The Night He Shorted QI
At 3 a.m., the blue light from his phone screen cast onto Xiao Chen’s face. He stared at the candlestick chart, his eyes filled with bloodshot streaks.
QI’s price had just been smashed from 0.005080 down to 0.001475, dropping a full seventy percent. In the group chat, cries of despair filled the air—someone said the project team had run away, someone else said this was the final “shakeout.” Yet Xiao Chen saw a different opportunity.
“Such a brutal drop—there’s no way it won’t keep going down.” He muttered to himself, his fingers rapidly swiping across the screen.
He opened the futures trading interface, selected QI’s perpetual contract, fifty times leverage, and went all-in short. There were 30,000 U sitting in his account—six months’ worth of his wages. The moment he hit the short button, his heart raced faster, but what he felt even more was excitement.
Entry price: 0.001520. The price kept falling. In the first five minutes, the floating profit already showed 800 U. Xiao Chen lit a cigarette, leaned back in his chair, and felt like he was the chosen one.
“Drop a little more—if it reaches 0.001, I’ll close everything.” He set the goal for himself.
But the price didn’t keep crashing the way he expected. 0.001475—the low point seemed to be propped up by something, and then it started to bounce slightly. 0.001500, 0.001600, 0.001800.
The cigarette hung between his lips.
“It’s fine, just a technical rebound.” He comforted himself.
But the rebound didn’t stop. 0.002000, 0.002500, 0.003000. His floating profit had long turned into floating losses, and the numbers began jumping faster and faster. With fifty times leverage, every one-cent rise was deadly.
He started to panic. His fingers hovered above the close-position button, but he couldn’t bring himself to press it. “It’ll come back. It definitely will come back.” He gritted his teeth and said.
0.003500. The system popped up a notice: margin call.
0.003561. By the time he saw that message, his account had already been wiped out. The liquidation notice hit him like a dull hammer to the chest. 30,000 U—gone.
Xiao Chen set his phone down and stared at the ceiling. Outside the window, the sky was starting to brighten, and the city began to wake with sounds. He suddenly remembered the first time he bought crypto half a year ago—also one of these dawn-bound hours. Back then, he made 2,000 yuan, so happy he treated the whole team to milk tea.
The phone lit up again. Someone in the group posted: “QI bottomed—go buy the dip, brothers.”
Xiao Chen gave a bitter smile and flipped the phone over. He knew this story wouldn’t end. A few days later, once the pain in his wound wasn’t so sharp, he would still open that app.
Because this is the crypto world—it makes you suffer to the point of despair, and yet keeps you unable to forget.
#QI #合约爆仓 #Crypto Stories
At 3 a.m., the blue light from his phone screen cast onto Xiao Chen’s face. He stared at the candlestick chart, his eyes filled with bloodshot streaks.
QI’s price had just been smashed from 0.005080 down to 0.001475, dropping a full seventy percent. In the group chat, cries of despair filled the air—someone said the project team had run away, someone else said this was the final “shakeout.” Yet Xiao Chen saw a different opportunity.
“Such a brutal drop—there’s no way it won’t keep going down.” He muttered to himself, his fingers rapidly swiping across the screen.
He opened the futures trading interface, selected QI’s perpetual contract, fifty times leverage, and went all-in short. There were 30,000 U sitting in his account—six months’ worth of his wages. The moment he hit the short button, his heart raced faster, but what he felt even more was excitement.
Entry price: 0.001520. The price kept falling. In the first five minutes, the floating profit already showed 800 U. Xiao Chen lit a cigarette, leaned back in his chair, and felt like he was the chosen one.
“Drop a little more—if it reaches 0.001, I’ll close everything.” He set the goal for himself.
But the price didn’t keep crashing the way he expected. 0.001475—the low point seemed to be propped up by something, and then it started to bounce slightly. 0.001500, 0.001600, 0.001800.
The cigarette hung between his lips.
“It’s fine, just a technical rebound.” He comforted himself.
But the rebound didn’t stop. 0.002000, 0.002500, 0.003000. His floating profit had long turned into floating losses, and the numbers began jumping faster and faster. With fifty times leverage, every one-cent rise was deadly.
He started to panic. His fingers hovered above the close-position button, but he couldn’t bring himself to press it. “It’ll come back. It definitely will come back.” He gritted his teeth and said.
0.003500. The system popped up a notice: margin call.
0.003561. By the time he saw that message, his account had already been wiped out. The liquidation notice hit him like a dull hammer to the chest. 30,000 U—gone.
Xiao Chen set his phone down and stared at the ceiling. Outside the window, the sky was starting to brighten, and the city began to wake with sounds. He suddenly remembered the first time he bought crypto half a year ago—also one of these dawn-bound hours. Back then, he made 2,000 yuan, so happy he treated the whole team to milk tea.
The phone lit up again. Someone in the group posted: “QI bottomed—go buy the dip, brothers.”
Xiao Chen gave a bitter smile and flipped the phone over. He knew this story wouldn’t end. A few days later, once the pain in his wound wasn’t so sharp, he would still open that app.
Because this is the crypto world—it makes you suffer to the point of despair, and yet keeps you unable to forget.
#QI #合约爆仓 #Crypto Stories