The air on the Highlands Lounge terrace had turned from a breezy social afternoon into a pressurized vacuum.
Two high-spec laptops sat side-by-side on a white linen-covered table, their screens glowing with the jagged, flickering lifeblood of the global markets. Behind them sat two men who couldn't have been more different in their approach: the New Marcus, hunched over his keyboard with the desperate intensity of a man defending his pride, and Jake, who leaned back with a casual poise that bordered on the insulting.
Before a single finger touched a key, Jake broke the silence. "We're trading Gold," he said, his voice flat and non-negotiable. "Spot Gold against the Veyra Mark. No currencies, no indices. Just the metal."
