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Pinned: Let’s get one thing straight—I’m not here to give you trading signalsI’ve been trading crypto for two years and have been liquidated twice.
The first time was last March. The market wicked down in the middle of the night, and my phone was on Do Not Disturb. When I opened my eyes in the morning, there were over eight hundred messages in the group chat, and my position had already been closed out. I lay in bed for four minutes, then got up, washed my face, and squeezed onto the subway. I even wore a full face of makeup that day—the concealer was brand-new, couldn’t cover it up, and wasn’t being used where it should have been.
The second time, I didn’t cry. I took a screenshot and saved it in an album called "Tuition." There are thirteen pictures in that album now.
During the day, I work at a company on the seventeenth floor. My trading app is tucked away in a folder called "Work" on the third screen of my phone. My coworkers think I’m just managing my finances. My mom thinks I’m just managing my finances. My ex-boyfriend genuinely thought I was just managing my finances—until one time at dinner, I stared at my phone and said, "Don’t wick it down." He asked me, "You do acupuncture too?"
Pinned: Let’s get one thing straight—I’m not here to give you trading signals
I’ve been trading crypto for two years and have been liquidated twice.
The first time was last March. The market wicked down in the middle of the night, and my phone was on Do Not Disturb. When I opened my eyes in the morning, there were over eight hundred messages in the group chat, and my position had already been closed out. I lay in bed for four minutes, then got up, washed my face, and squeezed onto the subway. I even wore a full face of makeup that day—the concealer was brand-new, couldn’t cover it up, and wasn’t being used where it should have been.
The second time, I didn’t cry. I took a screenshot and saved it in an album called "Tuition." There are thirteen pictures in that album now.
During the day, I work at a company on the seventeenth floor. My trading app is tucked away in a folder called "Work" on the third screen of my phone. My coworkers think I’m just managing my finances. My mom thinks I’m just managing my finances. My ex-boyfriend genuinely thought I was just managing my finances—until one time at dinner, I stared at my phone and said, "Don’t wick it down." He asked me, "You do acupuncture too?"
The first time was last March. The market wicked down in the middle of the night, and my phone was on Do Not Disturb. When I opened my eyes in the morning, there were over eight hundred messages in the group chat, and my position had already been closed out. I lay in bed for four minutes, then got up, washed my face, and squeezed onto the subway. I even wore a full face of makeup that day—the concealer was brand-new, couldn’t cover it up, and wasn’t being used where it should have been.
The second time, I didn’t cry. I took a screenshot and saved it in an album called "Tuition." There are thirteen pictures in that album now.
During the day, I work at a company on the seventeenth floor. My trading app is tucked away in a folder called "Work" on the third screen of my phone. My coworkers think I’m just managing my finances. My mom thinks I’m just managing my finances. My ex-boyfriend genuinely thought I was just managing my finances—until one time at dinner, I stared at my phone and said, "Don’t wick it down." He asked me, "You do acupuncture too?"
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I have a position in my account: ten coins. I haven’t touched them, and I don’t plan to.
It’s not some conviction hold. I deliberately kept them after selling too early.
That year, I’d been investing for exactly a year. I thought I’d figured it out, but in reality, I hadn’t learned a thing. I spent half a month researching and picked a coin. I still remember my reasoning—it seemed airtight at the time: a new sector, hot narrative, and relatively small market cap. I put in the money I’d been saving for a new computer: 12,000 yuan.
I held it for a little over two months, and it went up 60 percent.
Looking back, 60 percent is nothing special. But at the time, it was the first unrealized profit in my life that felt substantial. Over 7,000 yuan. The number kept going up every day, and somehow I started losing sleep. When it rose, I was afraid it would fall back down. When it dipped, I was even more afraid of losing my profits. I started checking the app constantly—during meetings, while eating, even for a quick glance during the thirty seconds at a red light.
Then one day, it pulled back by more than 10 percent, wiping out a big chunk of my gains. My hand shook, and I sold everything.
That very afternoon, it went right back up.
I stared at the candlestick chart, like someone who’d gotten off the bus too early, watching through the window as it pulled away—with my seat still on board. I reassured myself: a profit is a win; take the money and run; there’ll always be another opportunity in the market. Every one of those things was true. Every one was something I’d heard from someone else. But none of them stopped me from checking on it over and over afterward.
It never gave me another chance to get back on.
In one month, it doubled. In three months, it was up fivefold. I removed it from my watchlist, added it back, then removed it again. Every time, I told myself: I’m not checking the price, I’m just studying its chart. As if. I just wanted to know how much money I could’ve had.
At its peak, it was up fortyfold.
I worked it out on a calculator: 12,000 times 40, which came to 480,000 yuan. After I finished, I put my phone face down on the desk and sat there for a long time. A coworker asked me to go to lunch that day. I said I wasn’t hungry. The truth was, I was afraid my voice would give me away if I opened my mouth.
Eventually, I came to understand that the 480,000 yuan was never mine to begin with. Even if I’d held through a thirtyfold gain, I would’ve sold during some pullback. Even if I’d held until now, some black swan event would’ve scared me out. The only gain I could have reliably made was that 60 percent—that was all my knowledge and nerve at the time could handle. The rest is in the comments: $AGT
{future}(AGTUSDT)
I have a position in my account: ten coins. I haven’t touched them, and I don’t plan to.
It’s not some conviction hold. I deliberately kept them after selling too early.
That year, I’d been investing for exactly a year. I thought I’d figured it out, but in reality, I hadn’t learned a thing. I spent half a month researching and picked a coin. I still remember my reasoning—it seemed airtight at the time: a new sector, hot narrative, and relatively small market cap. I put in the money I’d been saving for a new computer: 12,000 yuan.
