Eleven on the index. Extreme fear.
My uncle calls to ask if this one's real,
if this is the crash that finally makes us kneel,
or just the season doing what seasons do each year.
BlackRock sheds two hundred million by noon.
Fidelity follows with a smaller wound.
The group chat calls the bottom, then calls it too soon,
and somewhere in the static, a whale's cocooned

in silence, moving two hundred seventy
thousand coins to wallets built on nothing
but time, no name attached, no proof, no plenty,
just the discipline of never folding early,
the way my grandfather read a mahjong table:
not lucky. Only patient before the deal.