From Blood to Bitcoin: A Night of Deadly Reversal

Dozens of Bitcoins twinkled like stars in the night sky on my screen, my digital wallet a constellation forged from blood. They murmured promises of freedom, yet chained me to that fateful night—where the forest's shadows devoured my illusions of safety. Now, lounging in this lavish house, I often feel pulled back to that tiny apartment, walls creeping with invisible vines closing in, just like those in the park that evening. Sometimes, I trace them with my finger, wondering if they're real or just echoes of what I lost—and gained—in the wild.

Years back, before the pandemic gripped the world, I returned from the US with my overseas degree, buzzing with boundless youthful energy. Guangzhou greeted me like an old pal, opportunities sprouting wild like underbrush, peace rustling in every leaf. Mom beamed when I snagged that state-owned gig—stable but boring, a iron cage dressed up as cozy security. To dodge Stepdad's shadow, I rented that snug little apartment nearby, cramped but all mine. I breathed easy alone, flitting home like a bird now and then to check on her.

The national forest park next door was my sanctuary, its woods a twisted maze, paths snaking like veins through the earth. I'd sprint through the dusk shade, footsteps pounding a joyful beat; weekends sharpening my aim and reflexes at the IPSC range or hiking peaks that stabbed the clouds. Fishing was my ritual fix—I'd cast lines into dawn waters, chasing elusive underwater prey. Sometimes I'd camp under a sky full of stars, twinkling mockingly at my solitude. Mom warned, "A girl alone in the wild? Too risky!" But China felt rock-solid safe back then, Guangzhou's modern lights a shield against the dark. Fellow anglers were generous souls, gifting their catches like Valentine's roses.

I thrived on solitude, hammered out from years in America—cooking solo, studying solo, training solo, no strings attached. One boyfriend, gone like smoke, shattered into pieces. After work, I'd shed the city skin and melt into nature: rod in hand, pages turning, coffee brewing over flames, dinner fresh from the depths—a hooked fish gutted clean, scales gleaming like coins. For a young woman, I was a wilderness pro: gear locked and loaded, knife and spray on standby for whatever lurked. Fridays ignited hype for weekend wildness. The job? Just a grudging trade for time and cash to fuel my vibe.

Yet under the velvet night on that grassy blanket, the canopy hiding and hinting at my inner cravings—a partner to share the hush. But I knew love was a two-way gift, not a life trap. The forest and its whispering leaves mirrored me: vast, untamed, yet lonely, roots delving into secrets I hadn't unearthed.

That October, I fished the river all day with zilch to show, line slack like unfulfilled cravings. I drove to the remote lake, parking where pavement gave way to dirt—my compact car tapped out. Slinging my pack, I hiked kilometers deep into the woods to untouched waters, ditching those water-staring rivals. Night's symphony—bugs chirping, beasts howling—played on, mocking civilization's lonely tune. My mind snagged on visions of nocturnal strikes, big fish thrashing in defeat.

Engine roar from behind—I dodged aside, assuming goodwill for a solo girl. The Land Rover whooshed past, dust choking like stifled screams. Annoyed, I cursed the intruder out to steal my solitude and prime catches. The massive SUV screeched ahead, reversed like lightning, halting right in front of me—like fate's sharp twist that night.

Three men piled out, strides cocky as predators on the scent. I fumbled for the spray in my pack, too late. "Hey, bro, it's a damn chick!" one slurred, booze fouling the beautiful night. I backed up fast, screamed, scrapped—but their raw power crushed it all, an iron fist cracking my skull, stars blurring into murky black. Dragged into the car, mouth crudely roped shut. That "bro" groped my chest rough and slapped me hard, branding humiliation on my once-independent soul.

Fear twisted into despair: Was this my end tonight? Calm independence shattered like glass, years of self-defense worthless against primal force. In women's grim tales, we're fish on hooks—nimble yet fragile, lured by society's safety bait, line snapping under strain. In that pit, I begged for a scrap of mercy: violate, then release—a hollow deal with deaf, blind gods.

They drove on, hands invading like uninvited octopuses down below, filthy jokes howling like beasts in the night, pulling up at a rural villa swallowed by darkness.

"Get in nice, or die, bitch!" Shoved inside by snarling men. More faces emerged, led by a tall, imposing figure like a reborn night demon.

"Bro, you never quit, do ya!"

"Boss... chill... I'll sort it."

"Grab the goods first—then your ass is mine!" The underling trailing the boss, briefcase in grip, and the crew bolted like a hell-spawned squad, engines roaring off.

The remaining goons herded second bro, roughly shoving me into the inner room, door slamming like a cage lock. Then he assaulted me from behind. Outside, his cronies' sleazy laughs formed a grotesque chorus. The violation ripped humiliating tears, but despair sparked into rage—a ember in the forest underbrush, primed to ignite. Fists clenched, I endured the pounding silently, stubborn as hell; he shoved my back hard, forcing me down. My right hand hit a fruit plate, spilling its bounty.

The fruit knife on the plate, right at my fingertips. He slapped my ass, thrusting wildly.

"Bro, switch to front?" I gripped the handle, choking back massive shame.

"Fuck, digging it now, slut?" He grabbed my ass and flipped me.

"Puff..." No hesitation—the blade plunged straight into his neck, clean cut.

No time to react, throat gurgling blood, choked vocal cords silent. He clutched my hand, eyes feral glare.

I twisted hard, and he slumped in silent agony.

Propped him up to muffle any thud, body shaking—what next? Spotted the handgun dangling from his half-dropped belt.

Seeing the gun spiked my adrenaline, like a war god shattering a curse. Yanked it out, eased the chamber open—these were real outlaws.

This raping bastard had the pistol loaded, ready to fire.

Forced calm, the three goons' positions flashing like holograms in my head. Gun raised, tiptoed to the door, swung it open.

They looked up stunned, like hooking a venomous snake.

My aim was killer sharp—one shot each. Bullet grazed one's face; he scrambled to bolt, I quick-drew a follow-up like range practice.

Whole thing lightning-fast, precise as training drills.

Middle-aged guy burst in, knife waving. Tensed body pivoted, nailed him between the eyes.

Worried about stragglers, ducked back, hugging the wall. Then my heartbeat thundered deafening!

Time passed, dead silence outside. Calmer now, it hit: This mob-flick scene—no traces for cops or crooks.

Gun in hand, room-by-room sweep: yanked hard drives, blinding surveillance.

Master bedroom box matched theirs—pried it, dollars poured like tainted rain.

Snatched keys from a goon, dashed to the car for my bag, crammed the dirty cash in like claiming owed payback.

Wiped potential prints, shouldered bag and gun, skipped driving, pedaled off on the rickety bike by the door, fleeing that forest-swallowed hell.

Now, those dollars turned Bitcoins slither like digital vipers in code—mocking my "freedom." They buy silence, not peace; forest vines crawl in dreams, wallpaper-trapping my old self.

My once-proud independence and grit? Like worn-out fables, zero credibility. Fish turned fisher, netting in a power-poisoned pond.

That dark-spreading forest still calls, but I hesitate—roots deep in solitude, heralding that blood-red eternity.