Many years later, faced with an account wiped to zero, he will remember the distant midnight when he first saw the candlestick chart glowing in the night.

At that time, the entire chain was still young, many cryptocurrencies had no names yet, and when mentioning them, you still had to point to the white paper to identify them. That white paper was left by a gypsy named Satoshi Nakamoto, written in an unbreakable code, predicting everyone's wealth and zeroing out during the hundred cycles of bull and bear markets—yet no one ever read to the last page.
Prosperity was like a rain that lasted three years, eleven months, and two days. On the day the rain stopped, everyone forgot it had rained, and so another group of people came in, giving new names to the zeroed-out coins, repeating the same fate, and all firmly believing they were the first. They minted tokens, melted them down, and minted smaller tokens, tirelessly day and night, like a colonel making his unsellable little goldfish.
And this place called "Crypto Circle," a Manco of sorts, will eventually be swept away by a gust of wind, completely erased from everyone's memory—because gamblers destined to endure a century of loneliness will never have a second chance to appear on the chain.