Brother Qiang squatted beside the factory assembly line, the screwdriver in his hand making a "clicking" sound, the smell of machine oil mixed with sweat smeared on his face. No one could imagine that three years ago, he was still driving a luxury car worth millions, throwing money around at banquets as a boss.

At that time, he was in the building materials business, riding the wave of the real estate boom, accumulating nearly ten million in wealth. His wife stayed home to tend to flowers and walk the dog, his daughter attended an international class at a private school, and life was sweet as honey. In early 2022, everyone in his circle was talking about Luna, claiming it was the "printing press of the crypto world." Some advised him to invest less and test the waters, but Brother Qiang, who loved to go all in his whole life, didn’t hesitate. He put all of the company's working capital, the mortgage on his property, and even his daughter's education fund—a total of over eight million—into Luna.

At first, the account balance soared, and he was bragging at the dinner table, saying he would change to a large apartment with a river view by the end of the year. But that black Thursday in May, the news of Luna's crash struck him like thunder in his ears. When he opened the trading software, the numbers on the screen were reduced to mere cents, and over eight million evaporated without a trace.

The bank's collection notices came one after another. The building materials company went bankrupt due to a broken cash flow, creditors blocked the door demanding repayment, and his wife left in tears, saying she saw no hope following him. Even their daughter was taken away, leaving behind only the words, "Dad, you are too greedy." Brother Qiang fell from the cloud into the mud, sold his last car to pay off part of the debt, and for the rest of his days, he could only rely on the little electrical skills he learned in his youth, working in this electronics factory, tightening screws for twelve hours a day, earning four thousand a month.

That day, a coworker was scrolling through his phone, reading the news that "Do Kwon was sentenced to 15 years." Brother Qiang's screwdriver paused for a moment as he glanced at the moon outside the window. The moonlight was cold and desolate, reminiscent of the night of Luna's collapse. He lowered his head and continued tightening screws, muttering, "What does it matter if he is sentenced to a hundred years?" His voice was drowned out by the roar of the machines, and no one heard him.