing us since we walked in. He probably knows about the Venn delay."

"Let him eye us," Jianro said. "Silas is the one who’s going to leak our proprietary code to the Russians in three years. I’m not giving him the time of day."

"Wait, what? The Russians? Jianro, seriously, what is in your coffee today?"

"Just watch, Makari. And keep your mouth shut about the bank."

A man in a perfectly tailored charcoal suit approached them, a wide, predatory grin on his face. It was Marcus Thorne, the host’s son and a man who would eventually testify against Jianro to save his own skin.

"Kestane! My man!" Marcus boomed, clapping a heavy hand on Jianro’s shoulder. "I heard a rumor you’re getting cold feet on the Venn deal. Tell me it isn't true. I’ve got half my fund riding on that IPO."

"Rumors are like cheap suits, Marcus," Jianro replied, deftly sliding out from under the man’s grip. "They rarely fit the truth. We’re just doing some extra due diligence. Standard procedure."

Marcus’s smile didn't reach his eyes. "Due diligence? The papers were supposed to be signed this morning. Qadir is... let’s just say he’s not a patient man. You don't want to leave a guy like that at the altar."

"I’m sure Qadir will survive," Jianro said. "He’s a big boy. Now, if you’ll excuse us, I see someone I actually want to talk to."

As they moved away, Makari hissed, "Are you trying to get us killed? That’s Marcus Thorne! You can't just blow him off!"

"I can and I did," Jianro said. "He’s a hollow shell, Makari. In two years, he’ll be under federal investigation for a Ponzi scheme. Stop worrying about the losers and start looking for the real players."

Jianro’s gaze drifted toward the balcony. That’s when he saw her.

Amara Velune.

In his first life, she had been the "Viper of Wall Street." A cold, brilliant investment analyst who had systematically dismantled Jianro’s empire piece by piece during the bankruptcy proceedings. She had been the one to find the hidden discrepancies that the SEC missed. She had been his executioner.

But here, in 2014, she was supposed to be at the height of her powers—unflappable, elegant, and terrifying.

Instead, she was leaning against the stone railing of the balcony, her face pale, her hands trembling so hard she nearly dropped her glass of sparkling water. She wasn't wearing her usual expression of bored superiority. She looked terrified.

"Is that Amara Velune?" Makari asked, following Jianro’s gaze. "The lead analyst for the Sterling Group? Man, don't even try. She eats guys like us for breakfast and doesn't even use a fork."

"Stay here," Jianro said, his voice flat.

"Jianro, don't! She’ll humiliate you!"

Jianro ignored him. He pushed through the crowd, weaving past the lobbyists and the tech bros, his eyes locked on the woman on the balcony. He stepped out into the cool night air, the noise of the party fading into a muffled hum behind the glass doors.

"You look like you've seen a ghost, Amara," Jianro said, leaning against the railing a few feet away from her.

She flinched, her head snapping toward him. Her eyes were wide, bloodshot, and frantic. "Who... who are you?"

"Jianro Kestane. But you already knew that, didn't you?"

Amara gripped the railing so hard her knuckles turned white. "Kestane? No. No, that’s not right. You... you’re supposed to be in..."

"In prison?" Jianro finished for her, his voice low and dangerous. "Or maybe dead? Which timeline are we talking about, Amara?"

The glass in her hand shattered, shards of crystal falling to the stone floor. She didn't even notice the small cut on her palm. She stepped closer to him, her breath coming in ragged gasps.

"How?" she whispered, her voice cracking. "How is this happening? I was in my office. The lights went out, and then... then I was here. In this dress. In this year."

Jianro felt a jolt of electricity run down his spine. It was true. He wasn't the only one.

"I woke up this morning," Jianro said, keeping his voice steady despite the roar of adrenaline in his ears. "Ten years back. Just like you."

Amara looked around the balcony, her eyes darting like a trapped animal's. "This is impossible. It’s a hallucination. Some kind of psychological break. I’m still at the firm, I’m just dreaming."

"It’s not a dream," Jianro said, stepping closer. "And if you’re who I remember you being, you don't have time for a breakdown. Qadir is moving the Venn stocks tonight. In our past, that was the beginning of the end for me. And for a lot of other people."

Amara’s expression shifted. The fear was still there, but a flicker of the old, sharp analyst started to peek through the cracks. She wiped the blood from her hand onto her dress, unconcerned with the stain.

"The Venn deal," she breathed. "Wait. If you’re here... and I’m here..."

"Then the board is reset," Jianro said. "But someone sent me a text. Someone who knew I was back. They told me not to sign. Was it you?"

Amara frowned, her confusion appearing genuine. "A text? No. I’ve spent the last three hours trying to remember how to use this ancient phone. I didn't send anything."

Jianro’s blood went cold. If it wasn't Amara, then there was a third person. Or a fourth.

"Listen to me, Jianro," Amara said, her voice dropping to a jagged whisper. She stepped into his personal space, her eyes boring into his. "You think you know why you lost everything. You think it was just Qadir and the bad stocks."

"It was a fraud," Jianro said. "I was the fall guy."

Amara shook her head, a grim, humorless smile touching her lips. "No. You don't understand. I saw the unredacted files during the liquidation. The stuff they didn't show the jury. The stuff they didn't even show the SEC."

She leaned in closer, her lips brushing his ear so the wind wouldn't carry the words.

"The Kestane bankruptcy wasn't a failure of business, Jianro," she whispered. "It was a setup. A hit. And the people who ordered it? They’re in that room right now, watching us."

Jianro looked through the glass doors at the laughing, drinking crowd of elite power-players. Suddenly, the gold leaf and crystal didn't look like a party anymore.

It looked like a slaughterhouse.