[-After an unknown amount of time-]
Michel slowly opened his eyes after hearing the driver announce that it was time to exit the bus. "We have arrived at our destination." A glance around confirmed it was a typical bus terminal—crowded, bustling, with people and buses moving in every direction. Signs indicated various routes, and the large name above the entrance read: 'Central Manchester Station.'
Well, I've somehow ended up in Manchester, Michel thought, and not here to play soccer for Manchester United. What a way to set foot on English soil for the first time—hell, Europe as a whole. First time for everything, I guess.
He stepped outside the station, passing by shops lining the exit, when a date caught his eye: 2026. Fucking 2026. Not 2023. Not 2021. What the actual fuck, how can it be 2026? His mind reeled. Where the hell have I landed? 2026? The emotional damage hit hard. Well, now I can officially call myself a protagonist—Back to the Future 4: Operation England, baby.
At least all the ladies and young missus that he came across looked at him with lustful looks, like wanting to ravish him in the spot now. As he walked to a car that was parked at the side of the road, all the girls turned their heads to take a peek at him with misty, slutty eyes, wanting to eat him up, and he loved it. They were horny as hell, but it wasn't the time to keep fooling around; he needed to settle down in his temporary place of residence first to analyze his current situation.
Approaching a man leaning against the car, cigarette in hand, Michel asked, "Sir, are you available for a ride? I'd like to get to a hotel to check in."
The man focused on him. "Sure. Just finishing my break. Hop in—I'll be right there."
Michel slid into the backseat. A moment later, the driver got in and asked, "Mid-range hotel, or something luxury, sir?"
Michel's hand instinctively patted his pocket where his money was. I'm broke as hell. No idea how much a hotel stay costs, and I sure as shit don't have the cash for luxury right now. Gotta be realistic. "Mid-range, thanks."
The rest of the ride passed in near-silence, punctuated by brief small talk. Thirty minutes later, they pulled up to King Street Town House. Inside, Michel used his citizenship certificate to check in for a week—300 GBP, paid in full. Great. Now I'm poorer than before, but at least I've got a roof over my head. Progress, I guess.
Room 030. The cardkey beeped, and the door swung open—a two-bedroom suite with a kitchen and bathroom. Not bad. Enough to start with. He headed straight for the shower, letting the warm water wash away the stress. His mind raced. First things first: money. Money, money, come to me, money~
No job. Numbers in the red. Only 700 GBP on his debit card. He grabbed his phone—a sleek, mid-to-high-end Chamchung S25. Huh. Back in my timeline, they were still on the S23. This thing's more advanced. The contacts list was bare—just first aid, police, and two unknown phone numbers in the last call made registry. Nothing useful, except for the interesting unknown phone numbers call done a year ago. A London bank app. An NFC credit card for transactions. That's it. Fuck. What now?
Soaking in the tub, he couldn't help but wonder: Why the fuck is this happening to me? Had he died? Was this some new path drawn by God, the Maker? A shame I never got to know Him, even in death. Wasn't religious enough, I guess. Believed in God, the Holy Mother, the saints, Jesus, the Holy Spirit—but not pious enough to step into a church even once a year. Yeah, that's it. Must not have been a strong enough believer.
But hey, at least I've got this body with supernatural powers. Moving like thunder, seeing the world in slow motion. That kind of reaction speed, those nerves. Whoa, it was exhilarating, and the strength—punching a head and watching it fly or explode like a watermelon. Perverted, sure, but damn awesome. And no skin damage, no broken bones in my hand. Super durable. Was this a curse or a blessing? Only time would tell. But he wouldn't mind it at all.
Sitting in the living room, he recovered his London bank account using the credit card and a phone call. When he checked the balance, his grin was so wide and pleased that his jaw nearly hit the floor: 25 thousand GBP extra. Well, well. Looks like I'm a little richer now.
His mind raced again—how to make more money, fast? Stock trading was the obvious answer, but his experience was minimal. A little bit of wins during the 2021 crypto mining boom, and that's it.
Whatever. Let's see what this Forex shit is about.
He pulled up Google:
Foreign Exchange Market (Forex): A global decentralized or over-the-counter (OTC) market for trading currencies. Determines foreign exchange rates. Includes buying, selling, and exchanging currencies at current or determined prices. Largest market in the world by trading volume, followed by the credit market. Main participants: large international banks. Financial centers worldwide function as anchors for trading between buyers and sellers 24/5 (closed weekends). Currencies are always traded in pairs (e.g., 1 USD = X CAD, CHF, JPY).
Because of the sovereignty issue when involving two currencies, Forex has little (if any) supervisory entity regulating its actions.
Looks good. If only he could predict currency trends, he could make bank fast. But that was the same as expecting to win in a gamble where he didn't know a fucking thing about what he was gambling—just like Russian roulette, really. Same shit, just pulling the trigger in a different way.
