Have you ever gambled everything to save someone?
Not houses, not cars, not the paltry digits in your bank account. But the most precious thing in your life.
My name is Zhang Lei, an ordinary programmer. My wife passed away three years ago, leaving me to raise our daughter Duoduo alone. She's eight years old now, just like her mother—big eyes, dimples when she smiles.
Last Wednesday night, Duoduo suddenly said she felt dizzy, then collapsed in the pile of building blocks in the living room. I carried her downstairs, the elevator numbers flashing like my racing heartbeat.
The hospital results came back: acute lymphoblastic leukemia.
The attending physician, Dr. Liu—mid-forties, pen stains on his white coat—spread the report before me, tapping a number: "We caught it early. Success rate for stem cell transplant is over 60%."
I stared at the report, throat tight: "How... how much will it cost?"
Dr. Liu adjusted his glasses, softening his tone: "The transplant itself is 300,000 to 400,000. Plus pre-op chemo, post-op anti-rejection meds, and follow-up care... prepare a million."
A million.
The cup in my hand nearly slipped. I've worked at the internet company for five years, making 12,000 after taxes monthly. Mortgage is 8,000. What's left barely covers our daily expenses. Savings... I calculated—less than 100,000.
That night, I sat beside Duoduo's bed, watching her small hand connected to the IV drip, my mind fixated on that million.
The nurse came in to change her meds, reminding me the bill was pinned to the headboard. I lifted the blanket—those numbers cut into my nerves like a knife.
Early the next morning, I started calling everyone I knew. Borrowed from relatives, borrowed from friends. Finally scraped together 180,000. Still so far from a million.
I sat on the hospital corridor bench, scrolling through loan apps on my phone. Interest rates were exorbitant, but I didn't care anymore.
Then someone tapped my shoulder.
I looked up. A man in a gray suit stood before me—mid-thirties, hair meticulously combed, holding a black briefcase.
"Mr. Zhang Lei?" He smiled, revealing neat white teeth.
I nodded, confused: "Who are you?"
"Chen Mo," he sat beside me, pulling a document from his briefcase, "I know you need money. A lot of it."
I eyed him warily: "How do you know?"
Chen Mo didn't answer. He just pushed the document toward me: "Look at this."
I glanced down. The cover read *Special Equity Investment Agreement*.
"Equity?" I frowned. "I don't have money to invest."
"You don't need money," Chen Mo said, "You just need to provide something."
"What?"
"Your daughter."
I shot up, the chair scraping loudly across the floor. "Are you insane?" I turned to leave.
"Wait," Chen Mo's voice stopped me, "I'm not asking you to sell her. I'm saying... use her 'existence' as the investment."
I paused, turning back: "What do you mean?"
Chen Mo stood, adjusting his suit: "Simply put, our company has a special stock called 'Hope Stock.' Its rise and fall are tied to a person's life. Bind Duoduo to this stock, and when it rises, her condition improves. When it falls, she gets worse."
I stared at him like he was mad: "What kind of nonsense is this?"
"You'll find out soon enough," Chen Mo handed me a thick folder, "Look at these past cases."
I flipped through it. Names, real names, and case after case—cancer patients, car crash victims, even children. Each had a K-line chart beside it: red upward curves labeled "Condition Improved," green downward lines labeled "Condition Worsened."
The last page was the contract.
"Three-month term," Chen Mo said, "You'll trade this stock for three months. If the price reaches ten times the IPO price, Duoduo will be completely cured. And you'll get a bonus."
I swallowed hard: "What... what if it falls?"
Chen Mo's smile faded: "Then her condition worsens. If it hits zero..."
He didn't finish, but I knew what he meant.
My hands shook holding the folder: "Why... why should I believe you?"
Chen Mo took out his phone, opening an app: "Register now. When it's done, you'll see a new stock—code XW001, named 'Duoduo's Hope.'"