I held it for a little over two months, and it went up 60 percent.
Looking back, 60 percent is nothing special. But at the time, it was the first unrealized profit in my life that felt substantial. Over 7,000 yuan. The number kept going up every day, and somehow I started losing sleep. When it rose, I was afraid it would fall back down. When it dipped, I was even more afraid of losing my profits. I started checking the app constantly—during meetings, while eating, even for a quick glance during the thirty seconds at a red light.
Then one day, it pulled back by more than 10 percent, wiping out a big chunk of my gains. My hand shook, and I sold everything.
That very afternoon, it went right back up.
I stared at the candlestick chart, like someone who’d gotten off the bus too early, watching through the window as it pulled away—with my seat still on board. I reassured myself: a profit is a win; take the money and run; there’ll always be another opportunity in the market. Every one of those things was true. Every one was something I’d heard from someone else. But none of them stopped me from checking on it over and over afterward.
It never gave me another chance to get back on.
In one month, it doubled. In three months, it was up fivefold. I removed it from my watchlist, added it back, then removed it again. Every time, I told myself: I’m not checking the price, I’m just studying its chart. As if. I just wanted to know how much money I could’ve had.
At its peak, it was up fortyfold.
I worked it out on a calculator: 12,000 times 40, which came to 480,000 yuan. After I finished, I put my phone face down on the desk and sat there for a long time. A coworker asked me to go to lunch that day. I said I wasn’t hungry. The truth was, I was afraid my voice would give me away if I opened my mouth.
Eventually, I came to understand that the 480,000 yuan was never mine to begin with. Even if I’d held through a thirtyfold gain, I would’ve sold during some pullback. Even if I’d held until now, some black swan event would’ve scared me out. The only gain I could have reliably made was that 60 percent—that was all my knowledge and nerve at the time could handle. The rest is in the comments: $AGT
It’s not some conviction hold. I deliberately kept them after selling too early.
That year, I’d been investing for exactly a year. I thought I’d figured it out, but in reality, I hadn’t learned a thing. I spent half a month researching and picked a coin. I still remember my reasoning—it seemed airtight at the time: a new sector, hot narrative, and relatively small market cap. I put in the money I’d been saving for a new computer: 12,000 yuan.
I held it for a little over two months, and it went up 60 percent.
Looking back, 60 percent is nothing special. But at the time, it was the first unrealized profit in my life that felt substantial. Over 7,000 yuan. The number kept going up every day, and somehow I started losing sleep. When it rose, I was afraid it would fall back down. When it dipped, I was even more afraid of losing my profits. I started checking the app constantly—during meetings, while eating, even for a quick glance during the thirty seconds at a red light.
Then one day, it pulled back by more than 10 percent, wiping out a big chunk of my gains. My hand shook, and I sold everything.
That very afternoon, it went right back up.
I stared at the candlestick chart, like someone who’d gotten off the bus too early, watching through the window as it pulled away—with my seat still on board. I reassured myself: a profit is a win; take the money and run; there’ll always be another opportunity in the market. Every one of those things was true. Every one was something I’d heard from someone else. But none of them stopped me from checking on it over and over afterward.
It never gave me another chance to get back on.
In one month, it doubled. In three months, it was up fivefold. I removed it from my watchlist, added it back, then removed it again. Every time, I told myself: I’m not checking the price, I’m just studying its chart. As if. I just wanted to know how much money I could’ve had.
At its peak, it was up fortyfold.
I worked it out on a calculator: 12,000 times 40, which came to 480,000 yuan. After I finished, I put my phone face down on the desk and sat there for a long time. A coworker asked me to go to lunch that day. I said I wasn’t hungry. The truth was, I was afraid my voice would give me away if I opened my mouth.
Eventually, I came to understand that the 480,000 yuan was never mine to begin with. Even if I’d held through a thirtyfold gain, I would’ve sold during some pullback. Even if I’d held until now, some black swan event would’ve scared me out. The only gain I could have reliably made was that 60 percent—that was all my knowledge and nerve at the time could handle. The rest is in the comments: $AGT
2
213
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My mom came to stay with me in the city, bringing half a box of free-range eggs, each one separated with rice bran.
She doesn’t understand what I do. She only knows I work in an office.
Every month, she asks how much I earn. I downplay it and say a little over ten thousand.
She’s pleased to hear that and reminds me, “As long as you have enough to get by, that’s all that matters. Don’t work too hard. A girl should aim for a stable life.”
That afternoon, I was chopping vegetables in the kitchen, and my phone was charging in the living room. I’d left a notification from my trading app on the lock screen. It lit up with a message: “Unrealized profit on holdings,” followed by a string of numbers.
My mom didn’t recognize the app, but she recognized numbers.
I came out carrying the dishes. She was holding my phone—not snooping, but holding it far away, like it was something hot. When she saw me, the first thing she asked was:
“Is all that money on there yours?”
My mind raced, trying to come up with something—say it was a practice account, someone else’s, or the company’s.
“It’s mine.”
She put the phone back on the table very gently, then sat down on the sofa, sitting bolt upright.
“Where did it come from?”
I explained that I’d saved it from my salary and invested it. It was kind of like putting money in the bank, except it could go up or down. I did my best to use words she’d understand, saying it was like buying a stake in a business, and lots of people did it.
After listening, she didn’t ask how much I could make. She asked:
“Is it illegal?”
I said it wasn’t.
“Then why would anyone let you make money from it?”
I was stumped. I couldn’t answer that with a stock chart. In my mom’s world, there was only one way to make money: work a certain amount, get paid a certain amount.
She’d sold vegetables, worked packing goods in a factory, and cooked for other people. Every penny she earned had taken effort. Now there was a string of numbers sitting still on a screen, growing by itself. To her, that defied common sense. Money earned the right way didn’t come like that.
