The Wick at Three in the Morning

He flipped his phone face down on the desk, then back up, then face down again, as if repetition could postpone reality. But the page did not disappear. The balance did not return. ETH kept falling. The group chats were already exploding, with liquidation screenshots flying one after another, and even people posting charts of how many had died that night. Pei Yanzhou sat down on the floor. He finally heard something in his chest snap. Not money. The string that had been holding him together for days. He thought of the emergency cash he had moved in, the rent, his parents, the line “I’m just trying it,” every warning from Lin Zhaoye, Heliandao’s polite smile, Song Yanbei’s “last flush.