Still, curiosity killed the cat. He opened the London bank app's Forex section:
Dear client, please accept the terms of license to trade on Forex… bla bla bla.
Accept all.
He selected GBP as the base currency and scanned the pairs:
| GBP/USD | 1/1.29 |
| GBP/JPY | 1/180.15 |
| GBP/EUR | 1/1.15 |
| GBP/RUBLE | 1/117.75 |
| GBP/RENMINBI | 1/9.28 |
He tapped GBP/JPY to take a look at the trading available to this account. The screen showed graphics of ups and downs and pulling up trading options: spot trading, market trading, stop-limit, margin trading
Damn. My few brain cells and wallet already hurt just by looking at this. This is a bottomless pit of money-hungry of the biggest financial entities in the world. Trillions move through here annually, and the odds I'll snag a piece? Slim to none.
He clicked margin trading—leverage options popped up: 2x, 5x, 10x, max 30x.
Thirty times? With all my funds? That's how you lose everything in five minutes.
How the fuck was that even possible with this account? He didn't know, and he didn't want to know. He was pretty sure it was there if you wanted to lose all your money pretty quickly.
He knew a few things about margin. He had 25,000 GBP units, and if he paired them with yen—just as he'd selected—without any leverage, he'd get roughly 4.5 million yen units at the current price of 1/180.15. A 10,000-unit trade was a micro lot, and 100,000 units made up a regular lot. That 25,000 GBP balance? It translated to 0.25 lots, because a standard lot was 100,000 units. Dividing 25,000 by 100,000 gave him that 0.25.
If the yen appreciated—say, from 1/180.15 to 1/170.15—that'd be a 1,000-pip move in its favor. If Michel sold his 0.25 lots at 180.15, held them for some unknown stretch of time, and then bought back in at 170.15, he'd lock in that 1,000-pip profit. The pip value for GBP/JPY sat at around 1.38 GBP per pip, calculated as (pip × trade lots) / exchange rate. So, 1,000 pips on 0.25 lots? That'd be a neat 1,387 GBP—enough to cover a full four-week stay in this fucking hotel, paid in full. It was a shit-ton of money if you thought about it, but it was also risky as hell if you didn't know what the fuck you were doing.
And then there was leverage.
If Michel got greedy—if he cranked that shit up to 30x—his 0.25 lot suddenly ballooned into 7.5 lots. That same 1,000-pip move? Now it wasn't just 1.38 GBP per pip. Now it was 41.4 GBP per pip, because (pip value × leverage × lots) did that kind of math. A thousand pips at that scale? 41,500 GBP in gains. Fucking nuts.
But flip it the other way—just a few pips against him—and his balance didn't just dip. It exploded. A beautiful, catastrophic margin call, because no exchange in their right mind would let him lose more than what he actually had. Poof. Gone. Just like that.
Frustrated, he watched the pairs fluctuate live. No info, no strategy. Any trade here is just gambling—burning money. Just as he was about to close the app, resigned as reason won and anything else was just a beautiful dream, a burst of energy surged around him. A system panel materialized—like a game UI—displaying currency pairs, profit percentages, and ETA (Estimated Time of Arrival).
Profit Calls:
EUR/USD | +2% | ETA: 2 days
EUR/AUD | +5% | ETA: 5 days
GBP/USD | +0.1% | ETA: 3 hours
GBP/JPY | +1300% | ETA: 30 minutes
Wow, wow. What the—? Was he tripping while not being drugged? No… This is it. His Chinese young master's golden finger has finally appeared. Reincarnating in another dimension wasn't for nothing. *Looking cool 45 degrees to the sky with a coquettish crocodile tear in the eyes*
Fuck it, he was all in. He'd already died once—what the hell did it matter doing it again? After all, worst case, he would hit a good damn bank or money convoy like the old school. Momma didn't raise no pussy.
He selected with his mind GBP/JPY in the system panel—two orders appeared:
Sell | Open: 180.15 | Close: 99.9 | ETA: 30 min | Duration: 1 hour
No idea what Japan's doing to make the yen go nuclear, but I don't care. I'm riding this rocket to the moon… or the floor. The dice is cast, and there is no going back.
Transferring the 25K as fast as fucking possible from the bank to the exchange wallet, he called for a 30:1 margin—using the full 25K GBP for 7.5 lots to trade GBP/JPY.
He opened a single sell call:
Open: 180.15 Close: 100.15
For a fleeting second, the tension in his body eased. His eyes had to be bloodshot; his hand was shaking like a junkie's, his legs barely holding him upright. Fuck.
He couldn't stand to look at the screen. Too much. Too stressful. In an hour, he'd check his fate—win or ruin.
