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

The Trap Reappears

The kitchen reeked of burnt toast and cheap cooking oil. His in-laws were already at the chipped table. Cassandra sat upright like she was royalty, even though her expensive perfume couldn't quite cover the sour smell of last night's wine.

Douglas had a newspaper spread out, though everyone knew he barely understood half the words in the business section. And across from them sat Alina.

She looked perfect.

Brown hair in those effortless waves rich girls always managed. Lips curved just right. But those eyes—God, those calculating, ice-cold eyes—he knew what they hid now.

"Finally awake," Cassandra sneered. "Do you think this is a hotel? The food's getting cold."

Douglas grunted without looking up. "Grown man eating for free should at least wake up on time."

Alina glanced at him, smile perfectly in place. "Don't scold him too much, Mother. He's... trying."

The hypocrisy almost made him laugh. In his old life, he would've lowered his head, mumbled sorry, and eaten while they tore into him. That version of Noam had been broken. Convinced there was no way out.

But now?

Now he was watching three actors repeat their lines on a stage he'd already seen.

Noam sat down without a word, face carefully blank.

"Did you hear?" Douglas folded his newspaper like he was some kind of expert. "Some tech company, Bytegold, making waves. Hype, that's all it is."

Cassandra sniffed. "People throwing money at fantasies. Real wealth comes from property, not some... digital nonsense."

Alina stirred her coffee with delicate precision, eyes sliding to Noam. "Though maybe it suits him. Daydreaming about easy money instead of doing real work... that's just his style, isn't it?"

Their laughter followed, sharp and practiced.

Noam's lips curved slightly.

'If you only knew, or maybe you did know.'

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After breakfast, Cassandra shoved a list into his hands. "If you insist on being useless, at least make yourself useful. Dry cleaning, groceries. And don't you dare forget anything."

He took the paper, folding it neatly. Inside, his mind was racing.

He had to move fast. The dinner invitation was coming. The betrayal. The hired thugs. The whole damn trap was only days away.

This time, he'd be ready.

But first—Bytegold.

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The day dragged.

He ran errands, nodded at insults, played the part. But behind the mask, calculations spun nonstop. Every detail from the forums, the price charts, the exact moment Bytegold's value exploded—he burned it all into memory.

At an old internet café squeezed between convenience stores, he sat at a clunky monitor. His hands hovered over the keyboard.

'If I'm too obvious, they'll notice. Too careful, and I'll waste this chance.'

He checked his usual trading account—the one his wife knew about. The balance was pathetic. Barely enough for groceries.

So he set up another account. Fake name. Fake everything. They'd always mocked him as useless, but nobody knew he'd actually been decent at spotting patterns, predicting trends. Back then, his confidence had been crushed under their contempt.

Now? He had two lifetimes of experience.

A couple thousand. Small enough to stay under the radar. Big enough to plant the seed.

Click.

He bought Bytegold.

He leaned back, lips curling.

'This is where it starts.'

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That evening, the Carvers were hosting one of their gatherings. Relatives and business contacts filled the over-decorated living room. Chandeliers sparkled, laughter bounced off walls, glasses clinked.

Noam blended into the background like always. The "useless" son-in-law hovering at the edge.

He'd been here before. Every word, every glance was burned into memory. Time was looping, and he was walking through it with open eyes.

Cousins whispered behind their hands. "Why'd Alina even marry him?"

"Sympathy, maybe."

"More like pity."

Alina floated through the crowd, radiant, wine glass balanced perfectly in her hand. She smiled at him across the room—that same polished smile.

Noam smiled back.

But this time, something was different in his gaze.

This time, he wasn't walking toward his death.

Later, when the guests thinned out, Cassandra cornered him in the kitchen.

"Alina's hosting a dinner for important partners soon," she said, eyes narrowing. "Don't embarrass us. Sit quietly, eat what's given, and don't speak unless spoken to."

His heart pounded.

The dinner. The same damn dinner where they'd set the trap.

He forced his expression into something meek. "Of course."

Inside, his thoughts burned.

'That's where it happens. That's where they killed me.'

This time, he wouldn't walk in blind.

The night deepened. Alone in his room, Noam opened the dying laptop. Fan roaring, screen flickering. He pulled up the trading account. Bytegold's numbers blinked back—steady, quiet.

For now.

