FLASHBACK (Before the basketball incident)
The air conditioning in the "Quick-Stop" near the Aurelia station had died three days ago, leaving the air inside thick and smelling of over-processed snacks and floor wax. Jake swiped a hand across his forehead, leaning over the counter as a line of commuters shuffled toward him, clutching sodas and airtime vouchers.
His shirt was plastered to his back, and the constant hum of the broken refrigerator unit was giving him a pounding headache. He hadn't eaten since yesterday morning to ensure there was enough bread at home for his mother, and the sight of people buying snacks they didn't even seem to want made his stomach twist with a dull, hollow ache.
"Next," Jake said, his voice flat.
A middle-aged man in a tailored suit—far too heavy for the Aurelia heat—thumped a high-end smartphone onto the counter. He didn't look at Jake. He was too busy barking into a Bluetooth headset.
"It's bricked," the man snapped, finally acknowledging Jake with a dismissive wave. "The charging port is loose. I need the files on here for a meeting at the Ministry in twenty minutes. Fix it, or I'm speaking to your manager about the quality of staff here."
Jake looked at the phone, then at the man. His shift manager, a nervous guy named Mike, was already hovering nearby, looking ready to apologize for Jake's very existence.
'I could tell him the motherboard is fine and it's just debris in the port. Or I could tell him to buy a new one. Either way, I'm still making fifty marks an hour.' Jake thoughtas he looked at the phone again.
Jake didn't say a word. He reached under the counter for a thin needle and a pressurized air canister he kept for his own laptop. His hands were surgical, moving with a precision that was wasted in a place like this. In less than two minutes, he cleared the compacted lint, reset the battery connector with a precise sequence of button holds, and the screen flickered to life.
The man didn't thank him. He snatched the phone back, checked his emails, and tossed a crumpled 10 marks note onto the counter like he was feeding a pigeon.
"Keep the change, kid. Get some better AC in here," the man muttered, already walking away.
Jake watched the man walk out toward a gleaming white SUV. He looked down at the 10 marks note. It was stained and worn. It wouldn't even cover a single trip on a combie if he had to go to the hospital later to check on his mother. It was a week's worth of insults distilled into a single piece of paper.
As the man got out of the shop, the midday sun hit the heavy gold wedding band on his finger.
Usually, gold was just a color to Jake—a symbol of a world he didn't belong to. But today, as the ring shone, he suddenly felt a pull to it. It wasn't just a reflection; it was a physical tug in his chest, a magnetic draw that made his vision blur at the edges.
Jake blinked, hard. The pull didn't disappear. It stayed there, and he was drawn to it in a way he couldn't explain. He felt a strange, cold clarity, and for a split second, the gold seemed to vibrate with a frequency only he could hear.
He looked back at his own hands, then at the dusty shop floor. The pull disappeared, but he could still feel an inexplicable connection humming in the back of his mind.
"Jake? You okay? You're staring at the door like you've seen a ghost," Mike muttered, wiping sweat from his neck with a dirty rag.
Jake slowly pocketed the 10 marks note. His heart was hammering against his ribs, a frantic, rhythmic thud that matched the flickering data that had just danced across his eyes.
"I'm fine," Jake said, his voice sounding distant even to himself. "I just realized I might not be working the late shift tomorrow."
"Why not?" Mike asked, frowning.
"You know I usually depend on tips for transport money, but I haven't had that much luck with tips this week. If I can't pay for the combie, I can't get here."
"The boss pays you enough to be able to afford it though," Mike countered. "If you don't show up, he might dock your pay."
Jake looked at the door where the gold had disappeared. He thought about his empty stomach and the holes in his shoes.
"With the cost of living in this city, it's hard to get by on what he 'pays' us, Mike," Jake said softly. "I'm tired of just getting by."
END OF THE FLASHBACK
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Jake gradually stopped checking his balance every hour, realizing the habit was more of a lingering tic from his days of desperation than a necessity of the trade.
A few weeks ago, he'd been the kind of trader who refreshed his account every few minutes, his heart rate tethered to the flickering green and red digits as if staring hard enough might tilt the market in his favor.
Back then, every pip was a jagged emotional peak or a crushing valley. A small gain felt like a temporary reprieve, while a loss felt like a personal indictment.
Now, the numbers were starting to lose their teeth. They were becoming data points, results of a process rather than a source of entertainment or anxiety.
He started a new rule: check the account exactly once after each session. He would record the outcome in his notebook, scribble down a few notes on where he could have been tighter with his entry, and then close the app. It wasn't just about discipline; it was about reclaiming his sanity. The more he separated his self-worth from the balance on the screen, the clearer his vision became.
Monday morning returned with that quiet, steady rhythm he had come to rely on. The campus was still shaking off its lethargy when he arrived, with a handful of early-bird students crossing the courtyard under a sky that was still more grey than blue.
The cool morning air carried the muted hum of traffic from the main road, a reminder of the world outside the university gates that was already grinding away. Jake headed straight for the study hall, claiming his usual corner desk near the window. It had become an unofficial reserved seat for him, a vital piece of the ritual that kept him grounded.
