Chapter 3

"Ahhh—!!"

Charlotte nearly jumped out of her chair at Elon's sudden move, her voice rising in shock. "Elon! What are you doing?! Why did you suddenly hit buy? I wasn't even done explaining!"

Damn it!

First day on the job, and before he'd even started working properly, he had already caused trouble.

Elon's heart sank. This was bad.

"This is a penny stock! And look at the order book—see? There are only sell orders sitting there. Do you see any buy orders?"

"No..."

"Exactly! Which means this stock is locked at the daily limit-down. Do you understand?"

"Then... what should I do?"

"Thank God this is a SIM account! Not real money! If you'd pulled a stunt like that on the live desk, the manager would've thrown you out the window by now!"

Hearing that, Elon finally exhaled in relief. For a moment, when she had screamed beside him, he thought he'd actually lost the company a fortune.

"But here's the problem," she said, her voice dropping to a genuine, concerned whisper, as if his mistake were her own. "I already told you, your SIM P&L is part of your review. You need a strong performance here to get a full-time offer. And now... you've gone all-in on a toxic stock that's hitting circuit breakers."

"I'm sorry!"

"Oh, come on, what are you apologizing for?" Charlotte broke into a laugh. "Everyone's a rookie once. Making silly mistakes is perfectly normal. When I first started, the blunders I made were way more ridiculous than this.

"Of course, this might... well, affect your evaluation a little. But don't worry! I'll explain it to the manager. It'll be fine!"

Elon stared at her, momentarily stunned by the sincerity of her smile.

'What a good person,' he thought.

His chest tightened with gratitude, and in his heart, he silently handed Charlotte a giant "Good Person Card."

Still, to make such a rookie blunder on his very first day at work—this was social death, plain and simple.

But then... that strange sensation from earlier—so strong it had made his entire body tremble—

It had been real. Blindingly vivid. Overwhelmingly powerful.

It was that almost fated premonition that had driven him, against all reason, to slam the buy button.

The difference was, in a game, pressing a button meant instant feedback—whether the chest held god-tier loot or worthless junk, you'd know right away.

The stock market, however... was a murky abyss, unpredictable and treacherous.

On the screen, the ZRN stock remained locked in limit-down, the chart an unforgiving wall of red that made his stomach twist.

Had his instincts really been wrong?

Maybe his "in-game RNG King ability" had nothing to do with real-world investing. Maybe the two worlds were utterly irrelevant, as far apart as heaven and earth.

Or worse—maybe he never had any special ability at all. Maybe all those times before were nothing more than dumb luck.

'Forget it. Focus on the work in front of you. Stop overthinking,' he told himself.

...

The stock market's official opening bell rang at 9:30 a.m.

But in truth, the battle began long before. With index futures and the pre-market call auction in play, the first shots were already fired by 9:15.

It was a silent war, invisible yet merciless. And it would rage until 4.00 in the afternoon, when the closing bell declared victory or defeat.

This was no war of gunpowder or steel, but a financial battlefield built on real money—where hearts could stop in an instant and blood pressure soared sky-high.

And within the entire firm, no division operated under more blistering speed or brutal pressure than the trading floor.

What was the religion here?

A single, sacred mantra: Get in fast, get out faster. The short term was the only term that mattered.

The instant prices gapped or reversed, you had to strike like a hawk—scraping profit from the chaos, shaving basis points from the volatile flicker of the candlesticks.

This was no ordinary office. It was a digital colosseum.

Here, positions rarely lasted more than a session. Most were liquidated intraday—hedged with futures, locked with options spreads, or dumped for a scalp before the closing bell. Profits were taken without sentiment. It was the essence of day-trading, a relentless T+0 grind.

"Cash is king. P&L is God."

Those six words weren't a suggestion; they were coded into the department's DNA.

Anyone who preached "long-term value investing" was culturally homeless here. They belonged in Wealth Management, or over in Equity Research—the places where patience was still considered a virtue.