She barely said a word that night. Before bed, she came into my room and sat beside me, just like she used to when I was sick as a child, and asked:
“Tell me the truth, dear. Are you doing something you shouldn’t be doing out there? If you need money, we still have some at home. Your dad and I have eighty thousand in a fixed-term account. We can withdraw it.”
My eyes filled with tears at once.
What she saw wasn’t money. It was danger.
Her first thought wasn’t, “My daughter has made something of herself.” It was, “Could something happen to my daughter?” And she was already figuring out how to withdraw that eighty thousand from the fixed-term account.
Read the rest in the comments: $ZEC
{future}(ZECUSDT)
My mom came to stay with me in the city, bringing half a box of free-range eggs, each one separated with rice bran.
She doesn’t understand what I do. She only knows I work in an office.
Every month, she asks how much I earn. I downplay it and say a little over ten thousand.
She’s pleased to hear that and reminds me, “As long as you have enough to get by, that’s all that matters. Don’t work too hard. A girl should aim for a stable life.”
That afternoon, I was chopping vegetables in the kitchen, and my phone was charging in the living room. I’d left a notification from my trading app on the lock screen. It lit up with a message: “Unrealized profit on holdings,” followed by a string of numbers.
My mom didn’t recognize the app, but she recognized numbers.
I came out carrying the dishes. She was holding my phone—not snooping, but holding it far away, like it was something hot. When she saw me, the first thing she asked was:
“Is all that money on there yours?”
My mind raced, trying to come up with something—say it was a practice account, someone else’s, or the company’s.
“It’s mine.”
She put the phone back on the table very gently, then sat down on the sofa, sitting bolt upright.
“Where did it come from?”
I explained that I’d saved it from my salary and invested it. It was kind of like putting money in the bank, except it could go up or down. I did my best to use words she’d understand, saying it was like buying a stake in a business, and lots of people did it.
After listening, she didn’t ask how much I could make. She asked:
“Is it illegal?”
I said it wasn’t.
“Then why would anyone let you make money from it?”
I was stumped. I couldn’t answer that with a stock chart. In my mom’s world, there was only one way to make money: work a certain amount, get paid a certain amount.
She’d sold vegetables, worked packing goods in a factory, and cooked for other people. Every penny she earned had taken effort. Now there was a string of numbers sitting still on a screen, growing by itself. To her, that defied common sense. Money earned the right way didn’t come like that.
She barely said a word that night. Before bed, she came into my room and sat beside me, just like she used to when I was sick as a child, and asked:
“Tell me the truth, dear. Are you doing something you shouldn’t be doing out there? If you need money, we still have some at home. Your dad and I have eighty thousand in a fixed-term account. We can withdraw it.”
My eyes filled with tears at once.
What she saw wasn’t money. It was danger.
Her first thought wasn’t, “My daughter has made something of herself.” It was, “Could something happen to my daughter?” And she was already figuring out how to withdraw that eighty thousand from the fixed-term account.
Read the rest in the comments: $ZEC
She doesn’t understand what I do. She only knows I work in an office.
Every month, she asks how much I earn. I downplay it and say a little over ten thousand.
She’s pleased to hear that and reminds me, “As long as you have enough to get by, that’s all that matters. Don’t work too hard. A girl should aim for a stable life.”
That afternoon, I was chopping vegetables in the kitchen, and my phone was charging in the living room. I’d left a notification from my trading app on the lock screen. It lit up with a message: “Unrealized profit on holdings,” followed by a string of numbers.
My mom didn’t recognize the app, but she recognized numbers.
I came out carrying the dishes. She was holding my phone—not snooping, but holding it far away, like it was something hot. When she saw me, the first thing she asked was:
“Is all that money on there yours?”
My mind raced, trying to come up with something—say it was a practice account, someone else’s, or the company’s.
“It’s mine.”
She put the phone back on the table very gently, then sat down on the sofa, sitting bolt upright.
“Where did it come from?”
I explained that I’d saved it from my salary and invested it. It was kind of like putting money in the bank, except it could go up or down. I did my best to use words she’d understand, saying it was like buying a stake in a business, and lots of people did it.
After listening, she didn’t ask how much I could make. She asked:
“Is it illegal?”
I said it wasn’t.
“Then why would anyone let you make money from it?”
I was stumped. I couldn’t answer that with a stock chart. In my mom’s world, there was only one way to make money: work a certain amount, get paid a certain amount.
She’d sold vegetables, worked packing goods in a factory, and cooked for other people. Every penny she earned had taken effort. Now there was a string of numbers sitting still on a screen, growing by itself. To her, that defied common sense. Money earned the right way didn’t come like that.
She barely said a word that night. Before bed, she came into my room and sat beside me, just like she used to when I was sick as a child, and asked:
“Tell me the truth, dear. Are you doing something you shouldn’t be doing out there? If you need money, we still have some at home. Your dad and I have eighty thousand in a fixed-term account. We can withdraw it.”
My eyes filled with tears at once.
What she saw wasn’t money. It was danger.
Her first thought wasn’t, “My daughter has made something of herself.” It was, “Could something happen to my daughter?” And she was already figuring out how to withdraw that eighty thousand from the fixed-term account.
Read the rest in the comments: $ZEC
8
3
5.5k
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My dad sells vegetables at the town market. They’re from our own plot, and he sets up stall on market days—the 2nd, 5th, and 7th.
The payment QR code is stuck to a vegetable crate, and the money goes into my mom’s phone. He can’t hear the notification, so he never feels quite sure it’s gone through.
My mom gave him her old phone, the one she’d stopped using, so he could link a payment account of his own.
That phone is painfully slow. When he scans a customer’s code, the loading wheel can spin for half a minute.
