A Wall Street Genius's Final Investment Playbook-Chapter 124

The news of Amelia’s death came as a shock.

But it wasn’t sorrow.

She was merely someone who had briefly passed through my life—not close enough to mourn.

If anything, this shock stemmed purely from a selfish emotion.

Her fate, mirroring my own illness, felt like a forewarning of what lay ahead for me.

As I stood there in a daze, David cautiously spoke.

“There’s no need to push yourself. I’ve heard investment banking has a tight schedule.”

“…Pardon?”

It took me a moment to grasp his meaning. He was offering a considerate way out—saying he’d understand if I chose not to attend the funeral. I forced a faint smile and replied.

“No, it’s fine. I can take a half-day off.”

“Are you sure?”

For an ordinary analyst, this would have been unthinkable. Taking leave for the funeral of someone who wasn’t a family member, a relative, or even a close acquaintance?

But I was an exception.

Thanks to Goldman’s unwritten rule:

—Those who generate profit are granted everything.

At present, I was the most profitable analyst in Goldman’s history. A sudden half-day leave wouldn’t be an issue.

The real problem lay elsewhere.

My mind had gone completely blank.

There was a crucial question I needed to ask at this moment, yet I couldn't remember it.

But after desperately grasping at my consciousness, I finally managed to pull out the question.

“What was the cause of death?”

Yes, this was it.

Amelia’s death could have been due to one of two causes:

A fatal side effect of the medication.

Or a Castleman seizure.

“Unfortunately, it was a seizure.”

The moment I heard those words, reality blurred again.

Amelia had been administered rapamycin, the second treatment.

And yet, she suffered a seizure… meaning the drug had failed her.

She had needed a third-line treatment.

Just like me.

“I’ll send you the address by email. See you there.”

With that, David left.

I, too, took my half-day off and headed home to change into funeral-appropriate attire.

Even after reaching home, the sense of reality remained faint.

It wasn’t just my head that felt blank.

For the first time in my life, an unfamiliar discomfort seeped under my skin.

‘I expected this…'

I had known all along.

The weight of gambling with human lives.

Plunging myself into this trial to find a cure was entirely different from standing safely on the sidelines while pushing others into the abyss.

I wasn’t particularly virtuous, but even I couldn’t shake off this revulsion.

I had anticipated some level of discomfort.

But now, faced with the reality of it, the unease was far more overwhelming than I had imagined.

‘It’s not like I did anything wrong…'

Amelia had voluntarily participated.

I had merely provided the funding.

I could frame it as granting a terminal patient’s final wish.

And in return, I obtained valuable data.

Yet no matter how I tried to justify it, the disgust wouldn’t leave me.

I turned on the shower, but even after standing under cold water for over thirty minutes, my mind refused to clear.

No matter how much I washed, the filth clung to me.

‘Just… think of it as a transaction.'

A necessary trade for my survival.

A win-win deal where both parties got what they wanted.

But even that reasoning failed to ease my conscience.

So…

I decided to let this discomfort remain.

If someone who willingly played Russian roulette could sleep peacefully at night, that would be the true act of shamelessness.

But then, as I accepted this reality, a far colder, more selfish thought emerged.

‘What a waste…’

Amelia had been a candidate for the third treatment.

Yet she passed away before she could even attempt the necessary drug.

Had she tried a different treatment instead, it wouldn’t have felt so futile.

I had overlooked something critical.

‘I need a system to filter candidates in advance.'

A way to identify Russian roulette participants before the game even started.

Right now, there was only one way to distinguish them:

Administer rapamycin, then observe for seizures.

If they remained stable, they were second-line treatment candidates.

If they suffered a seizure, they needed the third treatment.

But a Castleman seizure meant they were already at death’s door.

Which meant those needing the third treatment had to survive a brush with death just to get their shot at a real cure.

How many would actually make it through?

Most would likely die like Amelia—before even getting the chance.

‘I need to fix this first.'

Developing a better screening method was urgent.

And to do that, I needed Amelia’s data.

Her CRP, ESR, serum creatinine, BUN levels… every PET/CT scan taken throughout her treatment.

I had to comb through it all to identify the distinct patterns of third-treatment candidates.

Amelia was already gone.

So the best way to honor her death… was to make it meaningful.

