The Night of a Margin Call
At 3 a.m., Chen Hao stared at his phone screen, his eyes bloodshot.
SAND’s price stalled at $0.04421. He took a deep breath, slid his finger across the screen, and opened a short position with 50x leverage.
"The metaverse? It’s been cold for ages." He muttered to himself, a hint of smugness curling at the corner of his mouth. Three months ago, SAND had fallen from 0.07 to 0.04, and he was convinced this coin would eventually go to zero. The account still had 20,000 U left—his three months’ salary.
"If it drops to 0.03, I’ll close it. Easy profit."
For the first two weeks, everything went smoothly. SAND hovered around 0.045. Every day he watched his unrealized gains grow, thinking he was a genius. He even started teaching others how to short in the group, with the title “Practical Analyst.”
On Wednesday night, a piece of news popped up: a top game company announced a strategic partnership with Sandbox.
Within ten minutes, SAND surged from 0.045 to 0.055.
Chen Hao’s heartbeat sped up, but he didn’t move. "It’s just a rebound. It’ll go back."
The next morning, the price reached 0.062. His unrealized loss had already exceeded 10,000 U. His palms started sweating. Every thirty seconds he refreshed the candlestick chart. Someone in the group asked whether he was still there, but he didn’t reply.
At 2 p.m., SAND broke through 0.068. The exchange sent a margin call notice.
He stared at the red warning. His finger hovered over the screen, not clicking—no matter how long he waited. Adding margin meant putting another 10,000 U in. If he didn’t, a margin call would happen instantly.
"Wait a bit. It’ll pull back."
He didn’t add.
At 8 p.m., SAND shot up to 0.0735.
The instant the system’s automatic liquidation alert sounded, Chen Hao became oddly calm. The balance hit zero. Twenty thousand U—three months’ salary, six months’ savings—all turned to nothing.
He turned off his phone and lay on his bed, staring at the ceiling. The city lights outside seeped through the gaps in the curtains, flickering like candle charts on a K-line.
His phone lit up again. Messages erupted from the group: SAND broke 0.074, with a gain of over 44%.
He flipped the phone over.
The next day at noon, he opened the exchange. SAND was quoted at 0.06382. It had dropped from the high a bit, but it was still nearly 45% higher than the level where he shorted.
With a bitter smile, he opened his notes and typed one line: Never go against the trend.
Then he deleted that line, because he knew that next time he saw a coin crash, he would most likely still short it.
That’s the crypto world—knowing all the reasons, yet still unable to live this life well.
#SAND #合约爆仓 #Crypto story
At 3 a.m., Chen Hao stared at his phone screen, his eyes bloodshot.
SAND’s price stalled at $0.04421. He took a deep breath, slid his finger across the screen, and opened a short position with 50x leverage.
"The metaverse? It’s been cold for ages." He muttered to himself, a hint of smugness curling at the corner of his mouth. Three months ago, SAND had fallen from 0.07 to 0.04, and he was convinced this coin would eventually go to zero. The account still had 20,000 U left—his three months’ salary.
"If it drops to 0.03, I’ll close it. Easy profit."
For the first two weeks, everything went smoothly. SAND hovered around 0.045. Every day he watched his unrealized gains grow, thinking he was a genius. He even started teaching others how to short in the group, with the title “Practical Analyst.”
On Wednesday night, a piece of news popped up: a top game company announced a strategic partnership with Sandbox.
Within ten minutes, SAND surged from 0.045 to 0.055.
Chen Hao’s heartbeat sped up, but he didn’t move. "It’s just a rebound. It’ll go back."
The next morning, the price reached 0.062. His unrealized loss had already exceeded 10,000 U. His palms started sweating. Every thirty seconds he refreshed the candlestick chart. Someone in the group asked whether he was still there, but he didn’t reply.
At 2 p.m., SAND broke through 0.068. The exchange sent a margin call notice.
He stared at the red warning. His finger hovered over the screen, not clicking—no matter how long he waited. Adding margin meant putting another 10,000 U in. If he didn’t, a margin call would happen instantly.
"Wait a bit. It’ll pull back."
He didn’t add.
At 8 p.m., SAND shot up to 0.0735.
The instant the system’s automatic liquidation alert sounded, Chen Hao became oddly calm. The balance hit zero. Twenty thousand U—three months’ salary, six months’ savings—all turned to nothing.
He turned off his phone and lay on his bed, staring at the ceiling. The city lights outside seeped through the gaps in the curtains, flickering like candle charts on a K-line.
His phone lit up again. Messages erupted from the group: SAND broke 0.074, with a gain of over 44%.
He flipped the phone over.
The next day at noon, he opened the exchange. SAND was quoted at 0.06382. It had dropped from the high a bit, but it was still nearly 45% higher than the level where he shorted.
With a bitter smile, he opened his notes and typed one line: Never go against the trend.
Then he deleted that line, because he knew that next time he saw a coin crash, he would most likely still short it.
That’s the crypto world—knowing all the reasons, yet still unable to live this life well.
#SAND #合约爆仓 #Crypto story