Once, someone was in a rush to pick up their kid, so they left three yuan in cash and took off.
These days, who even carries cash? That three yuan was something they’d dug out of a drawer at home.
My mom laughed about it on the phone: “Your dad’s most afraid of young people coming to buy vegetables now.”
That day, my account was showing green.
A bearish candle in the afternoon wiped out all my unrealized gains, and I was down nearly 600 U on top of that.
I stared at the screen.
Then I opened a shopping app.
A phone for 4,100 yuan, plus a payment speaker.
After paying, I deliberately went back to check my account. It was still green.
Strangely, the knot in my chest had loosened. It was like two things had been weighed on a scale: that number in my account was fleeting, green today and red tomorrow.
The day the package arrived was a market day.
At noon, my dad video-called me. The picture shook like crazy, with the hubbub of people and the honking of three-wheeled carts in the background.
He pointed the camera at the vegetable crate. The speaker was tied to its handle, bright red.
“Listen, listen.”
Just then, someone paid, and the speaker chimed: “WeChat Pay received: six yuan.”
“Did you hear that?” he shouted. “Six yuan! Instantly!”
My mom chimed in from the side: “Your dad’s been telling everyone to scan and pay today. If they try to pay cash, he doesn’t even want to take it.”
My dad ignored her and leaned toward the camera. “This phone doesn’t keep spinning. It’s really fast.
“You haven’t been wasting money again, have you?”
“It was on sale. A few hundred yuan.”
“Even a few hundred should be saved. A girl needs to have money of her own.”
He’d been saying that for over a decade. He said it when I was little and had school fees to pay, when he sent me spending money at university, and he still says it now.
After we hung up, the market bounced back that afternoon, and my account turned red—worth a lot more than that phone.
I didn’t feel much. Or rather, the little happiness I felt didn’t come close to what I’d felt at noon, hearing “WeChat Pay received: six yuan.”
Later, I made a rule for myself: when I buy things for my family, I use my salary card, and keep it separate from my account. No rewards for winning, no punishment for losing. Everyday life is its own thing.
That phone now gets switched on at five-thirty every morning. My dad wipes it and that red speaker until they’re spotless.
It only takes in a few thousand yuan a month, less profit than one day’s fluctuation in my account.
But every one of those few thousand yuan comes with a chime.$BTC
{future}(BTCUSDT)
My dad sells vegetables at the town market. They’re from our own plot, and he sets up stall on market days—the 2nd, 5th, and 7th.
The payment QR code is stuck to a vegetable crate, and the money goes into my mom’s phone. He can’t hear the notification, so he never feels quite sure it’s gone through.
My mom gave him her old phone, the one she’d stopped using, so he could link a payment account of his own.
That phone is painfully slow. When he scans a customer’s code, the loading wheel can spin for half a minute.
Once, someone was in a rush to pick up their kid, so they left three yuan in cash and took off.
These days, who even carries cash? That three yuan was something they’d dug out of a drawer at home.
My mom laughed about it on the phone: “Your dad’s most afraid of young people coming to buy vegetables now.”
That day, my account was showing green.
A bearish candle in the afternoon wiped out all my unrealized gains, and I was down nearly 600 U on top of that.
I stared at the screen.
Then I opened a shopping app.
A phone for 4,100 yuan, plus a payment speaker.
After paying, I deliberately went back to check my account. It was still green.
Strangely, the knot in my chest had loosened. It was like two things had been weighed on a scale: that number in my account was fleeting, green today and red tomorrow.
The day the package arrived was a market day.
At noon, my dad video-called me. The picture shook like crazy, with the hubbub of people and the honking of three-wheeled carts in the background.
He pointed the camera at the vegetable crate. The speaker was tied to its handle, bright red.
“Listen, listen.”
Just then, someone paid, and the speaker chimed: “WeChat Pay received: six yuan.”
“Did you hear that?” he shouted. “Six yuan! Instantly!”
My mom chimed in from the side: “Your dad’s been telling everyone to scan and pay today. If they try to pay cash, he doesn’t even want to take it.”
My dad ignored her and leaned toward the camera. “This phone doesn’t keep spinning. It’s really fast.
“You haven’t been wasting money again, have you?”
“It was on sale. A few hundred yuan.”
“Even a few hundred should be saved. A girl needs to have money of her own.”
He’d been saying that for over a decade. He said it when I was little and had school fees to pay, when he sent me spending money at university, and he still says it now.
After we hung up, the market bounced back that afternoon, and my account turned red—worth a lot more than that phone.
I didn’t feel much. Or rather, the little happiness I felt didn’t come close to what I’d felt at noon, hearing “WeChat Pay received: six yuan.”
Later, I made a rule for myself: when I buy things for my family, I use my salary card, and keep it separate from my account. No rewards for winning, no punishment for losing. Everyday life is its own thing.
That phone now gets switched on at five-thirty every morning. My dad wipes it and that red speaker until they’re spotless.
It only takes in a few thousand yuan a month, less profit than one day’s fluctuation in my account.
But every one of those few thousand yuan comes with a chime.$BTC
The payment QR code is stuck to a vegetable crate, and the money goes into my mom’s phone. He can’t hear the notification, so he never feels quite sure it’s gone through.
My mom gave him her old phone, the one she’d stopped using, so he could link a payment account of his own.
That phone is painfully slow. When he scans a customer’s code, the loading wheel can spin for half a minute.
Once, someone was in a rush to pick up their kid, so they left three yuan in cash and took off.
These days, who even carries cash? That three yuan was something they’d dug out of a drawer at home.
My mom laughed about it on the phone: “Your dad’s most afraid of young people coming to buy vegetables now.”
That day, my account was showing green.
