By Aleksey Bashtavenko

Academic Composition

In the heart of Manhattan, where the skyscrapers pierce the heavens and the streets buzz with relentless ambition, stood the monolithic edifice of Genesis Investments. On the 32nd floor, behind a sleek glass door emblazoned with his name, worked Edward Moss, a stockbroker who had clawed his way to the top of the financial world. Moss was deeply skeptical of anything that smacked of collectivism or idealism.

Edward Moss leaned back in his ergonomic chair, a smug smile playing on his lips as he watched the numbers dance across his multiple monitors. He was a man who believed in one simple truth: “For there to be a winner, there must always be a loser.”

His office door burst open, and a junior broker, wide-eyed and sweating, stumbled in. “Mr. Moss, we lost the Levinson account. They went with Pierce & Pierce.”

Moss’s smile faded. He fixed the young man with a withering stare. “Do you know why they went with Pierce & Pierce, Jimmy?” he asked, his voice dripping with disdain.

Jimmy swallowed hard. “No, sir.”

Moss stood up and walked to the large window overlooking the city. “Because they don’t hire losers like you,” he said, turning back to face the trembling junior. “In this city, in this business, only the strong survive. You think you can cut it? Prove it. Or get the hell out of my sight.”

As Jimmy scurried out, Moss shook his head in disgust. “Got to love New York! New York always wins!” he muttered to himself.

That afternoon, the office was abuzz with the news of the latest market crash. While his colleagues fretted and scurried to mitigate losses, Moss reveled in the chaos. He thrived on volatility, making bold moves and raking in profits while others faltered.

During the daily sales meeting, Moss stood before his team, his eyes blazing with a predatory gleam. “Listen up, you bunch of bottom feeders,” he began, his voice a sharp whip cracking through the air. “If you can’t afford a $5000 studio in Manhattan, you’re not working hard enough. You’re losers, plain and simple. This city eats the weak and rewards the relentless. For there to be a winner, there must always be a loser. And guess what? I’m here to win.”

He paused, letting his words sink in. “Look around you. Thousands of people in New York are struggling to get by, barely making ends meet. That’s the natural order of things. Their failure is my victory. Their misery fuels my success. This is a dog-eat-dog world, and I intend to stay at the top of the food chain.”

Moss delighted in the visible discomfort of his colleagues. He fed off their fear and desperation, feeling a perverse sense of satisfaction. As he gazed out at the city that never slept, he nodded to himself. “For there to be a winner, there must be a loser.”

That evening, Moss left the office late, his heart still pounding with the thrill of the day’s conquests. As he walked through the bustling streets of New York, he saw the struggling masses—the street vendors, the overworked waitstaff, the homeless huddled in doorways. He smirked, feeling vindicated by the massive wealth inequality that surrounded him. It was a living testament to his success, a stark reminder that in this city, and in life, the strong thrive while the weak perish.

He entered his high-rise apartment building and took the elevator to the top floor. Stepping into his luxurious penthouse, he poured himself a glass of the finest Scotch and toasted his reflection in the window.

“New York always wins,” he whispered, taking a sip. The city’s relentless pulse, its endless striving, and its glaring disparities were all part of the game he played and won every day.