On the white sand, under the cruel sun, the wolf toasts. Not to the market, not to luck, but to the tragedy he sees repeating itself before his eyes. The champagne is cold, the waves are breaking gently, and the world is on fire: Bitcoin is close to 100 thousand dollars. On the exchanges and apps, hysterical newbies buy in desperation. And he, the wolf, laughs. He laughs out loud, he laughs mockingly. He laughs because he knows: they have already lost, they just haven't realized it yet.
A little over a year ago, the market was a desert. The price was sinking, the charts were bleeding, and the experts were shouting that the end had come. Bitcoin at 15 thousand. "It's dead!" the newspapers screamed. No one wanted to touch it. Only the wolves, silent, bought. They bought because they knew. While the lambs fled in terror, they accumulated, knowing that the panic of the many is the gold of the few.
Now the lambs have returned. But not as hunters. They have returned as cattle, marching to the slaughterhouse. They rush to buy at the all-time high, convinced that they are winning, that they have arrived at the right time. Poor souls. They do not realize that it is already too late. While they are drowning in euphoria, the wolf has already pocketed the profits, has already sold, and has already left.
The market is a tragedy played out on a loop. Newbies don't learn because they don't want to learn. They prefer to believe in the illusion of endless growth, in the dream of easy wealth. They buy at the top as if the price would rise forever. And when the drop comes, and it always does, they will sell in panic, handing over what's left to the next wolf.
The wolf knows. He sees everything from his deckchair. The champagne in his glass is financed by the sweat of fools. He is in no hurry, because the market always rewards the patient and punishes the greedy. He bought in silence and sold in noise. The market is not fair, and the wolf does not care. Justice is for lambs; profit is for wolves.
And the lambs? Poor, predictable, pathetic. They buy headlines, not fundamentals. They come in when the price is news and leave when it becomes a joke. While the wolf relaxes in the shade of a coconut tree, they struggle in the chaos of the rise, shouting "Now it's going to a million!". It won't. They don't know it, but they've already been devoured.
On the beach, the wolf takes the last sip of champagne and laughs again. He knows what comes next. The cycle never fails. Soon, the market will crash, and the lambs will dump everything in the dump, swearing they will never come back. But they will come back. They always come back. Always too late.
The wolf is eternal. The lambs are disposable. In the market, you are either the predator or you are the main course. And the lambs? They will never understand that the historic high is not paradise. It is hell packaged as a promise. And the wolf, satiated, makes it clear: in the market, the only banquet the lambs will see is the one that serves its own flesh.
