Prométhée... banquier

In a glass-and-steel Olympus where ticker tape replaces thunderbolts, the titan of high finance is shackled not to Caucasian rock but to an onyx desk; his liver, a ledger dripping crimson ink, regenerates with every market bell. The gold he once pilfered—now minted into crypto—circulates through pneumatic tubes above a city that never sleeps, while chorus-girls in chromium laurels whisper stock quotes like hexameters. Prometheus, re-christened Banquier, endures PowerPoint lashes from middle-management furies, each slide a scalpel peeling mythic flesh into quarterly projections. Around him, drones hum like metallic gnats, delivering burnt offerings of data; his only fire is the blue glare of Bloomberg terminals. When the eagle arrives, it wears the face of a regulator, talons inked with subpoenas, pecking at his credit rating until it hemorrhages. Yet in the fluorescent dusk, a flicker of rebellion: encrypted seeds of solidarity planted inside blockchain blocks, sprouting into graffiti across the lobby’s marble, spelling ‘remember the human’. The tragedy is no longer that gods punish the thief, but that the thief has become the god—an algorithmic idol worshipped by pension funds—while the chain tightening around his wrist is also the one he sold to every client, a Möbius strip of debt.