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The next morning, he walked into J.T. Marlin, set his keys on Vinny’s desk, and said, “I’m out.”

The next two hours were a montage of Marco’s future: the sports car, the FBI raid, his father crying at his arraignment, two years in a minimum-security camp, and then—nothing. A gray cubicle. A silent phone.

Marco was 22, broke, and hungry—not just for food, but for the kind of money that made other people flinch. He’d dropped out of community college after realizing that accounting wasn't going to pay off his father’s medical bills. So when his cousin Vinny whispered about a brokerage in a strip mall that was “moving units” fast, Marco listened.

“Relax,” Seth said. “You’re not in trouble. You’re in the Screening Room. Every hustler gets one free look at the ending before they choose their path.”

“No,” he said. “I already saw the ending.”