Evan woke up that morning with a heavy feeling in his chest. The air in his room felt still and the light through the blinds looked colder than usual. He sat at his desk and stared at his trading screen long before the market opened. His balance was already smaller than it had been a month ago. He rubbed his hands together and whispered to himself that today would be the turnaround. Today he would take back what he had lost. He believed it because he needed to.

He joined the chat early. It was full of energy and noise. Messages flashed so fast that he could barely read them. People were calling out a stock named BRSN that had some new technology. The chart was running. Everyone said it was the play of the day. Evan didn’t check the company or the news. He saw green and he pressed buy. He told himself not to sell early this time. He wanted to ride the wave and prove that patience worked.

For a few minutes it did. The price climbed. His account flashed green again. His heart raced. He thought maybe this was the day he would finally break through the wall. Then the chart froze for a moment, and when it moved again, it moved down fast. He watched the candles drop like stones. The chat turned silent, then filled with panic. Someone wrote rug pull. Someone else wrote market makers. Evan’s fingers trembled. He wanted to sell but didn’t. He kept saying it would bounce. It didn’t.

By the end of the day his account was down forty percent. He shut the screen off and stared at his reflection in the black monitor. His throat was dry. He tried to laugh but no sound came out. He felt like someone had reached inside him and twisted something vital. He told himself it was just one trade. He would fix it tomorrow. But deep down, a quiet voice said something was breaking.

That night he went for a walk through his neighborhood. The cold wind hit his face and the sound of cars on the street mixed with his thoughts. He looked at people in stores and on sidewalks and wondered how they could live so calm, how they could care about normal things like groceries and dinner when he felt like the world was closing in. He stopped outside a bar and almost went in but didn’t. He couldn’t afford it. He kept walking.

When he got home, he opened his account again even though he promised not to. He stared at the red numbers for hours. He felt smaller with every passing minute. He thought about the friends he used to have, about the simple life he had before this. But now everything was tied to those numbers. His worth, his future, his belief in himself. He couldn’t imagine walking away.

The next morning he borrowed more on margin. It felt desperate but also thrilling. He told himself he was fighting back. He picked another stock, GLCN, because the chart looked like it might bounce. The first few minutes it went up. His screen flashed green and he smiled again. He typed in the chat that he was back. But just like before, the move didn’t last. Within an hour, it reversed and dropped harder than he’d ever seen. He froze again. His unrealized loss doubled in seconds. He wanted to hit sell but couldn’t. His hand hovered over the mouse, shaking. The thought of making the loss real scared him more than the loss itself.

By midday the stock hit limit down. Trading halted. His account showed a number so small he couldn’t process it. He leaned back in his chair, eyes wide, lips pressed tight. The room felt silent except for the faint hum of his computer. He sat like that for a long time, unable to move.

When the halt ended, the price opened lower. He was trapped. He clicked refresh again and again, watching it sink. His margin call alert popped up. He didn’t even read it. His brain felt blank. When the market closed, he had lost almost everything. His ten thousand had turned into less than a thousand. He didn’t tell anyone. He couldn’t.

That night he lay on his bed staring at the ceiling. The sounds of the city felt distant. He thought about calling his mother, about telling her he was okay even though he wasn’t. He picked up the phone and put it down again. He told himself he would figure it out. He would work extra hours and rebuild. But for the first time, he wasn’t sure he could.

The next morning his broker sent an email saying his account was below maintenance margin and would be liquidated if he didn’t deposit more funds. He read it twice, heart pounding. He didn’t have any money left to deposit. His credit cards were near the limit. His paycheck was already late. He closed the email and sat there, staring at his hands. They didn’t feel like his anymore.

He went to work that day in silence. His manager told him to move boxes faster and he didn’t answer. His coworkers talked around him, laughing about small things. He barely heard them. Every sound felt like it came from far away. He went through the motions, but inside, he was somewhere else — still staring at the chart, still trying to understand what went wrong.

When he got home, the broker’s warning had turned into action. His account was liquidated automatically. The balance showed zero. He had never seen that number before. Zero wasn’t just loss. It was emptiness. He clicked refresh again and again as if the screen might change. It didn’t.

That night, he sat in the dark with his laptop closed. The only light came from the street outside. He thought about how confident he had been, how sure he was that he couldn’t fail. Now he had no money, no plan, and debt that would take years to repay. The silence around him was heavy. He whispered to himself that maybe this was the bottom. Maybe this was what people meant when they said life humbles you.

He didn’t cry. He just sat there until the night faded into gray morning, his eyes open but unfocused. Somewhere inside, the last piece of his pride slipped away. He didn’t know what came next, only that the game was over, and for the first time he understood it had never been a game at all.