I hesitated, then took the phone. The app was simple, just a registration button. I signed up with my phone number, entered the verification code, and logged in.
There it was—in my watchlist: XW001, Duoduo's Hope.
IPO price: 1 yuan. Current price... also 1 yuan.
The K-line was a flat line.
"Try buying a hundred shares," Chen Mo said, "Go long, see what happens."
My finger hovered over the "Buy" button.
"You have three minutes," Chen Mo checked his watch, "After that, the app auto-deletes."
I thought of Duoduo in the ward, of that million, of how desperate I was.
I gritted my teeth and tapped "Buy."
Long position, 100 shares.
100 yuan.
Confirm.
The instant the trade went through, a notification popped up: [Your position is active. Target status syncing...]
Almost simultaneously, my phone rang—it was the hospital nurse.
"Mr. Zhang! Come quick! Duoduo... she's awake!" The nurse's voice trembled, "And she just said she wants orange juice!"
I looked up at Chen Mo, still smiling like he'd expected this all along.
I ran to the ward, wind rushing in my ears.
Pushing the door open, I saw Duoduo sitting up, holding a cup the nurse had given her, drinking. She saw me and her eyes lit up: "Daddy!"
I rushed over and hugged her tightly. She was still weak, but better than yesterday.
I pulled out my phone, opening the app.
XW001's price had risen to 1.2 yuan.
Up 20%.
That night, I went home and sat at my computer, researching this stock.
The app had detailed info. Unlike normal stocks, its price didn't follow the market or company performance. It moved based on strange factors.
For example, when people prayed for Duoduo on social media, it ticked up. When I told her stories about her mom, it rose. But if I felt down, or if someone said bad things about us, it dropped.
I read the instructions over and over, finally figuring out the pattern: this stock's movement was tied to "hope."
The more people believed Duoduo would get better, the higher it climbed.
The next day, I acted.
First, I posted Duoduo's photo on my Moments, writing about her leukemia and asking for blessings. Then I joined several patient support groups, sharing her story.
Blessings poured in quickly.
I stared at the app, watching the price climb: 1.3, 1.4, 1.5...
That day's close: 1.8 yuan.
Duoduo's spirits improved noticeably. She even ate a small bowl of porridge that morning.
I tasted success.
Over the next few days, I went crazy sharing. I contacted old classmates, asking them to repost. I found a few influencer friends to write articles.
The price soared past 3 yuan.
Duoduo's chemo side effects eased—doctors said it was a good sign.
But soon, I hit a wall. Other people's blessings weren't enough. From 3 yuan to 10 yuan was still a long way.
Just as I worried, Chen Mo appeared again.
Still in that gray suit, briefcase in hand: "Zhang Lei, you're moving too slow."
I looked at him: "What should I do?"
Chen Mo sat across from me, pulling out another document: "Ordinary blessings only give small gains. To make it skyrocket, you need 'intense emotion.'"
"What do you mean?"
"Like," Chen Mo said, "if someone cries because of Duoduo's story. Or if someone's willing to sacrifice something for her. That kind of intense emotion makes the stock surge."
I frowned: "How do I make people do that?"
"Go live," Chen Mo said, "Stream her treatment, how you take care of her. Real stories move people the most."
I hesitated: "Is that okay? Won't it disturb Duoduo?"
"What's that cost compared to saving her?" Chen Mo's voice held a hint of temptation, "Imagine—if you could make tens of thousands cry for Duoduo, how high would the price go?"
I looked at Duoduo drawing in the ward, and gritted my teeth.
That night, I created a live account called "For Duoduo."
First stream, I was nervous. I faced the camera, introduced her condition, showed her drawings.
The chat started with just a few dozen viewers. But as I told stories about Duoduo and her mom, the numbers grew.
Comments popped up: "Poor baby, hope she gets better."
Donations came in—10 yuan, 20 yuan, 100 yuan...
I stared at the app on my phone. The price climbed slowly: 3.1, 3.2...
