2:48 a.m.
In a crumbling 1K apartment tucked deep in Shinjuku 5-chome, the kind of place that smelled perpetually like instant noodles and damp futons, Aria Lin sat curled on a frayed yoga mat like a housecat gone feral.
Her secondhand Lenovo ThinkPad buzzed weakly on her knees, the screen awash in red. Candlesticks bled downward. Bloodbath.
The glow illuminated her face—gaunt, sleepless, pale. Her dark hair was tied up in a loose bun with a broken pencil. Her gray sweatshirt, two sizes too big, bore the faded logo of some long-dead Tokyo startup.
Another liquidation.
Another all-nighter.
Another night of playing chicken with her own survival.
She held a half-eaten tuna mayo onigiri in one hand—stone cold, forgotten. Her other hand trembled slightly as it hovered over her trackpad.
Above the dusty microwave sat a plastic wall clock, its once-white casing yellowed by age and nicotine. It ticked louder than her heartbeat, each second hammering in the fact that she was still alive.
Just barely.
Somewhere behind her, an empty can of Strong Zero rolled off the kotatsu table with a dull, metallic clink.
She didn't even flinch.
Her eyes stayed on the screen.
[Trade Closed: Stop-out triggered]
[Remaining Balance: ¥1,142]
Nice.
Just perfect.
Aria exhaled through her nose and tilted her head back against the mold-stained wall. Her laughter came out low, dry, and hollow—a sound too tired to be bitter, too used to failure to even be surprised.
This was her fourth margin call this month.
And she didn't even have a job anymore.
"Unemployed. Heartbroken. Broke. Oh yeah, killing it," she muttered.
Her phone buzzed.
LINE notification.
She didn't need to look. She already knew.
It was from him. The man she'd wasted three years and her last drops of optimism on.
"You're too exhausting to love. I need peace."
Nine words. That's all it took to throw their history into a coffin and nail it shut.
She stared at the message for a full ten seconds. No anger. No tears. Just… void.
A numb, gray sort of void that wrapped around her chest like a straitjacket.
And then, like a true degenerate, she opened her favorite crypto Telegram group chat:
「Degen's Den: Rug or Riches」
Someone had just posted:
"Shorted BTC at 28.3k, 10x leverage. Let's f**king go. If this dumps, I'm retiring tonight."
Retiring, huh.
She let out a snort and tapped the screen with her thumb.
Her finger hovered over the "Mirror Order" button. One tap, and she'd copy the trade.
"What's one more dumbass decision?" she whispered.
Click.
The order executed.
She took another bite of her now rock-hard onigiri and leaned back.
Three minutes later.
Her screen flashed again.
Big. Green. Bold.
[Profit: ¥3,020,000]
Aria blinked.
Her pulse stopped.
She read it again.
¥3,020,000.
Three. Million. Yen.
It felt like the market was laughing at her. Like the universe had tossed her a win just to twist the knife.
A crooked smile tugged at her lips. Not joy. Not hope. Just… amusement.
"Too bad…" she murmured, "my heart gave out first."
The pain hit like a sledgehammer.
A sharp, twisting hook behind her sternum. Cold sweat. Short breath. Eyes wide.
Aria's body convulsed.
She couldn't scream.
She collapsed sideways like a broken doll.
The screen went dark.
Her world went darker.
Somewhere in the void, a synthetic chime echoed. Clear, cold, merciless.
[Financial Timewarp System Activated] Mission: Travel to June 1st, 2015. Goal: Earn ¥10,000,000 in 30 days using era-accurate financial tools. No cheating. No external assistance. Failure = Permanent Soul Deletion. Success = Enhanced Cognition. Skill Unlocks. Full System Integration.
Aria couldn't breathe. Couldn't scream. Couldn't even feel herself anymore.
But she knew—knew—this wasn't a dream.
She was being pulled.
Dragged.
Through a tunnel of glitching light, static noise, and overlapping voices:
"TESLA ALL-IN!" "NISA MAX OUT WHILE YOU CAN!" "BUY A-SHARES! GO GO GO!!"
It was like someone had ripped open a Reddit time capsule from 2015 and shoved her soul straight through it.
She wanted to laugh. Or cry. Or both. But there was nobody to react—only her consciousness, tumbling.
Then—
Impact.
A dull ceiling fan spun overhead.
She was lying on a futon, her back aching in a way that only ten-year-old tatami could inflict.
The walls were beige, lined with peeling posters from a long-gone idol group. The sink was dripping. A CRT TV buzzed faintly in the next room.
She sat up.
Her chest didn't hurt.
Her hands looked… younger. Softer. Less calloused.
Beside her:
A flip phone.
An iPhone 6s.
A stock brokerage form.
¥20,000 in crisp cash.
And a note, scribbled in handwriting that was unmistakably hers.
"You've got 30 days. Don't f*ck this up."
Aria Lin blinked at the note.
And for the first time in years…
She grinned.