The Useless Son-in-law Who Became A Crypto Genius

Scatter And Hide

"The body was burned beyond recognition," Mark said quietly. "Dental records were inconclusive because of the—"

"Stop." Cassandra stood up, smoothing her dress with trembling hands. "You're being paranoid. The police confirmed it was him. They found his wallet, his—"

"His wallet that could've been planted," Mark interrupted. "His phone that could've been left behind. All we have is a burned corpse in his car, and suddenly his cryptocurrency vanishes into thin air."

Alina's nails dug into the leather hard enough to leave marks. 'He's dead. I watched him die. I saw the explosion. There's no way—'

But even as she thought it, something cold slithered down her spine.

Douglas poured himself a whiskey. Downed it. Poured another. "So what are you saying? That he faked his death? That useless nobody somehow outsmarted all of us and—"

"I'm saying the coins are gone." Mark slammed the laptop shut. "I'm saying we just lost a fortune. And I'm saying that either someone incredibly skilled hacked a secure account in the middle of a launch surge, or—"

He didn't finish.

He didn't have to.

Alina stood up, smoothing her dress. Her face was calm. Perfectly calm. Inside, though—inside she was screaming.

"I need air," she said quietly.

Nobody stopped her as she walked to the balcony.

–––––––––––

The night air was cold. Sharp. It bit at her exposed skin, raising goosebumps along her arms.

Alina gripped the railing, knuckles white.

'He's dead. He has to be dead. Because if he's not—'

If he's not, then everything falls apart. The sympathy, the inheritance, the whole carefully constructed story. If he's alive, if he somehow survived and is out there right now watching—

Her phone buzzed.

Alina jumped, nearly dropping it. The screen glowed in the dark.

Unknown number.

Her thumb hovered. Shaking. Just slightly.

'Don't answer. Don't—'

She answered.

"Hello?"

Static. Then—breathing. Low. Steady.

"Who is this?" Her voice came out sharper than intended.

The breathing stopped. The line went dead.

Alina stared at the dark screen. Her reflection stared back—pale, eyes too wide.

'Coincidence. Just a coincidence. Must be a wrong number.... yes... that's it.'

But her hands wouldn't stop shaking.

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Across the city, in a motel room that reeked of stale cigarettes and mildew, Neo Ames sat hunched over his laptop. The glow painted his face in harsh blues and whites.

His finger hovered over the disconnect button of the burner phone app.

Then he closed it.

'Too obvious. Can't spook her yet.'

The TV mounted on the wall flickered—some late-night news broadcast playing on mute. Neo glanced up, and there it was.

His own face.

Well, Noam's face. Same difference.

"—tragedy continues to shake the community," the anchor said, expression appropriately somber. "Authorities have closed the investigation into the Bellvue incident. The family of Noam Ash has requested privacy during this difficult time."

The screen cut to footage of the crash site. Twisted metal. Blackened grass. Police tape fluttering in the wind.

Neo's lips curved.

'Beautiful.'

They'd bought it. All of it. The burned body, the planted evidence, the whole theatrical death scene. Hook, line, and sinker.

He reached for the remote, turned the volume up slightly.

"—dental records proved inconclusive due to the severity of the fire," a different reporter continued. "However, personal effects recovered from the scene, including a wallet and mobile phone, have been confirmed as belonging to the deceased."

Neo snorted. The wallet had been easy—just left it in the car before he jumped. The phone? Smashed and tossed in for good measure.

'Amateurs.'

The news switched to coverage of Alina's statement. There she was, standing outside the Carver estate, dabbing at red-rimmed eyes with a tissue. Her voice cracked at all the right moments.

"He was—he was my everything," she said, voice breaking. "I just—I can't believe he's gone."

The camera zoomed in on her face. The trembling lips. The glistening tears.

Neo tilted his head, studying her performance.

'Damn. She's good. I'll give her that.'

If he didn't know better—if he hadn't lived through her betrayal, felt the knife twist in his ribs—he might've actually believed it.

The neighbors certainly did. The comments scrolling across the bottom of the screen were full of sympathy.

"Poor woman."

"So tragic."

"She loved him so much."

Neo's smirk widened into something colder.