After two hours, peak viewership hit over a thousand. Close: 3.5 yuan.
Not a huge gain, but I saw hope.
The next day, I changed tactics. Instead of just stories, I streamed her chemo session.
When the drugs went in, Duoduo vomited violently. I held tissues, wiping her mouth, patting her back.
The chat exploded.
"Oh my god, that's terrible..."
"Stay strong, kiddo!"
"I donated 500, just a little help."
Donations spiked. And I watched the app—price skyrocketed.
3.6, 3.8, 4...
End of stream: 4.5 yuan.
That night, Duoduo slept soundly. Doctors checked her—all indicators improving.
I stayed up, planning the next day's content.
I needed to move more people, make the price jump higher.
Third day, I streamed her bath. Chemo had made her hair fall out. I picked up each strand carefully, placing them in a small box.
I told the camera: "These are Duoduo's hairs. When she gets better, they'll grow back."
People started crying in the chat. Comments flooded with crying emojis.
Donations broke ten thousand. Price hit 6 yuan.
I got addicted.
I streamed her blood draws, her pained cries, me secretly crying in the hallway...
Every stream set new view records. At peak, over 100,000 viewers.
Price soared: 8, 9, 10...
On day ten, it broke 10 yuan.
I almost jumped for joy. According to the contract, keeping it above 10 yuan for three months would cure Duoduo completely.
But that's when strange things started happening.
Duoduo's physical markers improved, but her personality changed.
She used to be lively, always chattering. Now she grew quiet, often sitting alone on the bed, staring into space.
And she started having nightmares.
Every night, she'd wake screaming: "Daddy, I see people watching me!"
I thought it was chemo side effects. Didn't pay much attention.
Until that night, when her cries woke me from sleep.
I opened my eyes. Duoduo was sitting up, pointing at the window, trembling: "Daddy, look! There are people by the window!"
I looked—nothing there.
"Duoduo, don't be scared," I pulled her close, "It's just a dream."
"No!" Her voice shook, "They're always watching me... so many people..."
I followed her gaze—still nothing. But I noticed the curtains moving.
The window was closed. No wind.
I got up, walked to the window, and pulled back the curtain.
The glass was covered in faces. Countless faces.
I stumbled back, nearly falling.
Looking closer—those faces... they looked like the viewers from my streams.
I pulled out my phone, opening the app.
Price still climbing: 11, 12...
But Duoduo's expression grew more terrified.
"Daddy, make them go away," she cried, "I don't want them watching..."
Just then, Chen Mo called.
"Zhang Lei, congratulations!" Chen Mo sounded excited, "Price broke 12 yuan! Keep going, aim for 20!"
"Chen Mo," my voice tightened, "Duoduo... she can see the viewers."
Silence on the line for a few seconds.
"That's normal," Chen Mo said, "With so many eyes on her, she can feel it."
"What do I do?"
"Don't worry about it," Chen Mo said, "Higher price means faster recovery. Once she's better, those feelings will fade."
I hung up, holding the trembling Duoduo, feeling uneasy.
But I glanced at the app—price hit 12.5 yuan.
I gritted my teeth, deciding to continue.
Next day, I streamed again.
This time, I prepared something more emotional—I brought out photos of Duoduo's mom, telling stories of our past.
The chat exploded. Donations poured in. Price rocketed.
13, 14, 15...
But then Duoduo suddenly rushed over, grabbed my phone, and threw it on the floor.
"I don't want this!" she screamed, "I don't want them watching me! Stop it!"
The phone shattered. Stream cut off.
I froze, then hurried to pick it up.
But as I touched it, I saw the price crash on the app.
14.5, 14, 13.5...
I panicked, trying to restart the stream. But the screen was cracked—unusable.
Price kept falling: 12, 11...
I remembered Chen Mo's warning—if it drops too fast, Duoduo's condition would worsen.
