Chapter [4]: [SMALL POSITIONS]
Ethan learned quickly that holding something was harder than buying it.
The numbers barely moved. Fractions of a cent flickered on forums, debated with an intensity that felt disproportionate to their actual impact. To anyone else, it would have seemed pointless—obsessing over a system that barely registered on the broader financial radar.
To Ethan, the stillness was a test.
He checked his wallet once in the morning and once at night. No more. Any more than that, and anxiety crept in, masquerading as vigilance. He had watched traders in his previous life destroy themselves not by bad decisions, but by constant ones.
At the copy shop, reduced hours turned into shorter shifts and longer lines. Carl's temper frayed as margins tightened. One afternoon, he snapped at a woman trying to print foreclosure documents, then apologized awkwardly when she started crying.
Ethan watched the exchange from behind the counter, feeling a familiar knot form in his chest. Stress didn't make people cruel—it removed the filters that kept their cruelty hidden.
After work, he met Maya again, this time intentionally. They chose a diner halfway between campus and downtown, the kind with vinyl booths and a menu that hadn't changed in decades. She arrived with a stack of books under her arm and an expression that suggested she'd been thinking since their last conversation.
"You're avoiding something," she said after they ordered.
Ethan smiled faintly. "That's a strong opener."
"You deflect with abstractions," she continued. "Patterns. Incentives. Systems. Useful tools—but also shields."
He stirred his coffee. "And you diagnose strangers over pancakes."
"Only the interesting ones."
He considered pushing back, then decided against it. "I don't like committing to narratives too early."
"Because they trap you?"
"Because they seduce you," he said. "You start believing outcomes are inevitable."
Maya studied him, eyes sharp. "That sounds like someone who's seen inevitability fail."
The waitress interrupted, sliding plates onto the table. The moment passed, but not forgotten.
They talked for over an hour—about her research, about his copy shop job, about the quiet desperation hanging over the city. Ethan kept his future knowledge tightly leashed, offering analysis without prophecy.
When they parted, she didn't offer her number again. She didn't need to. The assumption of another meeting hung between them, unspoken.
That night, Ethan received an email from the Bitcoin seller.
He skimmed it once, then again more carefully.
The man was worried. Talk on the forums about government attention, about the possibility that these transactions could be construed as money laundering. He wanted out. Immediately.
Ethan felt the familiar pull—the urge to buy more, to capitalize on someone else's fear.
He didn't.
Instead, he replied politely, declining. No justification. No persuasion.
After sending the email, he sat back and closed his eyes, letting the disappointment wash through him.
This is restraint, he reminded himself. This is what it costs.
Days later, BitcoinTalk buzzed with rumors of a new exchange—small, amateurish, but functional. Mt. Gox. The name meant nothing to most people yet.
To Ethan, it landed like a stone in his stomach.
He followed the discussions obsessively, noting usernames, watching who defended the platform too aggressively and who raised quiet concerns about security. History whispered warnings, but it didn't offer clean alternatives.
Meanwhile, Noah landed a contract job—temporary, underpaid, but promising. The apartment felt lighter with the news. Less desperate.
"You should celebrate," Noah said, raising a beer.
Ethan clinked his bottle against Noah's. "Congratulations."
"Your turn next," Noah said confidently.
Ethan smiled, noncommittal.
Late that night, alone again, Ethan opened his spreadsheet and added a new column.
Exposure.
He filled it in slowly, line by line, treating time as a cost, not an asset.
Because small positions, he was learning, didn't just protect capital.
They protected the self.