He flipped open his laptop and loaded the gold charts, feeling the familiar hum of the machine against his palms. The shift arrived almost immediately. His left eye pulsed with a dull, rhythmic heat, and the world seemed to sharpen at the edges.
The chaotic noise of the candles suddenly resolved into a narrative. He could see the traps being set by the larger players and the panicked movements of retail traders. He glanced at the clock in the corner of his screen. It was nine-twelve. He had an hour before the clarity would begin to fade.
He logged in and saw the balance sitting at 31,240 VM. It was a staggering amount compared to where he started, but he forced himself to look past it. The market didn't care about his milestones; it only waited for him to get cocky so it could take it all back.
He watched a resistance band he'd marked earlier, seeing the price hammer against it with aggressive but hollow momentum. Buyers were pushing, but they were running out of breath.
The urge to jump in early gnawed at his gut. He could see the liquidity sitting just above the recent highs like a lure, and his old habits whispered that he should get in now to maximize the move.
He forced his hands to stay flat on the desk, taking a slow breath. He knew better. He waited for the inevitable sweep, the moment when the price spiked just high enough to trigger everyone's buy-stops before slamming back down. When the rejection candle finally printed, he moved with practiced ease.
Jake opened three positions this time, a deliberate step up in size that still respected his risk limits. He watched the numbers fluctuate, but the old panic was gone. He saw the market slide downward with a heavy, gravitational pressure. He closed the first position at eighteen pips to lock in a profit, then another at forty-seven as the momentum began to drag.
By the time his vision started to return to normal, he had executed four nearly flawless trades. He closed the platform the second the clarity vanished, refusing to trade "blind."
When he finally allowed himself to look at the account page, the number stared back at him: 46,980 VM. He leaned back, the plastic of the chair creaking under his weight. It was a strange realization that he had just earned more in a single hour than he would have in months of grueling part-time labor. He couldn't help but let out a short, quiet laugh, a genuine smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.
By Wednesday, the account had crested seventy thousand. Jake didn't feel like a different person, but he was starting to move like one. The constant, gnawing tension that used to hike his shoulders up toward his ears had dissolved.
He walked with a steadier gait, a quiet confidence radiating from him that he didn't even realize he was projecting. During a break between finance lectures, Alex slumped into the seat next to him, dropping his heavy backpack with a thud.
"The lady at the cafeteria was asking where you've been," Alex said, leaning back and eyeing Jake with a smirk.
Jake blinked, pulled out of a mental calculation. "The lunch lady? Why would she even notice I'm gone?"
"Because you used to spend ten minutes debating if the daily special was worth the price," Alex joked, though his eyes remained sharp. "You were the king of the budget-stressed. Now you just breeze through. I think I'm actually missing the old, panicked version of you. It made me feel more successful by comparison."
Jake chuckled, closing his notebook with a soft click. "Well, I told you the trading is going well. I'm just trying to make sure I never have to count coins for a sandwich again."
Alex narrowed his eyes, his smile turning more thoughtful. "That well, huh? You should think about starting a signals group or something. People would pay good money to follow whatever it is you're doing."
"I'll think about it once I'm actually stable," Jake replied, though the idea of managing other people's expectations sounded like a headache he didn't need yet.
---
On Thursday evening, the air was pleasant enough that Jake decided to skip the bus and walk home. Aurelia City felt different under the glow of the streetlights. The glass buildings reflected the neon signs and headlights, turning the pavement into a mosaic of white and gold.
He walked with his hands in his pockets, his mind already drifting toward the next milestone. At this rate, he would hit six figures in a matter of days. That was the real goal. One hundred thousand wasn't just a number; it was a fortress. It was the kind of money that would allow him to absorb a bad week without his whole world collapsing.
When he stepped into the apartment, the smell of dinner greeted him. His mother looked up from the stove, her face etched with the familiar weariness of a long day. "You're late, Jake."
"Just took the long way home to clear my head," he said, taking his seat at the small table.
His father joined them, the conversation drifting through the usual channels—work complaints, school drama from Aliya, and local news. It was a normal, quiet evening, yet Jake could feel the unspoken weight of the bills piled near the doorway.
He looked at his parents and felt a surge of something fierce and protective. He could end their worries tonight with a few taps on his phone, but he forced himself to wait. He needed to be absolutely sure this wasn't a fluke. Consistency first, then the revelation.
Friday morning felt different. There was a charge in the air as he sat at his desk, the study hall unusually quiet. When the "Eye" activated, the clarity was sharper than it had been all week.
He found a setup near the middle of the session that felt almost too perfect—a liquidity sweep that aligned with heavy institutional pressure. He entered with four positions, his heart beating a steady, rhythmic thud against his ribs.
The market moved exactly as he envisioned, a powerful, clean slide that required almost no management. When he finally closed the last position and the clarity ebbed away, he sat in the silence for a long moment before checking the dashboard.
102,380 VM.
Six figures. Jake stared at the screen, the breath leaving his lungs in a long, shaky exhale. He looked around the room, making sure no one was watching, and then pumped his fist sharply under the table. It was a small, private explosion of triumph.
He possessed enough money to rewrite his family's story. He locked his phone and tucked it away, watching the other students move past him. He packed his bag and walked out, his steps light and his mind finally, truly at peace.
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