Numbers Don't Lie

Adnan's screens flickered with red numbers as the lira fell another twelve percent. His trading desk at First Capital Bank, usually bustling with energy, had grown eerily quiet. Everyone was watching their own cascading displays, running their own calculations, making their own choices.

His phone buzzed: a message from Zhang at Goldman. "Position still open. Window closing. Decision needed within hour."

Adnan's fingers hovered over his keyboard. The trade was perfectly legal—a massive short position against his own country's currency. He'd make enough to buy his parents a house in London, get his sister into Harvard. The money would be safely in dollars before the worst hit.

But he thought of his father's small textile factory, of the workers who'd been there since Adnan was a boy. They'd be the ones who'd suffer when the currency collapsed. Their savings would evaporate, their jobs would vanish as imported materials became too expensive.

His director passed by, pausing at his desk. "Remember, Adnan, you're a trader first. The market doesn't care about patriotism."

Through the window, he could see the central bank building, where his university roommate Ali now worked. Last night, over rakı and grilled fish, Ali had confided their plans to raise interest rates, to sacrifice growth for stability.

Adnan opened his trading platform, took a deep breath, and began to type. But instead of entering the short position, he started buying. Small amounts at first, then larger. Others noticed. The screens began showing patches of green.

Hours later, his phone buzzed again. Ali: "Saw the trading patterns. Thank you."

Adnan looked at his bonus calculations, now significantly smaller. But when he called his father that evening, the pride in the old man's voice was worth more than any trade.

"The factory had a good day," his father said. "We're still here. We're still fighting."

Adnan smiled, watching the city lights come on across the Bosphorus. Some currencies couldn't be measured in numbers.