What's the single most critical factor in Bitcoin mining?
A machine with god-tier computational power.
The reasons are layered, but the core is Bitcoin's design.
The more rigs solving hashes, the harder the puzzles get—difficulty scales proportionally, locking the network tighter.
Thus: speed is king.
Enter the supercomputer.
Which made Haruka the exact talent I was starving for.
I know PCs—consumer-grade stuff.
Specialized rigs? I wouldn't know where to start.
I can eyeball parts, not assemble a beast.
Haruka? She fabricates components on a whim and is hand-building a supercomputer.
Self-taught, judging by the stack of advanced texts in her room.
In short: genius.
A capital-G Genius!
The kind normal mortals can't fathom.
Even with Asperger's hyperfocus, this level of assembly demands raw intellect.
Pure prodigy.
So why wasn't her name in lights?
Simple.
I scanned the presumed supercomputer—parts were ancient.
Her environment is choking her.
The house—sorry to her parents—was threadbare.
Faded tatami, CRT relic, creaking beams.
Love for their daughter? Overflowing.
Cash for bleeding-edge hardware? Nonexistent.
Yet she'd pushed the build this far.
I want her.
Badly.
Her talent eclipsed even the walking credit line of those endless curves.
So I schemed.
How do I lock her in?
Answer: shockingly straightforward.
"Ma'am, may I speak with you privately?"
"Ah, of course."
Persuade the mother.
My adult frame helped; a kid wouldn't get this audience.
Haruka wouldn't resist—she adores me, but computers more.
Offer unlimited access? She'd drool.
Parents were the gatekeepers.
The deeper her fixation, the fiercer their worry.
Alone with her mother, I opened my mouth.
But she beat me.
"Our Haruka… isn't she odd?"
I blinked.
Odd? That's world-class talent!
I swallowed the retort and listened.
"From childhood, computers obsessed her. Teachers flagged it—possible disorder. Hospital confirmed Asperger's."
I nodded. Expected.
"My husband… old-school. Hated her tinkering. Called mental illness 'weak-minded nonsense.' Tried to beat it out of her."
My face twisted.
"Wait. He struck a diagnosed child because her mind was 'weak'?"
"Yes…"
I've seen scum in the service, but this?
Barbaric.
Disorders don't yield to fists—only worsen.
I reined in rage and motioned her on.
Long story, short version:
School ostracism → dropout → escalating abuse.
"…The violence grew unbearable. I divorced him, took Haruka, raised her alone."
Five years ago. Haruka: 17.
That was her history.
I took her mother's hand.
"You've carried a heavy load."
"No… my daughter suffered more."
Voice cracked.
I studied her.
Refined speech, graceful manners—good breeding.
Still beautiful, curves rivaling Haruka's.
But etched hardship: worry-lines, sinewy arms, callused hands.
She'd bled for her child.
Rare devotion.
Few would sacrifice this much.
I spoke plainly.
"First: Haruka isn't 'odd.'"
She deserved truth.
"She's a genius. Top percentile."
"My daughter?"
"Yes."
I detailed the supercomputer, the custom parts, the self-taught mastery.
Her eyes widened—Is this real?
Explanation done, I laid it out.
"Bluntly: I want to partner with her."
"Partner…?"
"High-performance computing industry."
"That is…?"
I gave a sheepish grin.
"Hard to explain yet."
She fell silent, weighing.
Natural—her daughter's future.
I added,
"No rush. I need time to prep, no solid plan. Take a week. Think it over."
I stood.
"Haruka's gift shouldn't be buried."
I turned to leave.
"Wait!"
Not an answer.
"Decide after my bath? Please stay."
Too fast, but a bath's length?
My clothes were filthy anyway.
"Fine."
I agreed.
"Ugh! Cold."
I stepped into the bathroom, humming, waiting for hot water.
Creak.
Door opened.
I turned.
"Let's shower together."
Haruka—barely draped in a tiny towel, breasts spilling—strode in.
Fluster hit again.
What the—
She closed the distance.
"Don't like it?"
No man alive would refuse.
"No. I fucking love it."
None in this world.