But not on the desk.

Brock, head of Desk One, had nothing but contempt for a slow trade. What he lived for—what he craved—was this beautiful hell.

A place where adrenaline hit like a shock collar, where dopamine flooded the system until fingertips trembled over keyboards. Where every second of the trading day, the red and green of the lightstream waged a savage war—a silent, digital battlefield where millions were won and lost in the blink of an eye.

The traders fought psychological wars as vicious as any trench fight.

Smoke bombs. Sniper shots. Hidden traps. Mines buried beneath the surface.

And then—when the moment came—sickles flashing, they harvested their opponents' capital without mercy.

It was why those dopamine-chasing short videos young people scrolled endlessly these days seemed utterly tasteless to Brock.

Compared to the raw, brutal thrill of trading real money in a market that could flip on a heartbeat?

Those little clips were nothing more than children playing house.

This—this battlefield—was the true dopamine paradise. The only place where an adult's reward system could explode in ecstasy.

And that was the core reason Brock stayed.

Of course, he was often asked, "Why not go solo? Trade your own money? Wouldn't that be even freer, even more exciting?"

No. Absolutely not.

Using company capital left a sliver of detachment—just enough distance to keep a trader clear-headed, rational.

But the instant you touched your own savings, that deep-seated greed and fear coded into human DNA would flare up like a virus, instantly devouring reason.

It would reduce you to nothing more than driftwood, tossed about on emotional waves.

So many brilliant traders—gods of the trading floor—collapsed into ruin the moment they went solo.

That was why.

The closing bell had just sounded. The air still carried the acrid haze of battle.

"Jack," Brock called out, "tidy up today's position report and trading log for me. Did you flag the special cases?"

"Yes, Mr. Magnus. The report's ready. I'll send it over with the data right away."

"Good. Be quick. I'll need it to plan tomorrow's strategy."

"Yes, sir!"

After issuing his orders, Brock stood, stretching muscles stiff from sitting all day. He reached beneath his desk, pulled out a dumbbell, rolled up his sleeves, and began his post-market ritual.

Every day after the closing bell, he forced himself through several sets of strength training, staving off muscle loss, then downed a protein shake. Dinner, as always, would be the same bland chicken breast.

That was discipline.

But tonight, as he curled the dumbbell, he noticed someone standing a short distance away. A figure hesitated, unsure whether to interrupt.

"Charlotte? What is it?" Brock asked without pausing his set.

"Ah—Sir, sorry to disturb your workout." Charlotte dipped her head politely.

"It's fine. Just stretching the joints. Speak."

"Well... it's about the newcomer today."

She quickly summarized what had happened during the orientation.

"So you're telling me," Brock frowned, lowering the dumbbell, "the rookie who started today accidentally went full position into a single penny stock? At the limit-down price?"

"Yes... I think he might have clicked the wrong button while I was explaining the system." She hesitated. "And since that stock was locked at limit-down all day, I was worried it might... affect his final review."

"I get it." Brock cut her off. "Don't worry about the review. Just keep showing him the ropes."

"Yes, sir. Thank you."

As Charlotte left, Brock's gaze lingered, thoughtful.

Charlotte was sharp, capable, and kind. Yet in this ruthless world of numbers, where only P&L mattered, her compassion made her seem like a foreign element—a asset in most places, but a potential liability here.

He tried to dismiss the rookie's blunder.

But the kid was a nepo hire, and that clumsy trade stuck in Brock's mind like a persistent glitch on a Bloomberg screen.

Full size. Limit-down. Penny stock.

Any one of those sins in a live account would have gotten the kid escorted out of the building by security.

But in the SIM? No real damage done.

Even so… something about it nagged at him.

A misclick? Really?

He still had to hit "Buy" and then "Confirm Order." It's not like the mouse had a mind of its own.

"Maybe there's something off about that trade..."