A bearish candle in the afternoon wiped out all my unrealized gains, and I was down nearly 600 U on top of that.
I stared at the screen.
Then I opened a shopping app.
A phone for 4,100 yuan, plus a payment speaker.
After paying, I deliberately went back to check my account. It was still green.
Strangely, the knot in my chest had loosened. It was like two things had been weighed on a scale: that number in my account was fleeting, green today and red tomorrow.
The day the package arrived was a market day.
At noon, my dad video-called me. The picture shook like crazy, with the hubbub of people and the honking of three-wheeled carts in the background.
He pointed the camera at the vegetable crate. The speaker was tied to its handle, bright red.
“Listen, listen.”
Just then, someone paid, and the speaker chimed: “WeChat Pay received: six yuan.”
“Did you hear that?” he shouted. “Six yuan! Instantly!”
My mom chimed in from the side: “Your dad’s been telling everyone to scan and pay today. If they try to pay cash, he doesn’t even want to take it.”
My dad ignored her and leaned toward the camera. “This phone doesn’t keep spinning. It’s really fast.
“You haven’t been wasting money again, have you?”
“It was on sale. A few hundred yuan.”
“Even a few hundred should be saved. A girl needs to have money of her own.”
He’d been saying that for over a decade. He said it when I was little and had school fees to pay, when he sent me spending money at university, and he still says it now.
After we hung up, the market bounced back that afternoon, and my account turned red—worth a lot more than that phone.
I didn’t feel much. Or rather, the little happiness I felt didn’t come close to what I’d felt at noon, hearing “WeChat Pay received: six yuan.”
Later, I made a rule for myself: when I buy things for my family, I use my salary card, and keep it separate from my account. No rewards for winning, no punishment for losing. Everyday life is its own thing.
That phone now gets switched on at five-thirty every morning. My dad wipes it and that red speaker until they’re spotless.
It only takes in a few thousand yuan a month, less profit than one day’s fluctuation in my account.
But every one of those few thousand yuan comes with a chime.$BTC
3
5
4.7k
·
--
Last year, just after I opened my account, a guy messaged me out of the blue on the plaza. His profile picture was a suit photo, his username a string of English letters and a crown, and his bio read: "Full-time trader, here to guide the chosen few."
His first message: I’ve read your posts—you’ve got a knack for this, just the wrong approach. His second: Add me on WeChat. I’ll help you take off.
Back then, I couldn’t even tell spot trading from futures. The word "knack" made me feel good, so I added him.
His Moments feed was another world. Nine-square grids of profit screenshots, three or four trades a day, each supposedly up more than ten percent; steering wheels, tea sets, candlestick charts at three in the morning, with captions like "Another sleepless night. The weight of responsibility on my shoulders." His group was called The Squad. It had over two hundred members, and new arrivals had to change their display names to: city + amount of capital + whether you wanted to win your money back.
In the mornings, he’d send voice messages analyzing the market. His voice was hoarse, as if steeped in cigarettes and liquor, and his conclusions always covered both bases: if prices rose, it was the breakout he’d predicted; if they fell, it was the pullback confirmation he’d called. The group flooded the chat with "Brilliant as always, Teacher!" If you were too slow, an admin would tag you: Disrespect the teacher and you’re out.
He paid special attention to me. He asked what I did for work, how old I was, and whether my family knew. I said I had an office job and had saved a little over ten thousand yuan. He said that was too little, the market wouldn’t wait, and suggested I "use leverage wisely." He sent me a link to open an account, saying that if I signed up through his channel, I’d get a commission rebate on trading fees.
I almost clicked it. A small detail stopped me: in the top-right corner of one screenshot, the battery was at 47% and the time was 10:23. In another, it was still 47%, still 10:23, but the coin and figures had all changed. I saved both images and compared them for ten minutes.
I didn’t call him out. I left the group and deleted him on WeChat. He chased after me with one last message on the plaza: Short-sighted. You’re bound to lose money. I replied, "Okay."
I’ve lost money since then, too. My own losses—and I accepted them. At least I was the one pressing every button.
I heard about him again six months later. A woman from the group messaged me and sent over their chat history: the guy had led everyone into buying the dip, while putting a huge amount of his own money in. The market went the other way for two days. First the group erupted, then it was dissolved. Someone reported it to the police, and only then did they find out that the accounts opened through that link had never put the money into an exchange at all. His last Moments post was from that day. No screenshots this time—just nine scenic photos, captioned: Seen through it all. Retiring to seclusion.
The woman said he might have changed his number again.
I said, definitely.
The suit, the crown, the hoarse voice, the promise to "guide the chosen few"—that whole act is easy to put on again. It takes longer for people who’ve been fooled to learn their lesson. $ZEC
{future}(ZECUSDT)
Last year, just after I opened my account, a guy messaged me out of the blue on the plaza. His profile picture was a suit photo, his username a string of English letters and a crown, and his bio read: "Full-time trader, here to guide the chosen few."
His first message: I’ve read your posts—you’ve got a knack for this, just the wrong approach. His second: Add me on WeChat. I’ll help you take off.
Back then, I couldn’t even tell spot trading from futures. The word "knack" made me feel good, so I added him.
His Moments feed was another world. Nine-square grids of profit screenshots, three or four trades a day, each supposedly up more than ten percent; steering wheels, tea sets, candlestick charts at three in the morning, with captions like "Another sleepless night. The weight of responsibility on my shoulders." His group was called The Squad. It had over two hundred members, and new arrivals had to change their display names to: city + amount of capital + whether you wanted to win your money back.
In the mornings, he’d send voice messages analyzing the market. His voice was hoarse, as if steeped in cigarettes and liquor, and his conclusions always covered both bases: if prices rose, it was the breakout he’d predicted; if they fell, it was the pullback confirmation he’d called. The group flooded the chat with "Brilliant as always, Teacher!" If you were too slow, an admin would tag you: Disrespect the teacher and you’re out.
