The Legend of a Shitcoin
At three-thirty in the morning, Chen Hao's phone screen glowed, its light reflecting in his bloodshot eyes.
On ANIME's candlestick chart, the price had climbed from 0.00273 to 0.00338—a gain of more than fifteen percent. He stared at the flickering number, his fingers trembling slightly. Three days earlier, he'd seen someone post an analysis of ANIME on Binance Square, saying the coin was seriously undervalued and its community was growing fast. Back then, it was only 0.0019. He'd bought 20,000 USDT's worth on a whim, purely because he thought the name was funny.
"Might as well think of it as paying tuition," he'd told his girlfriend.
She'd rolled her eyes and said nothing. That 20,000 was supposed to cover their rent.
On the first day, ANIME dropped to 0.0017. Chen Hao opened his account, saw he was down 1,500 USDT, then quickly closed the app and went to work. The next day, he checked again. The price was back up to 0.0021. On the third day, it hit 0.0025. Tonight, he'd only meant to see if he could break even or at least cut his losses. But when he opened the app, there it was: 0.00338.
His heart began to race.
His initial 20,000 USDT was now worth nearly 35,000. He quickly worked out the return: seventy-five percent. That wasn't exactly a mind-blowing gain in crypto, but for an ordinary guy earning 8,000 yuan a month who'd never made money on a coin before, it was the wildest investment of his life.
He thought of BAT, which he'd bought last year. Back then it was just over ten cents. He thought it was rising too slowly, so he bought 200 USDT worth, then sold it, and spent a month buying and selling back and forth. In the end, he lost another 200 yuan in fees. Later, BAT climbed to over two yuan, and he couldn't bring himself to look at it again. The pain of missing a hundredfold coin was worse than losing money.
Then there was CYPHB. Last month, it rose from 2.3 yuan to 3 yuan. He saw people calling it in a group chat, but hesitated for three days. By the time he finally worked up the courage to jump in, he was already at the top.
But this time was different. This time, he hadn't sold.
He watched ANIME's candlesticks keep climbing. Trading volume was over 70 million USDT, and buyers kept pouring in. People in the group chat started calling for a target price of 0.01; some said it was headed for 0.05. Chen Hao took a deep breath and set his phone facedown on the table.
He thought about his three years trading crypto: chasing pumps and panic-selling, getting liquidated on leverage, and being fleeced by countless shitcoin projects. Every time, he'd entered full of hope and left with his tail between his legs. But this time, he decided to do nothing.
Don't sell. Don't buy more. Don't listen to the noise in the group chat.
At four in the morning, the price hit 0.0035. Chen Hao turned off his phone and climbed back into bed. His girlfriend asked sleepily what time it was. He said it was almost dawn.
"Are you messing around with that coin again?"
"Yeah."
"Are you up or down?"
Chen Hao smiled and said, "This time, I'm holding on for now."
He didn't know whether ANIME would rise or fall tomorrow, but he knew some things mattered more than making money: learning to wait, for instance, and no longer letting fear and greed lead him around by the nose.
Outside the window, dawn was breaking.
At three-thirty in the morning, Chen Hao's phone screen glowed, its light reflecting in his bloodshot eyes.
On ANIME's candlestick chart, the price had climbed from 0.00273 to 0.00338—a gain of more than fifteen percent. He stared at the flickering number, his fingers trembling slightly. Three days earlier, he'd seen someone post an analysis of ANIME on Binance Square, saying the coin was seriously undervalued and its community was growing fast. Back then, it was only 0.0019. He'd bought 20,000 USDT's worth on a whim, purely because he thought the name was funny.
"Might as well think of it as paying tuition," he'd told his girlfriend.
She'd rolled her eyes and said nothing. That 20,000 was supposed to cover their rent.
On the first day, ANIME dropped to 0.0017. Chen Hao opened his account, saw he was down 1,500 USDT, then quickly closed the app and went to work. The next day, he checked again. The price was back up to 0.0021. On the third day, it hit 0.0025. Tonight, he'd only meant to see if he could break even or at least cut his losses. But when he opened the app, there it was: 0.00338.
His heart began to race.
His initial 20,000 USDT was now worth nearly 35,000. He quickly worked out the return: seventy-five percent. That wasn't exactly a mind-blowing gain in crypto, but for an ordinary guy earning 8,000 yuan a month who'd never made money on a coin before, it was the wildest investment of his life.
He thought of BAT, which he'd bought last year. Back then it was just over ten cents. He thought it was rising too slowly, so he bought 200 USDT worth, then sold it, and spent a month buying and selling back and forth. In the end, he lost another 200 yuan in fees. Later, BAT climbed to over two yuan, and he couldn't bring himself to look at it again. The pain of missing a hundredfold coin was worse than losing money.
Then there was CYPHB. Last month, it rose from 2.3 yuan to 3 yuan. He saw people calling it in a group chat, but hesitated for three days. By the time he finally worked up the courage to jump in, he was already at the top.
But this time was different. This time, he hadn't sold.
He watched ANIME's candlesticks keep climbing. Trading volume was over 70 million USDT, and buyers kept pouring in. People in the group chat started calling for a target price of 0.01; some said it was headed for 0.05. Chen Hao took a deep breath and set his phone facedown on the table.
He thought about his three years trading crypto: chasing pumps and panic-selling, getting liquidated on leverage, and being fleeced by countless shitcoin projects. Every time, he'd entered full of hope and left with his tail between his legs. But this time, he decided to do nothing.
Don't sell. Don't buy more. Don't listen to the noise in the group chat.
At four in the morning, the price hit 0.0035. Chen Hao turned off his phone and climbed back into bed. His girlfriend asked sleepily what time it was. He said it was almost dawn.
"Are you messing around with that coin again?"
"Yeah."
"Are you up or down?"
Chen Hao smiled and said, "This time, I'm holding on for now."
He didn't know whether ANIME would rise or fall tomorrow, but he knew some things mattered more than making money: learning to wait, for instance, and no longer letting fear and greed lead him around by the nose.
Outside the window, dawn was breaking.