The stock the kid bought was ZRN, a micro-cap gold miner.

Penny stocks were toxic enough—constant delisting risk, zero liquidity. Firm rules outright forbade trading them. And today, with gold futures getting hammered in a technical correction, the entire sector was a bloodbath.

Could it really have been just a mistake?

"Forget it. Don't waste the cycles."

The rookie was a connected kid, here to put a fancy line on his resume. He was never making it through the evaluation.

A greenhorn who couldn't even read a simple chart? Entrust him with the firm's capital?

Brock wasn't that stupid—and neither was management.

So let him play. Let him blow up his simulated account.

Brock would sit back and watch what kind of magic the boy thought he was going to pull off.

...

"Time really flies... It's already this late?"

Before Elon realized it, the clock had crept past seven in the evening.

From the moment Elon stepped through the company doors at seven that morning, he had been confined to this narrow space for a full twelve hours. Strangely enough, the day felt as if it had passed in the blink of an eye.

"Stay here long enough and time really does speed up," Charlotte said with a laugh as she packed up her things. "Maybe it's because in this place, speed is everything. Everyone's running as if their life depends on it."

In the first stretch after the market opened, the two of them—idlers by comparison—didn't have much to do. But once trading reached its fever pitch, orders and errands came crashing in from every direction:

"Quick, print this report!"

"Send those figures to the forex desk!"

"Coffee! Coffee! I need a refill before I drop dead!"

...

Utterly bewildered, Elon had no choice but to trail after Charlotte like a shadow, stumbling along, learning as he went.

"But honestly, Elon," Charlotte said with a warm smile, "for your very first day, you did quite well. So, see you tomorrow."

"Ah, thank you, Charlotte! Yes, see you tomorrow!"

He stood there, dazed, watching her silhouette fade into the distance.

To be honest, today's intensity had far exceeded his expectations. Yet thinking about it, it was only natural. This was, after all, one of the most prestigious private funds in the country—the place countless finance prodigies fought tooth and nail to enter.

Complaining after just a single day would be disgraceful.

And then there were his parents—still working tirelessly, just to support the son who had once lived off them without a care. Compared to their hardships, sitting in an air-conditioned office hardly counted as suffering at all.

Besides, with Charlotte guiding him, this was already a better start than he could have hoped for.

What right did he have to complain?

No… he had to keep going. Work harder.

He glanced at the time.

"Crap, it's dungeon time! The guild master and the others are still waiting for me in-game!"

Elon immediately quickened his pace, almost breaking into a run as he dashed toward the subway station...

...

At six or seven in the morning, the city had yet to fully awaken. Office workers dragged themselves from their beds, yawning and sighing as they braced for another grueling commute.

This was the rhythm of modern corporate life—fast, relentless, unforgiving.

But among the masses, there existed a peculiar breed. Not only did they show no complaint, they arrived at the office with a devotion bordering on the sacred.

They were traders.

For this group, the weekend stock market closure was agony. Restless and irritable, their fingers twitched involuntarily as if suffering withdrawal symptoms. The gnawing impatience in their hearts was no different from that of gamblers desperate for the roulette wheel to spin.

Of course, not every trader fit this mold.

But in Brock's career, more than half the traders he had known carried this unmistakable trait—an addiction to dopamine itself.

Today, as always, Brock was the first to arrive at the office.

He meticulously and methodically pored over the deluge of reports and documents stacked high before him, scanning for events on the far side of the globe that might ripple across the markets.

As he sifted through the data, he took a measured sip of his morning drink: protein powder mixed with water.

Coffee? That was for mortals.

"Good morning, Mr. Magnus." One after another, his team members filed in, punctual as clockwork, slotting neatly into place like gears in a well-oiled machine.

"Be ready. Morning meeting in fifteen."

"Yes, sir!"

