The Shark walked into the VIP section. The bass was so heavy it rattled the ice in the glasses. The air was thick with fog machine smoke and the sharp, heavy spice of unfiltered Djarum Black cloves.

There, standing on top of a leather banquette, was Krypto.

He was a blur of motion, a cyber-grunge warlord draped in post-apocalyptic luxury. He wore vintage Rick Owens drop-crotch cargo shorts and an oversized Vetements hoodie that likely cost more than a mid-sized sedan, now riddled with cigarette burns. On his feet were Acronym technical sneakers that looked like moon boots, stomping out a rhythm that didn't exist for anyone else.

He was dangerously thin, his skin pale and almost translucent, vibrating with a nervous energy that suggested his resting heart rate was permanently locked at 120 BPM.

"Krypto!"

The Shark shouted over the music, grabbing him by the ankle and yanking him down.

Krypto stumbled, landed on the velvet couch, and immediately started typing on a specialized Framework laptop balanced precariously on an ice bucket. He didn't look at The Shark; he stared at the screen through vintage Oakley X-Metal Romeo sunglasses—a relic from the 90s worn indoors to hide pupils that were blown wide open from a cocktail of nootropics and stimulants.

His left hand had a constant, violent tremor—a side effect of the chemical cocktail keeping him awake—but the moment his fingertips hovered over the keys, the shaking stopped instantly. He tapped complex polyrhythms on his thighs, subconsciously mimicking the tick-rate of the exchange.

"The fractal!"

Krypto whispered, his voice cracking. "Can't you feel it? The rhythm is off. Someone is building a buy wall at $98k. It’s too uniform. It’s not organic flow."

"It’s not organic, Krypto. It’s Saylor," The Shark said, leaning in. "MicroStrategy is preparing another tranche. They’re issuing convertible notes to buy the dip. Again."

Krypto froze. He reached for a bottle of Suntory Yamazaki 18, bypassing the glass to take a long pull straight from the neck. He chased it by tearing open a high-sugar energy gel designed for ultra-marathon runners, squeezing the goo into his mouth like he was refueling a machine.

"He's back?"

Krypto hissed, a manic grin spreading across his face. "The Whale is back to feed?"

"He's essentially printing fiat to buy hard assets," The Shark explained. "He's issuing debt at 0.8% interest to buy an asset appreciating at 50%. It’s a carry trade on steroids."

Krypto started giggling—a high-pitched, unnerving sound. "He's long gamma. He creates the volatility he surfs on. But he's heavy, Shark. He moves like a supertanker. He creates a wake."

"Exactly," The Shark said. "And I want to drown the tourists swimming in his wake."

Krypto’s fingers flew across the keyboard. Green code cascaded down the screen.

"If Saylor is buying spot," Krypto muttered, his head bobbing to the 180 BPM industrial techno, treating the market data like sheet music. "He's pushing the price up, which spikes the implied volatility on the call options. The retail plebs are leveraging up to chase him."

"So we don't chase," The Shark cut in. "We front-run his liquidity requirements. We short the volatility spread. When his VWAP hits the accumulation zone, we don't buy. We trigger a liquidation cascade."

"We sell the derivatives ceiling while he supports the floor," Krypto finished the sentence, his body vibrating again. "We trap the retail longs in the spread. It’s... it’s beautiful. It’s volatility arbitrage."

"I need to rewrite the execution bot," Krypto said, his voice dropping to a serious, almost lucid tone. "I need to inverse the Saylor vector. He thinks he's the apex predator? No. He's the plankton. We are the filter feeder."

"Do it," The Shark commanded. "Leverage it 100x. Target the flush at $99,420."

Krypto paused. His hand hovered over the 'Execute' key. He looked up at The Shark, sweat dripping from his nose.

"You want to hunt Michael Saylor?"

"I want to eat him," The Shark replied.

Krypto screamed—a sound of pure, chemical ecstasy—and slammed the enter key exactly as the bass dropped.

"The Shark that ate the Saylor!"

Read the article that inspired the creation of "The Shark of Wall Street" in 2025.

Krypto howled, jumping back onto the table as the market charts turned into a bloodbath of red candles. "It’s feeding time!"