'Yeah. Loved me so much she hired thugs to stab me. Real touching.'

He switched off the TV. The room plunged into darkness except for the laptop glow.

Time to get to work.

His fingers flew across the keyboard, muscle memory from years of watching, learning, waiting. In his first life, he'd been too scared to actually do anything with the knowledge he'd accumulated. Too beaten down. Too convinced he'd fail.

Now?

Now he had nothing to lose and everything to gain.

He pulled up his trading account—the real one, not the pathetic thing the Carvers had found and emptied. This one was hidden behind layers of encryption, registered under a fake name with a fake address in a country he'd never visited.

The balance made him pause.

One hundred twenty thousand Bytegold coins. Purchased days before his "death" using every cent he'd secretly saved over the years. Money from freelance work the Carvers never knew about. Side gigs. Small investments. Years of scraping together pennies while they called him useless.

The coins he'd bought in absolute secret. The ones nobody knew about.

At current prices, those coins were worth...

'Holy shit.'

He did the math twice. Then three times.

Eight million, four hundred thousand dollars.

From a one hundred thousand dollar investment.

His chest did something weird—tight and expansive at the same time.

'This is real. This is actually real.'

But that wasn't even the best part.

He pulled up the second account. The one he'd just finished setting up. The one containing the twelve Bytegold coins he'd liberated from his old account—the account the Carvers had gleefully emptied, thinking they'd taken everything.

Those twelve coins? His little payback gift. Payment for them trying to kill him over what they thought was his entire fortune.

'You wanted my twelve coins so bad? Fine. You can have the empty account. I'll take the other 120,000.'

Combined total: 120,012 Bytegold coins.

Worth approximately $8,484,000.

Neo leaned back, a laugh bubbling up from somewhere deep. It came out sharp, slightly unhinged.

'They killed me for twelve coins. TWELVE. While I had 120,000 sitting right under their noses.'

The irony was almost too perfect.

But eight million wasn't enough. Not even close. Not for what he had planned.

He needed more. Needed to move fast before Mark figured out what was happening and started looking in the right places.

'Time to get creative.'

Neo pulled up a command terminal. Lines of code scrolled across the screen as he typed, each command precise, purposeful.

First step: split the coins.

He couldn't just leave them sitting in one wallet like a giant bullseye. Mark might be an arrogant ass, but he wasn't stupid. If he started digging—and he would start digging—he'd trace the blockchain eventually.

Neo created the first ghost wallet. Then a second. A third. By the time he was done, he had fifteen wallets, each registered to a different fake identity, each using a different VPN endpoint.

'Scatter and hide. Classic.'

He initiated the first transfer. Ten thousand Bytegold coins split into smaller fractions, sent to three different wallets simultaneously. The blockchain recorded it as three separate transactions from three separate sources.

Anyone trying to trace it would see a fragmented mess.

'Good luck with that, Mark.'

Transfer confirmed.

Neo moved to the second batch. This time he routed it through a mixing service—one of those shady operations that tumbled cryptocurrency through hundreds of temporary wallets before spitting it out the other end, thoroughly scrambled.

The transaction f*e was brutal—two percent—but worth it.

Untraceable.

He worked methodically, splitting and routing and mixing until the original 120,012 coins had become a digital ghost, scattered across the internet like ashes in the wind.

His eyes burned. When was the last time he'd blinked?

'Doesn't matter. Keep going.'

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Two hours later, the last transaction confirmed.

Neo leaned back, rubbing his face. The laptop screen showed fifteen different wallets, each containing fragments of his fortune, each locked behind encryption that would take years to crack.

'Phase one complete.'

But he wasn't done. Not even close.

He pulled up a private forum—the kind you couldn't G****e your way into. The kind that required an invitation and three different encryption keys just to view.

The screen loaded. Dark background, bright green text. Very underground hacker aesthetic.

Neo had lurked here in his first life. Watched people make and lose fortunes in real-time. Watched them trade information worth millions like it was gossip.

He'd never had the balls to participate.

Now?

Now he had an account. PhoenixDown. Approved three hours ago using fake credentials and a very convincing fake trading history.

'Let's see what the big boys are talking about.'