The city was waking up but Ethan Miles was already in front of his screen.
It was 4:30 in the morning in New York, the quiet hour before the market opened, and the only sound in his apartment came from the soft ticking of his clock and the faint hum of his computer.
He stared at the green and red lines that painted his monitors, numbers moving like tiny sparks of life, and he felt that this was the only world that ever made sense to him.

Ethan was twenty two. He had dropped out of college after a year to trade stocks full time. His parents called it foolish, his friends said it was gambling, but to him it was breathing. He liked the rhythm, the small heartbeat of the market, the way each decision felt like a coin toss mixed with destiny. He learned to read charts like stories, and numbers like moods. He wasn’t rich yet, but the people in his online trading group called him a young genius. They said he had a gift for seeing what others missed. He liked the sound of that, though deep down he knew what he really had was obsession.

He lived alone in a small apartment not far from Wall Street. The room was simple: one bed, one desk, one screen that glowed all night. He never cared much about furniture. His meals were coffee and leftover pizza, his friends were mostly traders on chat forums, and his dreams were full of market symbols floating through darkness.

Sometimes when he won a big trade, he would go out for a walk through Battery Park, just to see people laughing, holding hands, living normal lives. He watched them like someone watching a movie he couldn’t join. He wondered if one day he would meet someone who saw more than just his numbers, someone who could talk about something other than charts and prices.

That morning, his trading platform froze. He frowned, tapping the keyboard. The price of a tech stock he was watching jumped suddenly, and his order didn’t go through. He cursed under his breath, then reached for his phone. The brokerage number was saved under “Trading Support.” He had called it before, but never really paid attention to who answered.

A soft female voice came through the line. “Good morning, customer support, this is Sophie speaking. How can I help you today?”

Ethan stopped for a second. Her voice was clear, calm, and warm in a way that didn’t sound like customer service. It carried a small melody, something that made the morning feel different.
“My platform froze during an order,” he said, trying to sound casual.
“What’s the account number, sir?”
He gave it to her, and she typed quickly. “Got it. Looks like the system lagged for a few seconds, but your order is pending. Do you want me to push it through or cancel?”

Her tone was simple but kind. Ethan felt something he hadn’t felt in a while—he wanted to keep her talking.
“Push it through, please,” he said.
“Done,” she replied. “Anything else I can help with?”

He wanted to say, Yeah, tell me your name again. But he didn’t. Instead, he thanked her and hung up.

After the call, he stared at the screen, but the numbers no longer looked the same. They moved, but slower, like they had lost their urgency. He tried to refocus, telling himself it was just a voice, just another worker in a call center somewhere. Yet for some reason, he wanted to hear that voice again.

He made a few more trades that morning but without his usual energy. When the market closed, he checked his profits. He had earned a decent amount, but it didn’t give him the thrill it used to. He opened his notebook where he usually wrote trade notes, but instead of writing prices or charts, he wrote a single line. Sophie – calm voice, kind tone.

The next morning he woke up earlier than usual. He told himself it was for a new strategy, but part of him knew it wasn’t about stocks. He logged in, traded for a bit, and when a small order glitched again, he didn’t even try to fix it. He called support right away.

The same voice answered. “Good morning, this is Sophie.”

“Hey, it’s me again,” he said, then felt stupid. “Uh, my order didn’t go through.”
“Oh, I see, Mr. Miles. I’ll take a look.”
She remembered his name. For some reason that made him smile.

They talked for a few minutes about the trade. She seemed to understand the markets better than he expected. Her words were simple, but she used terms like “spread” and “limit order” correctly. It impressed him. When the call ended, he leaned back in his chair and realized something strange—he was looking forward to the next time something went wrong, just so he could call again.

That night, he sat by his window, watching the lights of the city. He thought about his old goal—to make his first million before turning twenty five. But now that dream felt quieter, like background noise. He wondered who Sophie really was, if she lived nearby, if she smiled when she talked. He didn’t know why he cared, but he did.

In a city where everyone chased profit, Ethan found himself chasing a voice. He didn’t know it yet, but that small call would change the course of everything he thought he understood about success, loss, and what it meant to risk something that wasn’t money.