And funding was vanishing.
She read the last paragraph aloud, her voice the only sound in the vast room: "Markets are not machines. They are mirrors. Every yield, every spread, every repo rate is a human fear or greed, priced and timestamped. The instruments are mathematical. The game is not. Survive the night. Trade the dawn." She closed the book. Outside, London was gray and waking up. Somewhere, a repo desk was funding, a trader was bidding, and a curve was waiting to see if today would be the day it normalized. And funding was vanishing
She laughed, hollow. "The book didn't mention the part where your heart tries to exit your chest." Every yield, every spread, every repo rate is
He called Elena on the private channel. "Your bond shorts. You're levered." Survive the night