Right now, he needed to move. He grabbed his things and left to eat something somewhere and look for something strong to drink. Hopefully, he'd find a bottle of that old, reliable Johnny Walker, because he wasn't stopping. Not yet. He had to keep walking.
[-A few hours later-]
Michel checked his phone. Time flies. Like the greedy goblins from World of Warcraft say—'Time is money, friend.' Let's see how my life choices panned out.
He opened the bank and exchange apps. A red exclamation mark flashed in the Completed/Pending section. Please be good news…
He tapped it.
Trade GBP/JPY – COMPLETED.
"Oh my fucking God." Michel called out with wide open eyes.
"Oh boi."
"Oh boiiiii !!!!!!!!!!!!!"
Michel yelled at the top of his lungs with happiness, "Oh my fucking gud, show me the money, shoooooowwwmeeeee thee fuckingggg mooooneeeyyyyyyyy, baby, yes!"
He danced like a madman around the room, drinking the black label he brought back like water, before finally forcing himself to calm the fuck down. His hands still trembling, he selected the notification.
Current Price: 1/77.77 Margin Call (Sell):
Open: 180.15 Close: 100.15 Status: 100% Completed Profit: 328,317.99 GBP (after tax) Pips Gained: 8,000
Blessed Mother… Look at that number. From poor to second-generation French young master in under an hour. Now I can bring revolution everywhere. 300K+.
"Fuck!!!" he called out, not believing it.
Less than 24 hours ago, he was a wage slave in the system. Now? Only he felt cold. Only darkness ahead. How he wished he had had this shit before.
This called for a celebration—Full Wall Street wolf style. Whores, drinks, drugs. Fuck yes.
Just as he was about to head out to get wasted at some bar, the beautiful, lucky panel window popped up again. And just when he was about to dismiss it, there it was: GBP/JPY, but this time, the money wasn't just on steroids—it was a fucking plunge from heaven to hell, a direct line to see old uncle Luzbelito.
GBP/JPY | +1400% | ETA: 10 min
Oh my God. Oh my God. It's Christmas, and I'm a kid with the best gift ever.
He clicked it:
Buy | Open: 81.1 | Close: 167.42 | Starts: 10 min | Ends: 12 hours
Michel's eyes dilated almost instantly as if he was suddenly injecting with coke, his pupils going fucking wild as he scrambled to slap the order back in—all-in, margin maxed. His fingers flew as he tapped the screen, his voice a broken-record chant under his breath: "Money before hoes, Money before hoes, good brother money, here I come—" The words spilled out like a prayer, like a curse, like the only thing keeping his heart from exploding straight through his ribs.
He went all-in on margin again. Officially a poor bastard… until tomorrow.
He had only 700 GBP left on his debit card. What high-class lady of the night would waste her time on a broke ass like me? He pulled up Saint Google:
UK Manchester VIP Escorts – No Strings, No Comebacks, 100% Pleasure.
Sounds good. He clicked through the listings—
Sophia Laurent – French elegance, silk stockings, whispers in your ear.
Viktoria Volkov – Russian ice queen, legs for days, speaks five languages.
Isabella "Bella" Monroe – American bombshell, ex-pageant, "discreet" specialty.
Lydia Blackwood – Dominatrix with a law degree. Expensive. Very.
Natalie "Natty" Cross – Petite, fiery redhead, "adventurous" rates.
Seraphina DuBois – Mixed-race stunner, ex-ballerina, "artistic" services.
Daphné Leclair – Parisian sophistication, cigar aficionado, "no kissing."
Jasmine "Jazz" Khan – British-Pakistani, MBA holder, "CEO experience."
Elena Vasquez – Spanish rose, flamenco dancer, "passionate overnight stays."
Aurora "Rora" Snow – Scandi blonde, ex-model, "snow bunny" winter package.
—then stopped in what seemed to be the winner.
Alice & Luna O'Connor.
Tall. Classy. Hot-bodied ginger twins.
"Mhm...Blue-eyed ginger ocean horses," Michel snickered. "Such a classic Chinese protagonist move."
"The prices were cheap, but this was just a meeting." He scratched his jaw, thoughtful. "Prostitution's illegal, but… maybe over a few drinks, they'd be open to 'more.'"
Taking his final decision. He transferred 500 GBP for the call—the rest would go to booze.
He ordered a delivery with things he liked because if they came and went, that would be losing money, and a poor man couldn't just throw it away like shit. More old good Johnny, a few packs of beer, a couple of bottles of champagne, red wine and white—that's the main stuff to get wasted. Two sweet liquors along with chocolate, almond, and peanuts, cheap shit to just drink and eat something.
If they wanted something fancier, they could fucking drink their own piss and like it. And if any of this shit didn't suit their taste? Tough luck, bitch—they could take their picky asses straight to the streets.