Arranging a Temporary Crash Pad

Wall Street folks all have massive egos.

Strong egos that border on outright eccentricity—plenty of people fit that bill.

Why is that?

Obviously, it's foolish to pin a single cause to a phenomenon and declare causation. But if I had to pick one reason why Wall Streeters are so full of themselves...

I personally think it's the zero-sum structure.

'Zero-sum game, zero-sum structure... whatever you call it.'

A setup where the winner's gains plus the loser's losses equal zero.

In other words, if someone's taking, someone else is losing.

Me buying stock at a certain price means someone else sold it at that price.

'If I win, someone loses. If I lose, someone wins.'

Simple as that.

'And Wall Street judges everything by P&L.'

You're constantly competing on returns—not just against rival funds, but even your own colleagues in the same fund. You're up against everyone.

To survive in that world, you have to have a rock-solid ego.

If you don't trust your own strategy, you can't make money.

And my past-life self was no different.

'Especially as an Asian—they low-key look down on you.'

So you end up a bit pricklier. Like a peacock fanning its tail feathers to intimidate predators.

Bonus points for proving your superiority.

"...Sorry."

But this life was different.

I'm not competing with anyone, not working on Wall Street.

So finally, I could man up—er, woman up—and own my mistakes cleanly...

"Get out."

"...What'd you say?"

"Nope. Asking me to repeat it means you heard me just fine, sis."

"... "

"I said get out."

"Uh, are you really gonna fight her?"

She looks really pissed...

"But I was busy making money..."

"You're the one who suddenly said you were moving out for some bullshit reason. And was it that hard to send one text?"

"Look, my smartphone's totally smashed here? I think that deserves some leniency."

"Oh, really?"

With that, Seola shoved her smartphone in my face.

A twinge of unease hit me; I squeezed my eyes shut, and her voice turned ice-cold.

"Sis? Wanna open your eyes?"

"Cough, cough."

"Running from reality doesn't solve shit. It's just a matter of when you face the truth."

Exhaustion was creeping in—I felt like I might pass out soon—so I gave up procrastinating and surrendered.

Slowly opening my eyes to Seola's phone, my past karma smacked me right in the face.

"So you had time to post all this crap, but no time to text me?"

"...I got nothing to say."

"And you knew damn well you ghosted without a word?"

"...Ahem."

"You even admitted forgetting to text 'cause you were monitoring Velmira-something?"

"I'd have no excuse with ten mouths."

Yeah. What excuse could there be?

This was on me.

If the roles were reversed and Seola ghosted my place for two days after saying she'd come? I'd have called the cops in hours, not days.

"Sniff... I was gonna report you to the police..."

"...Sorry."

"Money? We've survived without it so far. But without you, what's the point...?"

Money can do a ton.

But there's plenty it can't touch.

I've solved tons of problems with cash before...

But now wasn't the time. I knew that much.

I approached Seola, tears streaming, and pulled her into a slow hug.

"My bad."

"Sniff, say exactly what you did wrong."

"Ghosted without texting."

"...And?"

"Tried to fix it with money."

Seola tilted her tear-filled face up to mine.

"If this happens again... Money, stocks—I'm confiscating it all. Got it?"

"Yeah."

So the ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠blowout with Seola ended on a happy note...

That incident, anyway.

"Sis!! I told you if you're not doing chores, at least sort the laundry!"

"Mhm."

"You're not even listening."

"I am. Totally."

For the record, I am listening to Seola seriously.

Playing a game doesn't mean tuning her out.

In Wall Street terms, I've got killer attention switching skills.

Gaming while tuning into the convo? Easy.

"Then why do you keep dumping laundry like that?"

"Efficiency issue."

"Not efficiency—laziness. And you barely leave your room except to eat!"

Hmm.

This game wasn't called the devil's game for nothing.

Lead a nation, conquer the world—simple goal.

But every path to victory is unique. That's the hook.

'It's a game, but it lets you glimpse a leader's worldview.'

Wall Street's elite in America, sure. But not true upper crust.

Real American elites need money plus lineage, networks.

Naive rookie me thought piling cash would open those doors.

"Thought being rich would make 'em welcome me with open arms..."

Totally wrong.

You could eat and chat at their tables, sure.

But invited guest vs. insider? Worlds apart—even in the same room.

"Where do you work?"

Tell 'em hedge fund on the Street, and they'd nod knowingly.

Understanding what? They pegged my type.

Money-maker or money-holder.

"Less understanding, more categorizing."

Funny thing: some weren't even that rich.

I'd out-earn them sometimes...

But that invisible trust? Can't buy it. Ptooey. Filthy nepotism society.

Reliving old memories mid-game soured my mood.

'Just you wait.'

Once my influence hits untouchable levels?

They'll come crawling.

Door too narrow? Bulk up till you swallow the whole damn frame.

Those snooty exclusives bowing to a retail trader like me—not Wall Street royalty? Priceless.

"Hey, sis. Come eat already."

"...Coming right now."

"Seriously, how does someone like you get worshipped online?"

"Probably 'cause I make bank."

"That's what baffles me. Gaming all day in this pigsty room—how do you rake it in?"

Stepping out for food, the cozy wallpaper hit me.

Cute vibe, old-school charm...

Or tacky, if you wanna be mean.

"It's just too damn old."

"What can we do? Grandpa insists on staying."

"That's why I came up with a plan."

"...What?"

"Make him experience it himself."

Plenty love tradition or local flavor.

But try the modern world firsthand? Minds change fast.