3: Chapter 3: Oil Futures Offer Free Money, But You're Still Hesitant Because You Lack Capital

Lin Chen crouched at the mouth of the alley, rubbing his cheek with the back of his uninjured hand; blood and dust mixed together, feeling sticky and grimy.

His fingertips were still trembling uncontrollably, half from the exertion of the earlier scuffle, and half from lingering fear.

On the ground, the scraps of the IOU he had crushed himself mixed with the dust and sewage, spinning in the wind.

The shouts of the thugs in the distance drifted about, like circling vultures ready to swoop down at any moment.

He subconsciously shrank back toward that rusty tin shack; it was his only, albeit fragile, shelter for now.

Those thugs had cornered him for nearly half an hour, their spit almost spraying onto his face as they slapped a stack of photocopied IOUs loudly.

He was backed into a corner with nowhere left to run, and driven by a sudden, inexplicable surge of rage, he shoved the leader.

Caught off guard, the other man staggered, cursing.

Seizing the chaos, he used all his strength to snatch the papers away and trampled them into shreds under his feet.

In that instant, there was a fleeting, almost cathartic sense of relief.

But after the relief faded, only a colder reality and an irrepressible panic remained.

Violent confrontation would not solve the problem; it would only shorten the fuse of the ticking time bomb.

He crouched in the shadows, staring at the shredded papers.

The wind picked up a few, plastering them against his peeling shoe.

You can run, but you can't hide.

Without money, he would either have his limbs broken and be tossed into a sewer, or quietly starve or die of sickness in this tin shack.

A powerful impulse, a mix of his past life's regret and his current desire to survive, surged within him.

He closed his eyes, and when he opened them again, the confusion and timidity of an eighteen-year-old boy that had lingered in his pupils were suppressed by a desperate, reckless ruthlessness.

In his mind, with a voice that felt like it was tearing him apart, he roared at the silent AI:

"Tell me! Right now, right here, what's the fastest way to get money and survive?! Anything!"

There was a silence of about two or three seconds.

That cold, mechanical voice "exploded" in the depths of his mind with an emotionless tone, accompanied by a massive influx of information forcibly injected into his stream of consciousness:

【Host's forced request received. Survival mode initiated. Scanning space-time coordinates (1990, Los Angeles) and recent high-volatility events...】

【Scan complete. Optimal short-term (within 7 days) risk arbitrage target locked: International crude oil futures.】

【Key logic chain: Military standoff on the border of Iraq and Kuwait continues to escalate; geopolitical risk has reached a threshold. Vulnerability of supply chains in major oil-producing regions has surged.】

【Deduction: Once the conflict becomes overt, international crude oil supply will suffer a structural shock; price volatility is expected to soar by over 300%. The current NYMEX light crude oil futures price is at a cyclical low, presenting significant premium potential.】

【Data synchronization: Benchmark price, support/resistance levels, historical volatility ranges, and predictions for related political event timelines (accurate to the day)...】

Countless numbers, charts, fragments of news headlines, and geopolitical analysis summaries washed over Lin Chen's consciousness like a cold torrent.

He wasn't reading; he was simply "knowing."

His temples throbbed, yet his eyes remained wide open, reflecting the void, while his fingers unconsciously traced calculations rapidly in the dust on the floor.

Benchmark price... volatility range... potential leverage... explosive growth expectations...

His breathing quickened involuntarily; it felt as if a drowning man had grabbed not just a straw, but a steel cable capable of pulling him out of the abyss!

His finger traced the final number, and the calculations ceased abruptly.

The other end of the steel cable was a bottomless abyss.

Capital.

Without capital, all the charts, potential gains, and projections were nothing more than a mirage.

It was like a menu for a royal feast placed before a starving man, yet without a single grain of rice to eat.

A word, carrying the scent of rust and blood, surfaced in his mind: borrow money.

Merely thinking of these two words sent a cold tremor, originating from the very marrow of this body, sweeping through him.

It wasn't a rational calculation, but an almost physiological rejection.

In his past life, he would rather stay up late eating nothing but steamed buns for three days than ask a colleague to borrow ten yuan.

Having to read others' expressions and swallow the bitterness of rejection—that burning sense of shame and humiliation was harder to endure than physical pain.

He tried to imagine asking someone, but before the image could even form, his palms were already cold and damp.

He imagined walking up to an acquaintance, his lips trembling, his voice faint, and the other person perhaps wearing a look of surprise, awkwardness, or even impatience...

The mere thought made his stomach cramp and his shoulders curl inward; he wanted nothing more than to shrink back into the tin shack and bury his head under the moldy quilt.

From the other end of the alley came clearer, drunken laughter.

