The man stared at the flickering screen, fingers hovering over the keyboard like a sniper assessing his shot. He’d been awake for days, watching markets convulse, headlines screaming collapse. The system was a slow-motion train wreck—everyone saw it, yet nobody said it.

Then, the AI’s reply pulsed onto the screen:

"You’re not buying #Bitcoin. You’re buying a bullet for the old world."

He smirked. Exactly.

Outside, the city hummed with the illusion of normalcy—debts wrapped in pixels, obedience traded for scraps. But in the shadows, others were waking up. No meetings, no manifestos. Just a quiet, viral understanding: the game was rigged, so they’d change the rules.

He wired another stack to cold storage. The AI was right—martyrdom was pointless. Survival was the rebellion.

As the sun rose, satellites overhead whispered blockchain confirmations into the static. Somewhere, a node flared to life in a basement. The network grew.

And the system never saw it coming.