Bad Day at the Office

Journal Entry – Samuel Lowe

I had been in the stock market business for fifteen years. I had weathered storms, seen bullish runs that defied logic, and lived through corrections that sent less-seasoned brokers running for the hills. But nothing not even the lessons learned from the 2008 financial crisis could prepare me for what would become the single worst day of my career.

It started like any other morning. The sky was overcast, and a thick, murky fog hung low over Gotham City as I stepped out of my high rise apartment, coffee in one hand and briefcase in the other. I felt optimistic, even though whispers of volatility had been circulating for weeks. The market had been teetering, but I believed it was just another fluctuation, a temporary shift before the inevitable upswing.

By the time I arrived at the Gotham Stock Exchange, the mood had already begun to sour. My colleagues were hunched over their monitors, murmuring in hushed, frantic tones. The big screens that loomed over the trading floor flashed in alarming shades of red. Numbers, usually my source of power and control, now seemed like menacing symbols of doom.

“What’s happening?” I asked my assistant, a young and eager analyst named Jordan.

Jordan’s face was pale as he stammered, “The overseas markets collapsed overnight. Tech stocks are cratering. We’re looking at a freefall.”

I swallowed hard. I rushed to my workstation, logging in to see for myself. My eyes darted across multiple screens, each one telling a grim tale. One of my biggest clients had invested heavily in a new, promising biotech firm one that had just announced its flagship drug had failed clinical trials. The stock was plummeting, taking millions of dollars in investments down with it.

My phone buzzed incessantly, a cacophony of panicked clients and desperate fund managers. I picked up one call after another, my voice steady but my hands clammy. “Stay calm,” I told them, though I hardly believed it myself. “We’ve seen downturns before. This will pass.”

But this time, it wouldn’t pass. The domino effect had begun. Fear spread faster than wildfire. The market nosedived as sell orders flooded in. The algorithms, programmed to mitigate losses, only exacerbated the chaos as automated trades triggered further collapses. I could do nothing but watch as my portfolio disintegrated in real time.

Then came the moment that nearly brought me to my knees. My largest client, Lex Luthor, called with a voice sharper than broken glass. “Samuel, tell me you hedged my portfolio like I asked.”

My throat went dry. I had meant to, I had planned to, but between meetings and projections, I had delayed executing the full hedge. And now, it was too late.

The silence that followed was worse than being screamed at. Finally, Luthor spoke again, voice cold. “You’ll hear from my lawyers.” The line went dead.

I barely had time to process before another call came in. This time, it was Oswald Cobblepot; the Penguin himself. His grating, nasally voice filled my ear. “Lowe, you bumbling fool. You just cost me millions. You better have a way to fix this, or I’ll be sending some friends over for a chat.”

My hands trembled as I put down the phone. My vision blurred. My career, my reputation, my very livelihood evaporated in mere hours.

When the closing bell rang, the sound was hollow, meaningless. I sat at my desk, staring blankly at the wreckage. I had lost more in a single day than I had gained in my entire career. Calls from superiors came, each one more ominous than the last. Lawsuits were inevitable. My firm was already discussing who would take the fall. And I, a seasoned broker with fifteen years of experience, knew the answer.

As I walked out of the building that evening, the city lights seemed dimmer. The streets, once bustling with energy, felt eerily quiet. I loosened my tie, took a deep breath, and stepped into the night, knowing that tomorrow, the world I had built would no longer be the same.

As I approached my car, I felt a chill creep up my spine. A slow, deliberate clapping echoed through the dimly lit parking garage. I turned, and there he was; the Joker, leaning casually against a nearby pillar, his painted grin stretched wide.

"Sammy, Sammy, Sammy," the clown prince of crime drawled, shaking his head. "You see, when I lose money, I don’t just sit around and mope about it. No, no, no; I like to talk about it." He chuckled, his voice a sickly sweet melody laced with menace. "And lucky you! We’re going to have a long conversation... with lots of jokes. Just a heads up, though; they won’t be in your favor."

My blood ran cold. I opened my mouth to speak, but no words came out. The Joker took a slow step forward, pulling a gleaming knife from his pocket and twirling it between his gloved fingers. "Shall we get started?" he asked, grinning ear to ear.

I had thought the stock market crash was the worst thing that had happened to me that day. I was about to find out just how wrong I was.

Dr. Emily Hargrove sighed as she finished reading the diary entry. She placed the worn journal down on her desk and adjusted her glasses. Across from her, two other psychiatrists exchanged uneasy glances.

“His delusions are intricate,” Dr. Patel murmured, tapping his pen against his notepad. “A complete psychological break."

Dr. Hargrove nodded. “Given all that the Joker put him through; his mind is fractured. He has gaps in memory, paranoia, and an inability to separate reality from delusion.”

She glanced toward the reinforced glass window that looked into Samuel Lowe’s cell. He sat on his cot, staring blankly at the wall, muttering numbers under his breath.

“Our focus now,” she continued, closing the journal, “is determining how much of Samuel Lowe is left to save.”