He pressed his palm flat against the desk, grounding himself.

Everything was repeating. Every word, every look, every detail. But this was his chance to rewrite it all.

His lips curved.

'Let them think I'm useless. Let them laugh.'

He glanced at his reflection in the cracked mirror—the man who'd died once, now living again.

'This time... I'll be the one smiling.'

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The next morning, he left for errands. As he stepped outside, he froze.

A black sedan idled across the street. A man leaned against it, smoking.

Noam's blood turned to ice.

It was him.

The same thug. The one who'd stabbed him.

The man's gaze slid lazily across the street, landing on Noam for just a moment. Then he exhaled smoke, flicked the cigarette, and smirked.

The timeline had begun.

And Noam was already on their radar.

For a second, his chest tightened—the memory of steel sliding between his ribs flashing like lightning. He forced himself to breathe. His eyes swept over the thug, noting everything. Same broad shoulders. Same scar barely visible under stubble. It was definitely him.

Only this time, Noam wasn't stumbling blind.

He tugged his worn jacket tighter, shuffled forward like he was weighed down by errands and disappointment. Just another useless son-in-law running chores.

Inside, his pulse hammered.

'So they're watching me already. Good. The dinner trap's coming soon. Let them come.'

The sedan hummed. The thug didn't move, just kept smirking. Noam walked past without breaking stride.

By the time he got back, Cassandra was waiting by the door. Arms crossed. Lips pursed.

"Took you long enough. What were you doing, napping in the grocery aisle?"

Noam lowered his gaze. "Sorry, Mother-in-law."

The apology came out smooth. Practiced.

But behind the mask, his thoughts were sharp.

'If only you knew what's coming, Cassandra.'

Dinner was a quiet battlefield. The table gleamed with polished silverware, crystal glasses catching chandelier light. Alina sat across from him, flawless in her soft lavender dress. She laughed with her cousin Mark, tone light but dripping with superiority.

"You wouldn't believe it, Mark," Alina said, gesturing vaguely at Noam. "I asked him to iron one shirt—one!—and he burned a hole through it. Can you imagine?"

Mark chuckled, swirling his wine. "You have the patience of a saint, Alina. Most women wouldn't put up with that kind of... baggage."

Cassandra joined in, laughter sharp. "Don't encourage her. She spoils him too much."

Douglas just grunted into his soup. "Dead weight."

Their words rolled over him. In his old life, he would've shrunk, cheeks burning. Tonight, he just smiled faintly, like he was too dull to understand he was being mocked.

'Keep talking. Every insult's another brick in the wall I'll bury you behind.'

He spooned his soup slowly. It was rich. Flavorful. He hadn't eaten this well in years. Funny how mockery tasted sweet when you knew the future.

Later, after the plates were cleared, Noam lingered in the hallway. Voices drifted from Alina's room—low, conspiratorial. He leaned against the wall, head tilted.

"Everything's set," Mark's voice murmured. "The dinner at Bellvue. They'll think it's a simple business gathering."

Alina's voice followed, honey laced with venom. "Good. It has to look natural. I'll make sure he comes along, dressed like a fool. When it happens, no one will suspect me."

Mark chuckled darkly. "And the payout?"

"Once he's gone, his account's mine. The investments will pay off beautifully. He was too stupid to realize what he had." Her voice dipped, rich with scorn. "Pathetic man."

Noam closed his eyes, forcing a slow breath.

'Same trap. Same restaurant. Same act. Except this time... I'll be waiting.'

The next few days blurred. He ran errands. Endured Cassandra's complaints and Douglas's insults. Smiled blandly at Alina, nodded when she told him what to wear to the dinner. The obedient mask fit perfectly.

But underneath, he was working.

At the internet café, he checked Bytegold again. The line on the chart crept upward—almost invisible to untrained eyes. To him, it was a beacon.

'Buy low, wait, sell high. Just the start.'

Click.

Another purchase. Another stone in the foundation.

At night, in his room, he drew diagrams on scrap paper. Escape routes from the restaurant. Alternative exits. Timelines. He traced the seating arrangement from memory—windows, bathrooms, even the fire extinguisher by the kitchen door.

'They'll come through the main entrance. Hostage act, masks, weapons. Perfect cover. They'll drag me center stage. Fine. I'll let them—for a while.'

His lips curved.

'But this time, I walk out alive.'