As night falls, the neon lights of Financial Street blend into a bloody hue in the rain. He stands at the edge of the rooftop, the hem of his trench coat flapping in the wind, the sparks of the cigarette flickering in the darkness. The sweetness of the lollipop mingles with the bitterness of nicotine on his tongue, reminiscent of the flavor of this crazy market.

The electronic screen in the trading hall on the 731890008834234758195248719020620 floor suddenly bursts with blinding red light, and the K-line of the big pie breaks free like a beast breaking its chains, swiftly overcoming the key resistance level. He squints, thousands of chips fluttering between his fingers like butterflies. This is the moment for the predator; those bears who tossed and turned in the deep night are now turning to dust amidst the roar of liquidation.

The bell of the distant exchange pierces through the rain, and the market chart of Conan begins to fluctuate violently. He licked the lollipop, recalling that same damp night three years ago. Back then, he left Wall Street like a lost dog, and now the lining of his trench coat still bears the delivery orders from that year. The chips in his palm are burning hot, and the puddles at the edge of the rooftop reflect the constantly jumping numbers, as if thousands of stars have fallen to the earth.

When the first rays of dawn pierce through the clouds, he extinguishes the seventeenth cigarette. The battle of Conan has just begun; the dawn is right ahead!