The briefing was brisk—reviewing yesterday's trades, analyzing current conditions, and fine-tuning strategies with the freshest intel. Once Brock had finished issuing instructions, he returned to his desk, framed by a wall of multi-screen monitors.

One minute to market open.

Despite his years of experience, this moment always sent a sharp tension through his chest—an edge of nerves sharpened by a rush of exhilaration. His fingertips tingled with the irrepressible urge to strike the keys. The battle was about to begin.

The opening bell rang, shattering the stagnant air.

Brock's fingers flew across the keyboard, darting between mouse and screen in a blur, his gaze leaping across the shifting tide of numbers. His brain burned like an overclocked processor, calculating, adjusting, anticipating.

When the market bent to his predictions, a fierce wave of dopamine surged through him—raw, euphoric triumph.

Within hours, he could experience a thousand deaths and rebirths—soaring to heaven one moment, plunging into hell the next, only to claw his way back again.

In that whirlwind of extremes, time dissolved.

Before he knew it, the hours had vanished.

The closing bell sounded.

"Ah..." Every day at this moment, Brock felt the same hollow ache, as if the carnival lights of an amusement park had gone dark, leaving only silence and emptiness.

"Mr. Magnus, today's report and data are ready. Sending them over now."

The voice of a subordinate dragged him back. There was no time for sentimentality.

Today's battle was done. Tomorrow's awaited.

The review must begin; new ammunition must be prepared.

"Alright. Anything unusual?"

"A few stocks showed abnormal surges today. I've compiled the details in a file for you."

"Alright."

He opened the file and began scanning the market anomaly report, eyes skimming the list of sudden risers and unexpected plunges. Each ticker told a story—winners and losers etched in red and green, a comedy and tragedy of capital intertwined.

Then—

"...Hm?"

One name snagged his attention like a pop-up window.

It looked familiar. Strangely familiar.

"Wait… this is..." A wild thought flashed through his mind.

He hurriedly pulled up yesterday's records from the newcomer's simulation account.

The numbers confirmed it. A cold knot of disbelief tightened in his chest.

[ZRN // Position: 100% // P&L: +5%]

ZRN had been halted all morning on news, only to reopen in the afternoon and instantly rocket to limit-up.

"Heh." A short, sharp, incredulous laugh escaped Brock's lips.

The reason surfaced quickly enough.

Gemrock Group had announced a strategic acquisition of a 20% stake in ZRN. As a titan in the gold sector, Gemrock's move ignited frenzied speculation about massive asset injections and industry consolidation.

In Brock's professional view, the stock was now a sealed rocket. There would be no boarding for latecomers. It would be a cascade of consecutive limit-up days, straight into the stratosphere.

And the one holding a full-position ticket was the rookie.

Sure, it was fake money. It was only a simulation. The missed real profit was a sting, but it was overshadowed by a deeper, more unsettling question now circling like a vulture in his mind, 'How the hell did he know?'

He replayed yesterday's morning meeting. The team had dissected the U.S. nonfarm payrolls, the hot CPI print, a strengthening dollar—the entire narrative had pointed to continued technical pressure on gold. Every single trader, himself included, had consensus: gold equities were dead money for the session. The market's open had confirmed it.

Yet somehow, that rookie had fished a single diamond out of a sewer, buying ZRN in full at its lowest point.

But Charlotte said it was a misclick.

The more Brock thought about it, the less sense it made. Under such a bearish backdrop, from thousands of stocks, the newcomer had somehow pinpointed this one toxic, limit-down penny stock out of thousands and bought it in full size?

That was no accident.

It was a calculated move. A disguise. An outright provocation.

A ludicrous, terrifying thought erupted in his mind, 'The kid is connected. He has a source!'

Maybe the junior trader title was a cover. Maybe he had deliberately chosen a stock everyone would scorn and then bought it in the most audacious way possible—full size, limit-down—just to broadcast his silent contempt for their entire operation.

Brock sucked in a sharp breath.