FTX was not just a company. It was a cult. A twisted tech utopia built on private jets, polyamory, stimulants, and a blind faith in a single man: Sam Bankman-Fried. And standing awkwardly in the corner of that room—the one guy not drinking the Kool-Aid—was Ryan Salame. He didn't fit. Not really. He wasn't vegan. He wasn't living in the ten-person Bahamian sex house. He wasn't writing threads on Effective Altruism or pushing for universal basic income. Ryan drove fast cars. He wore suits. He donated to Republicans. He believed in capitalism—not utopia. In structure—not chaos. And yet, he was number two.