I felt like a looter scavenging corpses on a battlefield.

But—

Someone had to survive.

And ultimately, this system would help prevent unnecessary sacrifices in the future.

Convincing myself of that, I quickened my pace.

***

A modest funeral home in the New Jersey suburbs.

David and Jesse had already arrived, and amidst them, I spotted another familiar face.

“You’re here too, Sean.”

It was Rachel.

She must have received the obituary as well.

‘Of course, the princess is here.’

Being able to take a half-day off on a weekday for something unrelated to performance—it was a luxury few could afford.

Inside, Amelia’s husband, Joel, approached with a sorrowful smile.

“Thank you so much for coming.”

His bloodshot eyes filled with gratitude as he gripped my hand firmly.

He was thanking me for covering the $1.5 million in hospital bills.

“Because of you… Amelia was able to fight bravely until the very end.”

His words tangled my emotions once again.

The truth was, from the very beginning, I had secretly hoped the second treatment would fail.

I had wanted Amelia to become a test subject for the third treatment—and that was the sole reason I had paid such a hefty sum.

And just as I had wished, she turned out to be the same type as me… and ultimately, she died.

What could I possibly say here?

Suppressing my discomfort, I glanced at David.

I had the urge to pull him aside immediately to discuss patient selection methods, but this was neither the time nor the place.

After the funeral—that would be the right moment.

‘How long will this take? An hour, maybe…’

My estimate was off.

In reality, it lasted an hour and a half.

For that entire time, Amelia’s family and friends took turns reminiscing about her.

Sometimes, they wiped away tears; other times, they smiled faintly at the memories.

For me, someone with no personal connection to her, it was an uncomfortable experience.

Because I wasn’t sad at all.

I felt regret, shock, and a vague fear—but not the deep, genuine sorrow that welled up from within.

I glanced around discreetly.

I assumed David, Jesse, and Rachel must have felt the same.

But to my surprise, they were all genuinely grieving.

Rachel, in particular, was biting her lip, hurriedly wiping away the tears streaming down her cheeks.

‘Am I the odd one out?’

A phrase suddenly flashed through my mind—Wall Street is full of people with psychopathic tendencies.

Given that only those who could thoroughly exploit others survived in this industry, it wasn’t entirely unfounded.

Did I possess those traits as well?

Even if I did, it wouldn’t be wise to show it.

So, I put on the saddest face I could muster.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, the funeral ended.

Suppressing my impatience, I cautiously suggested,

“If everyone has time, how about we have a drink in Amelia’s memory?”

“Sounds like a good idea.”

Thankfully, everyone agreed, and we moved to a quiet bar nearby.

I was eager to start discussing plans with David, but that, too, wasn’t easy.

Everyone was still deeply immersed in their grief.

“She was so young… It’s heartbreaking. And Michelle is still just a child…”

Rachel bit her lip, mentioning Amelia’s daughter.

Barely ten years old.

At that age, losing a mother meant experiencing the pain of loss in its rawest form.

It was a cruel burden for someone so young.

Jesse, eyes red with emotion, added,

“But still… Amelia was incredible. She never gave up hope. Even in her final moments, she never lost her sense of humor.”

Meanwhile, David’s expression was subtly different.

Rather than sorrow, there was a quiet sense of pride.

“Amelia had no regrets. She made her own choices.”

Unlike me, he showed no signs of guilt.

Instead, there was a bond—like that of comrades-in-arms.

‘Well, his situation is different.’

David was also risking his own life.

He wasn’t just using others—he had thrown himself into the fray as well.

Unlike me, who stood safely on the sidelines while pushing others into the fire.

But that wasn’t the point.

What mattered now was discussing the patient selection method.

Yet finding the right moment to bring it up was proving difficult.

“Outsiders may pity them, but for those who take on the challenge, their perspective is entirely different. Some might think they’re drowning in despair, but in reality, it’s quite the opposite. At least they’re leaving knowing they tried.”

“Joel, too, probably feels pride rather than just sorrow. There’s grief, of course, but beneath it, he must be proud of Amelia.”

David and Jesse spoke as if they were voicing Amelia and Joel’s thoughts. Then, they turned to Rachel and me, their gazes suddenly serious.

“We’re in this, so we understand… but the two of you are really remarkable. To willingly join such a difficult journey…”

I forced a wry smile.

