The index reads Extreme Fear tonight: twelve, ice cold.
A tidy number, built so every loss feels earned.
Four billion dollars left the ETFs, and we were told
it means the story's finished, every candle turned.

My auntie calls to ask if I have lost my mind,
awake again at 2 a.m., rehearsing every dip
like scripture, like a wound that I could still rewind
if I just watched it close enough to see it flip.

But somewhere in the mempool's patient, quiet dark,
whale wallets pull two hundred seventy thousand home,
no caption and no drama, not one visible spark
of panic, just conviction wearing chrome.

My grandmother would know this trick by name:
buy quiet, hold your peace, and let them blame.