Rug Pulled!

You look broke. Perfect.

Sit down. Don't touch anything yet. That's your desk; those are your monitors, and the number on the middle one is my money. Not yours. Mine. I front the capital, you trade it, I take a cut. You keep what's left. That's the whole arrangement and it's better than you'll get anywhere else on this street.

Here's what the job is. Fifty-two weeks. Real calendar — earnings season, Fed days, triple witching, the dead zone in August where nothing happens until it does. You'll trade the Mow, MacroHard, GreenBag, whatever garbage is moving. Bar by bar. You decide how fast it comes at you, and I'd start slow if I were you.

Everybody who walks in here tells me the same thing: it's luck. It ain't. The tape is already written before you sit down — every pump, every fakeout, every support level that holds right up until it doesn't. Nobody's hiding it from you. It's all on the screen. Your job is to learn to read it before it reads you.

Look around while you're at it. That wall — those aren't decorations, those are the ones who made it. You want your name up there, you earn the desk first. Until then, hang what you like on it. Nobody's stopping you.

And read the Tribune. Every week, front page, Door Lane's finest. Who finished green, who got taken apart, who's reporting earnings. The ones who skip it get surprised. I don't pay anybody to be surprised.

Now the part you'll ignore and then remember.

I have a line. Drawdown. You cross it, I reset your week and you're on probation, and I'll be honest with you, kid, most of you don't come back from probation. Cross it twice and I won't know your name. That's not a threat; that's payroll. You don't get a third conversation with me.

The ones who last aren't the ones who catch the big move. I've watched a hundred of them catch the big move and hand it all back Thursday. The ones who last are boring. They size small, they take the loss early, and they're still sitting there in year four while the geniuses are selling cars in Jersey.

It's not what you make. It's what you keep.

—

The fine print

(The part the old man doesn't spell out. Read it anyway.)

• A full 52-week trading year, played bar by bar, at a speed you choose.
• A market that's scripted, not random. Every session is built from a seed before your first trade. Skill is reading it — not guessing, and not grinding for luck.
• Careers that end. Blow the drawdown limit once and you're on probation; twice and that career is over for good. You start again as nobody.
• Seven difficulty tiers you earn, not pick. The firm decides when you're ready.
• Parody tickers with their own personalities, earnings, and ways of ruining your week.
• Resting orders, brackets, and a Level II book — tools you unlock by surviving, none of which move your win rate. There is nothing to buy that makes you better at this.
• A desk you furnish and a floor you live on — and a weekly paper whose headlines actually move the tape.
• Your whole roster, exportable to a single file. Your careers are yours.
• An original soundtrack that shifts with the year you're in. Off until you turn it on.
• A first-week guide that shows you the desk, the line, and how to end the day. Skip it any time.
• Survive long enough and the job changes. You stop being the one who gets rug pulled.

Launching first on Steam for Windows and macOS. Until then, the closed beta plays free in your browser — sign in with an email link, no password, no card.

Now get to work.