“Well… I can’t exactly see it as someone else’s problem.”

Publicly, I had lost a loved one to this illness.

That was the role I was supposed to play.

But to my dismay, the group’s expressions darkened even more.

‘Are they expecting me to say more?’

Their curiosity was evident.

But revealing my personal history would be a mistake.

Lying about losing a family member could backfire if the truth ever surfaced.

And fabricating a tragic backstory about a friend or lover? Too melodramatic for my taste.

Silence was the best option.

In situations like this, the smartest move was to shift attention elsewhere.

“Rachel is the truly remarkable one. She had no personal ties, yet she dedicated so much time and effort.”

It wasn’t a lie.

Rachel had thoroughly studied Castleman’s disease, personally visited Amelia, and spent hours explaining the details to her.

Unlike me, who had merely crossed paths with Amelia briefly, Rachel had stayed by her side for two whole days.

And despite all that effort, Amelia had still died.

Given Rachel’s gentle nature, it must have hit her hard.

She was trying to hide it, but her reddened eyes and flushed nose betrayed her emotions.

Jesse, gazing at her with sympathy, said softly,

“If it ever becomes too much, don’t hesitate to say so. We understand.”

There was an implicit message in her words—If it’s too much, you can step away.

But…

‘That would be a problem.’

I had already fabricated a story that Rachel had pressured me into joining the foundation.

If she withdrew, my continued involvement would become unnatural.

Normally, I would have reminded her of Gerard’s threats to keep her committed, but the atmosphere wasn’t right for that.

While I was contemplating my next move, Rachel offered a faint smile.

“No, I’d never quit.”

“But you don’t have to endure all this pain…”

“This is meaningful to me.”

Her voice was firm.

But honestly, the rest of us still looked unconvinced.

A privileged heiress, voluntarily putting herself through something this harrowing?

Her actions couldn’t be explained by mere kindness alone.

And perhaps because it seemed so unnatural, it sparked an unsettling thought—What if this is just a passing phase for her?

Sensing our doubt, Rachel hesitated before quietly confessing,

“There’s… actually another reason I’m doing this.”

Her gaze drifted into the distance as she forced a smile.

“When I was little, I almost died once. I ignored the warning to stay inside on a rainy day and went to the lake… I slipped and fell in. Thankfully, the caretaker saved me, but…”

Even without finishing her sentence, I could guess the rest.

She had just admitted that someone had saved her.

Most likely, that caretaker had died in the process.

‘So that’s why.’

At last, the lingering question about her motivation was answered.

Jesse gently clasped Rachel’s hand in comfort.

“That wasn’t your fault. He chose to save you.”

But Rachel shook her head.

Then, in a resolute voice, she corrected,

“No, he survived at first.”

“…What?”

“But a few days later, he died from aspiration pneumonia. He was elderly, and the lake water caused an infection in his lungs…”

A heavy silence fell.

Rachel struggled to continue.

“Maybe he didn’t feel the danger when he jumped in. But… even if he had known, would he have still saved me?”

She looked down.

“So when I was offered a patient advocacy role, I thought… This is it. I could warn patients about dangers they couldn’t see… Maybe, in a way, this is what I can do to honor Clifford.”

An unexpected confession.

But now, her determination made sense.

This was her way of atonement.

“…Rachel.”

Jesse pulled her into a warm embrace.

Rachel wiped her tears, embarrassed by the display.

As they comforted each other, I suddenly realized—

Everyone’s eyes were on me again.

‘Oh, come on… is it my turn now?’

I could sense their unspoken expectations.

They were ready to hear my own tragic story.

But that wasn’t happening.

So, I quickly changed the subject.

“By the way… doesn’t this increase the likelihood of the third treatment’s viability?”

As soon as I said it, I regretted it.

Too cold.

Would they see me as another Wall Street psychopath?

But instead, their gazes softened.

‘Wait, what’s with those eyes…?’

They looked at me with sympathy.

As if they were silently telling me—It’s okay. You can open up whenever you’re ready.

I had inadvertently become the tragic figure of the group.

A misunderstanding—but a useful one.

“So if that’s the case, we need a proper way to identify third-treatment candidates.”

And finally—after nearly four hours—

I was able to get to the real discussion.