The Shitcoin Legend: The Night I Bought BMT
At three in the morning, the only light left in Lin Hao’s Shenzhen rental apartment came from his monitor.
He’d been glued to the charts for six hours straight. BTC was moving sideways near its highs, ETH was barely alive, and his spot account held 3,000 U that hadn’t moved in half a month. People in the chat group said Bitcoin was about to hit a new high; others said it would pull back to 60,000. He believed none of them. He just wanted to find an opportunity that could double his money.
At 3:17 a.m., an unfamiliar token appeared on his radar. BMT—a small coin that had launched less than a week ago, priced at just 0.02 U, with a pitifully low market cap. But Lin Hao noticed something: its trading volume had suddenly increased tenfold over the past four hours, and buy orders were growing denser by the minute. It didn’t look like bots wash-trading—it looked like real money was pouring in.
He checked the on-chain data and saw that the number of holder addresses had increased by more than 300 in the past two hours. Two of those addresses had bought 500,000 tokens in one go. Lin Hao’s heart began to race. He’d seen this kind of price action before. The last time was the night before PEPE took off.
3,000 U. All in.
He didn’t hesitate. For some people, 3,000 yuan was the cost of a meal; for him, it was half a month’s pay. But he knew that if he got it right this time, that money could turn into 30,000—or even 300,000.
After buying, he tossed his phone onto the bed and took a shower. When he came back, the numbers on the screen left him stunned. BMT had jumped from 0.02183 to 0.039, nearly doubling. His hands began to shake—not from the cold, but from excitement.
He didn’t sell. He told himself to wait a little longer.
The next three hours felt like three years. BMT kept climbing: 0.04, 0.045, then a peak of 0.05144. Lin Hao stared at the number, his mind full of figures flying by. His 3,000 U had become 7,400.
People in the group started calling for a target of 0.1; others said it was headed for 0.10. Lin Hao’s finger hovered over the sell button, but he couldn’t bring himself to press it.
Then it crashed.
As if someone had suddenly pulled out the foundation, BMT plunged from 0.051 to 0.03 in ten minutes. Lin Hao panicked and hurriedly placed a sell order. It filled at 0.03877. His 7,400 had become 5,500.
He shut down his computer, lay on the bed, and stared at the ceiling. He’d made 2,500, but he knew that if he’d sold at the peak, he could have made another 2,000. He’d fallen prey to both greed and fear.
The next morning, he opened the group chat and saw someone post a screenshot of their BMT trades. They said they’d gone all in at 0.02 and sold everything at 0.05, making a net profit of 12,000. Lin Hao stared at the message in silence for a long time.
The cruelest thing about crypto isn’t losing money. It’s making money and still feeling like you could have made more.
He opened the trading page and saw that BMT’s price had returned to around 0.039. He took a deep breath. This time, he didn’t act on impulse. He set himself a rule: from now on, whenever he bought a shitcoin, he’d sell half when it reached his target price and let the rest fly.
Not because he’d become less greedy, but because the market had taught him enough lessons.
#BMT #加密货币 #Shitcoin
At three in the morning, the only light left in Lin Hao’s Shenzhen rental apartment came from his monitor.
He’d been glued to the charts for six hours straight. BTC was moving sideways near its highs, ETH was barely alive, and his spot account held 3,000 U that hadn’t moved in half a month. People in the chat group said Bitcoin was about to hit a new high; others said it would pull back to 60,000. He believed none of them. He just wanted to find an opportunity that could double his money.
At 3:17 a.m., an unfamiliar token appeared on his radar. BMT—a small coin that had launched less than a week ago, priced at just 0.02 U, with a pitifully low market cap. But Lin Hao noticed something: its trading volume had suddenly increased tenfold over the past four hours, and buy orders were growing denser by the minute. It didn’t look like bots wash-trading—it looked like real money was pouring in.
He checked the on-chain data and saw that the number of holder addresses had increased by more than 300 in the past two hours. Two of those addresses had bought 500,000 tokens in one go. Lin Hao’s heart began to race. He’d seen this kind of price action before. The last time was the night before PEPE took off.
3,000 U. All in.
He didn’t hesitate. For some people, 3,000 yuan was the cost of a meal; for him, it was half a month’s pay. But he knew that if he got it right this time, that money could turn into 30,000—or even 300,000.
After buying, he tossed his phone onto the bed and took a shower. When he came back, the numbers on the screen left him stunned. BMT had jumped from 0.02183 to 0.039, nearly doubling. His hands began to shake—not from the cold, but from excitement.
He didn’t sell. He told himself to wait a little longer.
The next three hours felt like three years. BMT kept climbing: 0.04, 0.045, then a peak of 0.05144. Lin Hao stared at the number, his mind full of figures flying by. His 3,000 U had become 7,400.
People in the group started calling for a target of 0.1; others said it was headed for 0.10. Lin Hao’s finger hovered over the sell button, but he couldn’t bring himself to press it.
Then it crashed.
As if someone had suddenly pulled out the foundation, BMT plunged from 0.051 to 0.03 in ten minutes. Lin Hao panicked and hurriedly placed a sell order. It filled at 0.03877. His 7,400 had become 5,500.
He shut down his computer, lay on the bed, and stared at the ceiling. He’d made 2,500, but he knew that if he’d sold at the peak, he could have made another 2,000. He’d fallen prey to both greed and fear.
The next morning, he opened the group chat and saw someone post a screenshot of their BMT trades. They said they’d gone all in at 0.02 and sold everything at 0.05, making a net profit of 12,000. Lin Hao stared at the message in silence for a long time.
The cruelest thing about crypto isn’t losing money. It’s making money and still feeling like you could have made more.
He opened the trading page and saw that BMT’s price had returned to around 0.039. He took a deep breath. This time, he didn’t act on impulse. He set himself a rule: from now on, whenever he bought a shitcoin, he’d sell half when it reached his target price and let the rest fly.
Not because he’d become less greedy, but because the market had taught him enough lessons.
#BMT #加密货币 #Shitcoin