He paid special attention to me. He asked what I did for work, how old I was, and whether my family knew. I said I had an office job and had saved a little over ten thousand yuan. He said that was too little, the market wouldn’t wait, and suggested I "use leverage wisely." He sent me a link to open an account, saying that if I signed up through his channel, I’d get a commission rebate on trading fees.
I almost clicked it. A small detail stopped me: in the top-right corner of one screenshot, the battery was at 47% and the time was 10:23. In another, it was still 47%, still 10:23, but the coin and figures had all changed. I saved both images and compared them for ten minutes.
I didn’t call him out. I left the group and deleted him on WeChat. He chased after me with one last message on the plaza: Short-sighted. You’re bound to lose money. I replied, "Okay."
I’ve lost money since then, too. My own losses—and I accepted them. At least I was the one pressing every button.
I heard about him again six months later. A woman from the group messaged me and sent over their chat history: the guy had led everyone into buying the dip, while putting a huge amount of his own money in. The market went the other way for two days. First the group erupted, then it was dissolved. Someone reported it to the police, and only then did they find out that the accounts opened through that link had never put the money into an exchange at all. His last Moments post was from that day. No screenshots this time—just nine scenic photos, captioned: Seen through it all. Retiring to seclusion.
The woman said he might have changed his number again.
I said, definitely.
The suit, the crown, the hoarse voice, the promise to "guide the chosen few"—that whole act is easy to put on again. It takes longer for people who’ve been fooled to learn their lesson. $ZEC
His first message: I’ve read your posts—you’ve got a knack for this, just the wrong approach. His second: Add me on WeChat. I’ll help you take off.
Back then, I couldn’t even tell spot trading from futures. The word "knack" made me feel good, so I added him.
His Moments feed was another world. Nine-square grids of profit screenshots, three or four trades a day, each supposedly up more than ten percent; steering wheels, tea sets, candlestick charts at three in the morning, with captions like "Another sleepless night. The weight of responsibility on my shoulders." His group was called The Squad. It had over two hundred members, and new arrivals had to change their display names to: city + amount of capital + whether you wanted to win your money back.
In the mornings, he’d send voice messages analyzing the market. His voice was hoarse, as if steeped in cigarettes and liquor, and his conclusions always covered both bases: if prices rose, it was the breakout he’d predicted; if they fell, it was the pullback confirmation he’d called. The group flooded the chat with "Brilliant as always, Teacher!" If you were too slow, an admin would tag you: Disrespect the teacher and you’re out.
He paid special attention to me. He asked what I did for work, how old I was, and whether my family knew. I said I had an office job and had saved a little over ten thousand yuan. He said that was too little, the market wouldn’t wait, and suggested I "use leverage wisely." He sent me a link to open an account, saying that if I signed up through his channel, I’d get a commission rebate on trading fees.
I almost clicked it. A small detail stopped me: in the top-right corner of one screenshot, the battery was at 47% and the time was 10:23. In another, it was still 47%, still 10:23, but the coin and figures had all changed. I saved both images and compared them for ten minutes.
I didn’t call him out. I left the group and deleted him on WeChat. He chased after me with one last message on the plaza: Short-sighted. You’re bound to lose money. I replied, "Okay."
I’ve lost money since then, too. My own losses—and I accepted them. At least I was the one pressing every button.
I heard about him again six months later. A woman from the group messaged me and sent over their chat history: the guy had led everyone into buying the dip, while putting a huge amount of his own money in. The market went the other way for two days. First the group erupted, then it was dissolved. Someone reported it to the police, and only then did they find out that the accounts opened through that link had never put the money into an exchange at all. His last Moments post was from that day. No screenshots this time—just nine scenic photos, captioned: Seen through it all. Retiring to seclusion.
The woman said he might have changed his number again.
I said, definitely.
The suit, the crown, the hoarse voice, the promise to "guide the chosen few"—that whole act is easy to put on again. It takes longer for people who’ve been fooled to learn their lesson. $ZEC
3
1
6
5.3k
·
--
There was a guy in the group, saved in my contacts as Old K. The rougher the market got, the less he said. He’d reply with just one word: “Steady.”
Down five hundred bucks? Steady. A sudden wick down, everyone in the group freaking out? He’d post a screenshot of his open position, unchanged, with two words: “What’s there to panic about?”
The day I’d just stopped out, my palms were clammy. I stared at “What’s there to panic about?” for a long time.
There were more than three hundred people in the group, and everyone admired him. He never posted his profit figures, only how long he’d held a position—three weeks without touching it, like he was showing off a virtue. I admired him even more. Or maybe I was just jealous. I couldn’t hold on to a winning trade, but I could cling to a losing one until I got liquidated. I didn’t have his steadiness, so I believed in his.
Until last month, at one in the morning, he messaged me privately.
“You there?”
“Yeah.”
“That position of yours—did you close it?”
“Yeah, closed it this afternoon.”
Twenty minutes later, he sent me a message: I didn’t close mine. All in, on leverage. Almost liquidated.
I stared at the screen. Half an hour earlier, he’d posted “Steady” in the group.
“Don’t tell anyone. Three hundred people are watching me. I can’t close at the bottom. If I do, I’ll be a joke.”
“Just lower your leverage first.”
“Lowering leverage means admitting defeat, too.”
That night, his messages came in fits and starts, like he was afraid to stop typing. The money was for his wedding. His girlfriend didn’t know he was trading futures; she thought he was “investing.” He said he never looked at charts in front of her. He checked them on the toilet and took his phone into the bathroom when he showered.
