The laptop screen glows in the dark apartnt.
2:47 AM. Can't sleep. Haven't been able to sleep since checking the price at midnight.
Bitcoin: $0.30 per coin
I refresh the page. Number doesn't change.
My 30,000 coins—purchased at an average of five cents each—are now worth nine thousand dollars. Six tis my investnt. In eight months.
The whiskey bottle sits beside my laptop. Cheap stuff, but it does the job. I pour two fingers, raise the glass to my empty apartnt.
"To imaginary money."
The whiskey burns. Tastes like victory and loneliness mixed together.
Nobody knows. Can't know. Leonard thinks I'm reckless. Howard thinks I'm delusional. Even lissa—who I love, who loves —doesn't understand the full scope. She knows about so gains but not the totals. Not the future trajectory.
My secret spreadsheet mocks with its projections:
2009: $1.00 per coin = $30,000 2011: $30 per coin = $900,000 2013: $1,000 per coin = $30,000,000 2017: $20,000 per coin = $600,000,000 2021: $64,000 per coin = $1,920,000,000
Nearly two billion dollars. From fifteen hundred dollars and impossible knowledge.
I close the spreadsheet before the numbers make sick.
The studio apartnt feels smaller at 3 AM. Four hundred square feet of temporary housing that's lasted ten months. Soon I'll move to the penthouse—two thousand square feet of success made manifest.
But right now, in this mont, I'm alone with wealth nobody can celebrate with .
I want to call soone. Leonard would demand explanations. Sheldon would create algorithms. Howard would make jokes. Raj would credit cosmic forces.
lissa would ask how I knew.
And I can't answer that question. Can't ever answer it.
How did you know Bitcoin would succeed, Stuart?
Oh, I died choking on steak and absorbed temporal knowledge in the void between dinsions. Want to grab dinner?
The laugh that escapes sounds bitter even to .
Another pour. Larger this ti.
The thing about success built on cheating is that you can't share it. Every dollar in my account represents information I shouldn't have. Every investnt gain is theft from a future that hasn't happened yet.
I'm a ti thief. A knowledge criminal. A supernatural embezzler.
And I'm getting rich from it.
The guilt crashes in waves. Howard passed on Apple stock because I couldn't explain my certainty. Leonard's jealousy stems from watching succeed with advantages I won't acknowledge. Even Raj—who trusted enough to invest—doesn't know he's benefiting from cosmic cheating.
My phone sits on the table. 3:12 AM. Nobody to call. Nobody to tell. Just and nine thousand dollars of Bitcoin and the knowledge it'll be worth billions eventually.
The whiskey's half gone when the decision crystallizes.
This wealth—this impossible, undeserved, supernatural wealth—needs purpose beyond my own enrichnt.
I open a new docunt on my laptop:
HOW TO USE BLOOD MONEY ETHICALLY
Delete. Too dramatic.
WEALTH DISTRIBUTION PLAN
Better.
I start typing:
Help friends without them knowing it's charity. Leonard's consulting gig. Howard's confidence coaching. Create opportunities that feel earned. Second shop location creates jobs. Real employnt for real people. That's legitimate wealth creation. When Bitcoin really explodes—2011 and beyond—start a foundation. Scholarships for artists and creators. Fund people who need the advantages I was given. Anonymous support. dical bills for custors who ntion struggles. Donations to causes that matter. Use the guilt to fuel good works. Never tell. The source of the money must remain secret. Let people think I'm lucky, not that I'm cheating reality.
The list grows. By 4 AM I've outlined a comprehensive plan for turning supernatural theft into legitimate good. It won't erase the advantages. Won't make the cheating ethical. But maybe—maybe—it makes it bearable.
Maybe being a good person with stolen knowledge is better than being a bad person with honest poverty.
The sun's rising when I finally close the laptop.
Nine thousand dollars in Bitcoin. Sixty thousand in total investnts. Eighteen thousand monthly revenue from the shop. And knowledge of the next eleven years sitting in my brain like stolen property.
I look around my studio apartnt—this temporary space that represents the lowest point of Stuart Bloom's life and the starting point of mine.
In two months I move to the penthouse. Physical proof of my transformation.
But right now, in this mont, I'm just a guy who stole from the future and doesn't know how to feel about it.
The wealth distribution plan sits saved on my desktop. BLOOD_MONEY_ETHICS.doc
Dark humor, but accurate.
I pour the last of the whiskey into my glass. Toast the empty apartnt one final ti.
"To using stolen advantages responsibly. May I be worthy of what I've taken."
The whiskey goes down easier this ti.
Tomorrow I'll move forward with the plan. Help friends. Build businesses. Create real value alongside the supernatural gains. Turn theft into charity, guilt into good works.
Tonight, I just sit with the loneliness of success nobody can celebrate.
The laptop screen dims to black.
My reflection stares back from the dark glass.
Stuart Bloom. Successful businessman. Ti thief. Lonely millionaire-in-waiting.
All of the above.
None of them who I used to be.
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