Initial Capital: ¥12,123,000
Final Account balance: 426.3 BTC
The Agony in the Garden
She took refuge in a high-rise hotel in Shinjuku.
It was not her usual place. The walls were thick, the curtains heavy, the lights of the city shut out.
When she opened the door, the air carried a faint scent of bleach and the dampness of old carpet.
The bathroom light was too white, too bright.
She dimmed it. The room fell quiet.
Only the low hum of electricity remained.
Far in the distance, the lights of the Metropolitan Government Building blinked through the dark, as if following a ritual of inspection.
She sat at the edge of the bed, removed her coat, and placed her phone on the nightstand.
The signal flickered.
She switched to airplane mode, leaving only one encrypted channel.
No notifications. No mail.
She turned off the light.
The air thickened at once.
The tub was filled with hot water, still fresh.
She stepped in. The water rose to her collarbone.
The tiles were cold. She leaned back and listened to her own breathing.
Her arm rested along the edge.
Her fingertips turned pale in the steam.
The phone screen glowed faintly on the rack beside her.
The after-hours data for VIX options had just updated.
It was not a surge.
It was a slope, quiet and slow.
The numbers shifted by degrees, barely seen.
Some positions were realigned in the shadow.
Capital gathered, without voice.
She saw it at once.
Fear was forming.
She had seen this shape on many nights.
In London. In Tokyo. On the other side of the system.
Each time it meant the same thing.
Tomorrow, something would break.
She was not guessing.
She was not calculating.
She knew.
The steam touched her face.
Her eyes did not leave the screen.
Time passed.
The screen remained lit. So did she.
Her fingers numbed from the heat.
The water cooled.
She did not move.
She spoke softly.
"I am not without fear."
Her voice was quiet, absorbed by the tile and the glass. Only the final tone remained.
After a few seconds, she said,
"I can no longer turn back."
Her tone was steady, as if stating a task already written.
She closed her eyes.
The light shifted from the screen to a red glow on the ceiling.
No messages came.
No one came online.
The contact list stayed blank.
That silence carried no sound, but it had weight.
She knew that after this night, the rhythm of the market would break.
It was no one's fault. It was simply its time.
Her breathing slowed.
The screen dimmed on its own.
The light vanished.
The water fell still.
She did not reach for the screen again.
She set no alarm.
She backed up no data.
She only sat there.
Her body was still beneath the water.
The clock moved on the wall.
The second hand was nearly silent.
Her shoulders sank.
Her head rested on the tile.
She remembered the first night she saw the VIX rise.
Then, she took screenshots.
She smiled.
Now she did not even think of saving it.
She did not pray.
She did not cry for help.
She only waited.
The wind outside was held back by glass.
The street below remained lit.
Taxis passed one by one.
A delivery truck unloaded supplies for the convenience store.
A karaoke song drifted upward in the wind, broken and faint.
She could not see the people.
She had no interest in them.
She only watched the steam she left behind gather on the glass,
turn to droplets,
and slowly slide down.
That night, Tokyo did not go dark.
The market did not close.
Some were shorting.
Some were covering.
Everything still moved.
And she did nothing.
She sat in the water, her breath faint,
waiting for what had already been decided to come.
The Arrest
The first alert rang at 2:28 p.m., inside a convenience store.
The sound was short, like a breath cut off midway.
She was about to place a coin on the tray.
The register screen flickered. The payment system dropped the connection.
When the backend reconnected, the clerk looked up. His face had gone still.
Outside, the street was bright.
Sunlight struck the glass door.
Three white cars stood on the sidewalk.
She heard the doors close, one by one, with measured rhythm.
She looked down.
The signal bar on her phone was blinking.
It was the delay before a full shutdown.
She pressed the screen.
The VIX chart stopped at its final frame.
The numbers no longer moved.
She knew the freeze had taken effect.
The first to enter was from the regulatory bureau.
They wore no uniforms.
Their collars were straight. Their expressions were calm.
The second was from Kabukicho.
A bandage wrapped his wrist. His gaze drifted, unfocused.
The third belonged to the local economic crimes unit.
A badge on his chest caught the light.
None of them said the word "arrest."
She unlocked her phone and converted all her yen into Bitcoin. Then transferred it to a wallet.
Total 426.3 BTC.
They only stood around her.
One of them reached over and pressed the silent alarm at the counter.
Nothing sounded. The power had already been cut.
She set the coins down.
The sound was soft.
A canned coffee still sat on the edge of the counter, wrapped in a halo of cold mist.
She looked at the figures before her.
She did not panic. She did not step back.
She said,
"They're not here for an explanation."
Her voice was steady.
Another took out a freeze order.
Her account prefix was printed at the top.
She said again,
"They've come to unwind the structure."
Footsteps sounded beyond the door.
It was the driver from the syndicate.
His head was lowered.
His call had not ended.
She heard the words,
"She confessed herself."
The tone was plain.
She said nothing.
They asked her to leave the store.
She did.
The wind was strong. The light was sharp.
Someone spoke into a radio.
"Time: fourteen thirty-two."
Her phone buzzed once.
She felt it in her pocket.
The screen showed one unread message.
She knew it was Julian.
She did not open it.
She had sent that message five minutes ago.
It said only:
Don't look for me.
She entered the car.
The door closed.
The air grew thin.
She could hear the engine.
She could smell the scent of disinfectant.
One man sat across from her.
He opened a folder.
Inside were records: transaction logs, cold wallet addresses, timestamps.
She asked,
"Do you want me to sign?"
He nodded.
She signed her name.
The pen in her hand was steady.
When she finished, she set it down.
She said,
"The process is complete."
No one replied.
Rain began to fall.
Drops struck the roof.
She leaned back in her seat and closed her eyes.
Wind passed beneath the overpass.
In the distance, the sign for Kabukicho Ichiban-gai kept flashing.
Red light filtered through the car window, casting her face in color.
For a moment, the city fell silent.
It felt like the power had been cut.