I typed out a lot—position size, risk, “as long as the green hills remain…” I read it over once, then deleted it all. I’d never managed to follow any of that advice myself.
In the end, I sent just one line: “There aren’t three hundred people in the group sleeping next to you. Your wife is.”
He didn’t reply.
The next day, his avatar stayed gray all day. That night, he messaged me privately with two words: “Closed it.” A little later, he added: “Thanks.”
I said, “No need to thank me. Last week I almost held onto a losing trade. I only cut it because I remembered you posting ‘Steady.’”
He sent a wry smile: “That ‘steady’ was for myself. Once I posted it, it was like I really believed it.”
I understood later. Behind every “Steady” in the group, there might be someone taking their phone into the bathroom. We perform composure for each other, and the longer we perform, the closer we come to losing ourselves.
This afternoon, the market pulled back, and the group filled up with “Steady” again. I looked at the message box, my finger hovering. I didn’t type a thing. I put my phone face down on the table and went to pour myself a glass of water.
The water was warm. Drinking it did me more good than posting “Steady” a hundred times.
$ZEC
{future}(ZECUSDT)
There was a guy in the group, saved in my contacts as Old K. The rougher the market got, the less he said. He’d reply with just one word: “Steady.”
Down five hundred bucks? Steady. A sudden wick down, everyone in the group freaking out? He’d post a screenshot of his open position, unchanged, with two words: “What’s there to panic about?”
The day I’d just stopped out, my palms were clammy. I stared at “What’s there to panic about?” for a long time.
There were more than three hundred people in the group, and everyone admired him. He never posted his profit figures, only how long he’d held a position—three weeks without touching it, like he was showing off a virtue. I admired him even more. Or maybe I was just jealous. I couldn’t hold on to a winning trade, but I could cling to a losing one until I got liquidated. I didn’t have his steadiness, so I believed in his.
Until last month, at one in the morning, he messaged me privately.
“You there?”
“Yeah.”
“That position of yours—did you close it?”
“Yeah, closed it this afternoon.”
Twenty minutes later, he sent me a message: I didn’t close mine. All in, on leverage. Almost liquidated.
I stared at the screen. Half an hour earlier, he’d posted “Steady” in the group.
“Don’t tell anyone. Three hundred people are watching me. I can’t close at the bottom. If I do, I’ll be a joke.”
“Just lower your leverage first.”
“Lowering leverage means admitting defeat, too.”
That night, his messages came in fits and starts, like he was afraid to stop typing. The money was for his wedding. His girlfriend didn’t know he was trading futures; she thought he was “investing.” He said he never looked at charts in front of her. He checked them on the toilet and took his phone into the bathroom when he showered.
I typed out a lot—position size, risk, “as long as the green hills remain…” I read it over once, then deleted it all. I’d never managed to follow any of that advice myself.
In the end, I sent just one line: “There aren’t three hundred people in the group sleeping next to you. Your wife is.”
He didn’t reply.
The next day, his avatar stayed gray all day. That night, he messaged me privately with two words: “Closed it.” A little later, he added: “Thanks.”
I said, “No need to thank me. Last week I almost held onto a losing trade. I only cut it because I remembered you posting ‘Steady.’”
He sent a wry smile: “That ‘steady’ was for myself. Once I posted it, it was like I really believed it.”
I understood later. Behind every “Steady” in the group, there might be someone taking their phone into the bathroom. We perform composure for each other, and the longer we perform, the closer we come to losing ourselves.
This afternoon, the market pulled back, and the group filled up with “Steady” again. I looked at the message box, my finger hovering. I didn’t type a thing. I put my phone face down on the table and went to pour myself a glass of water.
The water was warm. Drinking it did me more good than posting “Steady” a hundred times.
$ZEC
Down five hundred bucks? Steady. A sudden wick down, everyone in the group freaking out? He’d post a screenshot of his open position, unchanged, with two words: “What’s there to panic about?”
The day I’d just stopped out, my palms were clammy. I stared at “What’s there to panic about?” for a long time.
There were more than three hundred people in the group, and everyone admired him. He never posted his profit figures, only how long he’d held a position—three weeks without touching it, like he was showing off a virtue. I admired him even more. Or maybe I was just jealous. I couldn’t hold on to a winning trade, but I could cling to a losing one until I got liquidated. I didn’t have his steadiness, so I believed in his.
Until last month, at one in the morning, he messaged me privately.
“You there?”
“Yeah.”
“That position of yours—did you close it?”
“Yeah, closed it this afternoon.”
Twenty minutes later, he sent me a message: I didn’t close mine. All in, on leverage. Almost liquidated.
I stared at the screen. Half an hour earlier, he’d posted “Steady” in the group.
“Don’t tell anyone. Three hundred people are watching me. I can’t close at the bottom. If I do, I’ll be a joke.”
“Just lower your leverage first.”
“Lowering leverage means admitting defeat, too.”
That night, his messages came in fits and starts, like he was afraid to stop typing. The money was for his wedding. His girlfriend didn’t know he was trading futures; she thought he was “investing.” He said he never looked at charts in front of her. He checked them on the toilet and took his phone into the bathroom when he showered.
I typed out a lot—position size, risk, “as long as the green hills remain…” I read it over once, then deleted it all. I’d never managed to follow any of that advice myself.
In the end, I sent just one line: “There aren’t three hundred people in the group sleeping next to you. Your wife is.”
He didn’t reply.
The next day, his avatar stayed gray all day. That night, he messaged me privately with two words: “Closed it.” A little later, he added: “Thanks.”
I said, “No need to thank me. Last week I almost held onto a losing trade. I only cut it because I remembered you posting ‘Steady.’”
He sent a wry smile: “That ‘steady’ was for myself. Once I posted it, it was like I really believed it.”