Lin Chen shuddered and scrambled to his feet, practically tumbling as he scurried back into that shelter that reeked of rust and mold.

Bang.

The thin tin door shut behind him, muffling some of the noise while locking a greater silence and sense of oppression inside the cramped space.

The smell of mold, dust, and a faint, lingering scent of rotting wood became more pronounced.

The only "furniture" was a "bed" made of bricks and rotting wooden planks, covered in a blackened, hardened quilt so damp it could almost be wrung out.

A few empty tin cans were piled in the corner, and a cockroach scurried past.

The city noise outside was filtered by the tin, turning into a blurred background hum that only served to magnify the sound of his own breathing and heartbeat within the room.

He leaned against the bone-chilling, rust-covered tin wall and slowly slid down, hugging his knees and burying his head.

His voice, muffled and trembling, squeezed out from between his arms, as if asking the room, himself, or perhaps that silent AI:

"Who... can I borrow from?"

The AI did not respond.

Only that string of data about crude oil futures remained, hovering in the depths of his consciousness—cold, precise, and tempting—silently mocking his desperation.

He remained curled up for a long time.

Faces flashed through his mind like a carousel: Old Chen, the lame man who sold buns at the alley entrance and always gave him an extra one? He could barely feed himself.

Old Liu, the solitary neighbor who was always coughing? He was likely even poorer.

Da Zhou, who he'd worked odd jobs with at The Pier for two days but hadn't spoken to since? Why would he lend anything to him?

Hope, like the dampness seeping into the room, was slowly being sucked dry.

Until a fainter, nearly faded figure struggled to surface from the depths of his memory.

Chinatown... "Rongchang Grocery Store"... Uncle Zhao.

When his parents were still alive, there was a night of torrential rain when Uncle Zhao's shop was nearly flooded.

His father had taken him there to help plug the leaks and move the goods throughout the night.

By the time they finished, it was nearly dawn.

A soaked Uncle Zhao had grabbed his father's hand, eyes red, and repeated: "Brother Lin, I, Old Zhao, will remember this kindness for the rest of my life! If you ever need anything in the future, just ask!"

The sound of the torrential rain that night, Uncle Zhao's hoarse voice, his father's smile as he waved his hand and said, "Neighbors helping neighbors is only right"... Fragments of memory washed over him, carrying the scent of dampness.

Could this really count as "kindness"?

How many years had passed?

Would Uncle Zhao... still honor it?

But it was the only faint glimmer of light in the darkness.

Lin Chen jerked his head up, his eyes red from the long, static posture and the violent emotional turmoil.

Supporting himself against the wall, he slowly stood up; his legs were numb and weak from the long crouch and the tension, and he staggered before steadying himself.

He moved step by step toward the tin door.

The rusty handle was bone-chillingly cold.

The moment his fingertips touched the metal, all his mental preparation and the courage he had struggled to muster leaked away with a hiss, like a balloon pricked by a needle.

The cold stares, dismissals, and polite rejections he had imagined—or even just a look of confusion or unfamiliarity from the other person—all transformed into a tangible fear that gripped his heart and throat.

His trembling fingers hovered above the door handle, as if frozen.

Should he go in, or not?

His desire to survive and his social anxiety instincts were locked in a frantic battle within his mind.

Just as he was about to be crushed by the fear again, ready to pull his hand back and continue hiding in this moldy shell—

The silent AI interface in the lower-left corner of his vision refreshed without warning.

No request, no inquiry—just a single line of white text, concise to the point of coldness:

【Analysis complete.】

【Target: Zhao Yonggui (Owner of "Rongchang Grocery Store" in Chinatown).】

【Personality trait database match: Values promises, nostalgic, implicitly soft-hearted.】

【Strategy suggestion: Mention "March 17, 1990, rainy night, goods" to trigger a memory anchor. Estimated success rate: 68.7%.】

【Action prompt: The cost of delay is an exponential decrease in survival probability. Current repayment countdown: 71:12:41.】

A 68.7% success rate.

The cold number cut precisely through his chaotic thoughts.

It offered no comfort, only a probability.

And the words "exponential decrease in survival probability" struck him like a lash across his back.

Lin Chen stared at the text, then shifted his gaze to the rusty door handle before him.

He bit his lower lip hard until he tasted the thick tang of blood; the pain was sharp and real.

Then, using every ounce of his strength to suppress the fear that threatened to make him turn and run, he gripped the cold door handle with sudden, resolute force.

Click.

The soft sound was piercingly clear in the silence of the room.

The door creaked open a crack.

The noisy, uncertain world outside, mingled with the afternoon light, came flooding in.