At 1 a.m., Lin Wei's dormitory still glowed with a small patch of cold white light. She curled up on the top bunk, knees pressed to her chest, eyes fixed on the constantly trembling K-line on her phone screen. The line representing VANRY's price had just surged a little higher again, like an excited pulse on a heart monitor. Her heartbeat quickened in response.

All of this started two weeks ago, in the cafeteria. Zhao Feng from the computer science department next door, carrying a plate, excitedly explained to her: "Sister Wei, VANRY, the next hundred-bagger! Ecosystem, applications, team background... absolutely reliable. Now is the early stage to buy in." She just smiled at the time, thinking about the Western Economics quiz she had that afternoon. But after returning to her dorm, almost instinctively, she typed "VANRY" into a search engine. An overwhelming flood of forum posts, Twitter shout-outs, and bold claims like "Hold steady, the stars and the sea" poured in like a tide. One post's title read: "College student, earning tuition with living expenses, I did it."

She was tempted. Not because she believed in the stars and the sea, but because she ran the numbers: the expensive textbooks she needed to buy next month, the gap in her rent deposit for an internship over the summer, and she just didn’t want to always quietly say "You guys go ahead" whenever her roommates suggested going out to improve their meals.

The initial capital was 800 yuan. She bought in gradually, four times, late at night, using her phone to anonymously trade. Each time she entered the amount and password, her fingers stiffened, as if doing something shameful. After buying, she hid the app of the exchange in an inconspicuous folder named "Calculator." Life went on as usual—classes, studying in the library, eating an 8-yuan meal in the cafeteria. But late at night, that "Calculator" was opened countless times. In the first few days, the price was stagnant. She felt regretful, thinking she had indeed been "liquidated."

The turning point came on the fifth night. She checked before bed, and it had risen 15%. Holding her breath, she repeatedly exited and re-entered to confirm it wasn’t an app display error. The next day, it was up 30%. A strange, guilty excitement gripped her. 800 yuan turned into 900, then 1,100. She daydreamed in class, secretly browsing the market on her phone. Even the food in the cafeteria seemed to smell a little better.

The impulsive move happened on a night when the price surged 50%. The forum was filled with cheers of "Takeoff" and "Pattern Unlocked." An uncontrollable thought surfaced: what if she had invested not 800, but 2,000? She calculated all her money in the bank, including next month’s living expenses. Her heartbeat pounded loudly. At 2 a.m., she acted again. This time, the numbers were larger, and the process was quieter. When she pressed confirm, she felt a wave of exhaustion, as if a gambler had finally pushed all their chips out.

Two days after additional investment, VANRY rose steadily but firmly. Her account balance reached a figure she dared not look at directly. She began to seriously search "how to exchange cryptocurrency for RMB and withdraw," even hesitating—should she sell some now to lock in profits, or was the pattern truly unlocked? That afternoon, on her way to a public class, the sun was shining brightly. For the first time, she felt that the mountain called "Scarcity" that had been pressing down on her seemed to loosen a little. She even broke her routine and bought herself a full-sugar taro bubble milk tea at a milk tea shop she passed by.

The crash came unannounced on a Wednesday afternoon. She had just finished a drowsy Maoist theory class and opened her phone. Green, glaring, full-screen green— in the crypto world, green means decline. VANRY’s K-line was not falling; it was diving— a nearly vertical, terrifying line. The forum was instantly flooded with posts about "Collapse," "Rug Pull," and "Zeroed Out," and all the "gurus" and "teachers" went silent. Standing in the noisy corridor of the teaching building, she felt a deafening silence around her, her blood rushing to her head then quickly receding, her limbs cold. She mechanically refreshed, each number shrinking, rapidly losing value, returning to her initial investment, then falling below that number...

She didn’t sell. Not because of "pattern unlocking," but because she was completely stunned, her fingers frozen on the screen, unable to move. By the time she could finally operate again, her assets had shrunk by over 60%.

In the following days, the price hovered at a low point, with faint rebounds, but it never returned to the high that had once made her dream. She watched that number as if she were an outsider. Anger, regret, self-doubt—all settled into a deep exhaustion and emptiness.

On a weekend night, her roommates discussed ordering barbecue takeout. "Lin Wei, what do you want to eat?"

She looked up, forced a smile: "Add a skewer of roasted buns, sweet."

Late at night, she opened that folder named "Calculator" again. Not to check the market, but slowly and carefully, she uninstalled that green app. Then she opened her laptop, where a draft of her paper on "The History of Modern Economic Thought" was half-written. She typed the next title, the cursor steady and blinking.

Outside, the night was heavy, the glow of streetlights dissolving into darkness. She knew she had to get up early tomorrow to reserve a seat in the library, that she still needed to save from her living expenses for that set of textbooks, and that she would have to find another way to pay the summer rent. But she also knew something else: about the burning boundary between the jumping numbers on the screen and real life, about the sweet yet dangerous weight of luck, and about herself—the one who is greedy, fearful, full of unrealistic fantasies, but ultimately must take one step at a time, steadily moving forward, the ordinary self.

She closed the document, shut down her computer. The dormitory was filled with even breathing. Tomorrow, the sun would rise as usual, and life would go on.