I understood later. Behind every “Steady” in the group, there might be someone taking their phone into the bathroom. We perform composure for each other, and the longer we perform, the closer we come to losing ourselves.
This afternoon, the market pulled back, and the group filled up with “Steady” again. I looked at the message box, my finger hovering. I didn’t type a thing. I put my phone face down on the table and went to pour myself a glass of water.
The water was warm. Drinking it did me more good than posting “Steady” a hundred times.
$ZEC
2
227
·
--
Thank you all for the tips! You’re so generous! Wishing you good health! $ZEC
{future}(ZECUSDT)
Thank you all for the tips! You’re so generous! Wishing you good health! $ZEC
176
·
--
Bearish
A knockoff trading under the guise of being private can rise this high.
Give it another 3 years to operate and it might get there.
But after hitting its peak today, it’s sure to fall sharply. $ZEC
{future}(ZECUSDT)
A knockoff trading under the guise of being private can rise this high.
Give it another 3 years to operate and it might get there.
But after hitting its peak today, it’s sure to fall sharply. $ZEC
Give it another 3 years to operate and it might get there.
But after hitting its peak today, it’s sure to fall sharply. $ZEC
1
1
1.2k
·
--
1
159
·
--
Article
My Feelings for HomeWhen I was a child, I thought the village was too small.
From the east end of the village to the west end, there’s a strip of asphalt road. On both sides are poplar trees. If you walk fast, you’ll be there in the time it takes to smoke a cigarette. I walked back and forth on this road for eighteen years, always thinking I wanted to get out—never coming back again.
Back then, to go to town, I would walk forty minutes along a dirt road, then spend another hour riding a minibus. The moment the bus drove past, dust could be chased for half a li. I covered my nose and thought: where I’m going in the future, there won’t be any dust.
Back then, I believed that only the faraway places counted as the world; the village didn’t.
Now I live in a city in the south. I go home twice a year. One trip is in winter, on the twenty-eighth day of the twelfth lunar month;
My Feelings for Home
When I was a child, I thought the village was too small.
From the east end of the village to the west end, there’s a strip of asphalt road. On both sides are poplar trees. If you walk fast, you’ll be there in the time it takes to smoke a cigarette. I walked back and forth on this road for eighteen years, always thinking I wanted to get out—never coming back again.
Back then, to go to town, I would walk forty minutes along a dirt road, then spend another hour riding a minibus. The moment the bus drove past, dust could be chased for half a li. I covered my nose and thought: where I’m going in the future, there won’t be any dust.
Back then, I believed that only the faraway places counted as the world; the village didn’t.
Now I live in a city in the south. I go home twice a year. One trip is in winter, on the twenty-eighth day of the twelfth lunar month;
From the east end of the village to the west end, there’s a strip of asphalt road. On both sides are poplar trees. If you walk fast, you’ll be there in the time it takes to smoke a cigarette. I walked back and forth on this road for eighteen years, always thinking I wanted to get out—never coming back again.
Back then, to go to town, I would walk forty minutes along a dirt road, then spend another hour riding a minibus. The moment the bus drove past, dust could be chased for half a li. I covered my nose and thought: where I’m going in the future, there won’t be any dust.
Back then, I believed that only the faraway places counted as the world; the village didn’t.
Now I live in a city in the south. I go home twice a year. One trip is in winter, on the twenty-eighth day of the twelfth lunar month;
5
3
1.7k
·
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What are some ways everyone makes money? Take me along too
What are some ways everyone makes money? Take me along too
134
·
--
How can I get rich overnight and achieve financial freedom😭
Is there anyone big shot who somehow randomly tipped a few times? Come feel the charm of USD
$ETH
{future}(ETHUSDT)
How can I get rich overnight and achieve financial freedom😭
Is there anyone big shot who somehow randomly tipped a few times? Come feel the charm of USD
$ETH
Is there anyone big shot who somehow randomly tipped a few times? Come feel the charm of USD
$ETH
127
·
--
Suffered a bit of a loss on a counterfeit platform before.
Later I realized that big money only goes into US stocks and the big cake, the two cakes #BTC
Everything else isn’t reliable—so it’s only good for speculation and playing around.
In the whole market, only the top coins have value.
Long-term holding $ETH
{future}(ETHUSDT)
Suffered a bit of a loss on a counterfeit platform before.
Later I realized that big money only goes into US stocks and the big cake, the two cakes #BTC
Everything else isn’t reliable—so it’s only good for speculation and playing around.
In the whole market, only the top coins have value.
Long-term holding $ETH
Later I realized that big money only goes into US stocks and the big cake, the two cakes #BTC
Everything else isn’t reliable—so it’s only good for speculation and playing around.
In the whole market, only the top coins have value.
Long-term holding $ETH
233
·
--
Bullish
The coins that once ranked in the top six
Now I’ve been going all the way up to today
I’m ready to start building my position #ETH
When others are afraid, that’s when you should be greedy—like the Shi coin yesterday
I’m bullish on $ADA
{future}(ADAUSDT)
The coins that once ranked in the top six
Now I’ve been going all the way up to today
I’m ready to start building my position #ETH
When others are afraid, that’s when you should be greedy—like the Shi coin yesterday
I’m bullish on $ADA
Now I’ve been going all the way up to today
I’m ready to start building my position #ETH
When others are afraid, that’s when you should be greedy—like the Shi coin yesterday
I’m bullish on $ADA
5
1k
·
--
Accidentally bought a counterfeit and still managed to lose this much
Unbelievable
Looks like I should hedge, then? $AKE
Accidentally bought a counterfeit and still managed to lose this much
Unbelievable
Looks like I should hedge, then? $AKE
Unbelievable
Looks like I should hedge, then? $AKE
1
448
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