I turned to Duoduo. She'd stopped crying, sitting on the bed, face pale.
"Duoduo, how are you?" I rushed over, grabbing her hand.
Her hand was ice cold.
Then the doctors burst in: "Mr. Zhang! Duoduo's vitals just crashed! We need to rush her to the ER!"
Nurses wheeled her away. I stood at the door, holding the broken phone, shaking.
Price still plummeting: 8, 5, 3...
I pulled out my backup phone, logging into the app, desperate to push the price back up.
But without the stream, without people's emotions, it wouldn't budge.
Just as I despaired, Chen Mo appeared.
"Zhang Lei, what did you do?" His face was grim.
"Duoduo... she didn't want to stream anymore." My voice shook.
"Didn't want to stream?" Chen Mo raised his voice, "Do you know what happens if this keeps falling? Duoduo will die!"
"What do I do?" I grabbed his arm, "Chen Mo, save her!"
Chen Mo stared at me, silent for a moment: "There's another way."
"What?"
"Add yourself to the stock," Chen Mo said, "Bind both you and Duoduo. Your emotions, your life—they'll become the stock's foundation too."
I froze: "What does that mean?"
"It means you need to show everyone how much you love Duoduo," Chen Mo said, "The stronger the emotion, the faster it rises."
"How?"
Chen Mo pulled a knife from his briefcase: "For example... cut yourself for her."
I stared at the knife, cold sweat breaking out: "You're crazy?"
"Imagine," Chen Mo's voice was hypnotic, "If you cut yourself live for Duoduo... how many people would be moved? How high would the price go?"
I looked at the ER lights, then at the crashing price on the app.
2 yuan, 1.5...
I gritted my teeth and took the knife.
I opened the stream on my backup phone, held the knife up to the camera: "Hello, everyone. I'm Zhang Lei, Duoduo's dad."
Viewers poured in, comments filled with question marks.
"Earlier, my daughter got upset and the stream cut off," I said, "Now... to save Duoduo, I'll do anything."
I sliced my left arm with the knife.
Blood gushed out.
The chat exploded.
"Oh my god! No!"
"Don't do this! We believe Duoduo will get better!"
"I donated 100,000! Stop hurting yourself!"
I watched the app—price started climbing: 2, 3, 5...
I didn't stop. I cut my right arm too.
Price soared: 8, 10, 15...
Then the ER door opened.
The doctor came out, mask off: "Mr. Zhang... Duoduo's awake. Her vitals are stable now."
I nearly collapsed, looking at the app—price hit 20 yuan.
Stream still going, comments filled with "Thank goodness!" and "So moving!" Donations topped 500,000.
I ended the stream, following the doctor into the ER.
Duoduo lay on the bed, still pale, but she smiled when she saw me: "Daddy, what happened to your arms?"
I quickly hid them behind my back: "Nothing, just a little accident."
That night, I sat by her bed, watching her sleep, filled with hope.
Price hit 20 yuan. Just two more months, and Duoduo would be cured.
But the real horror was just beginning.
Next morning, I woke up—and the cuts on my arms were gone.
Not healed. Gone. No scars, nothing.
I froze, lifting my shirt—no wounds anywhere.
Then I heard Duoduo's voice: "Daddy, look."
I looked up. She was pointing at her arm.
Two fresh cuts.
Exactly like the ones I'd made.
I stumbled back, nearly falling: "Duoduo... how did you get these?"
She shook her head: "I don't know. I woke up with them."
I pulled out my phone, opening the app.
Price still climbing: 22, 23...
Then Chen Mo called.
"Zhang Lei, congratulations!" Chen Mo sounded excited, "Price broke 20! But I need to warn you about something."
"What?"
"Your little stunt yesterday worked wonders," Chen Mo said, "But there's a side effect. When you cut yourself, the wounds transfer to Duoduo. You two are bound now."
My blood ran cold: "Why didn't you tell me earlier?"
"Would you have done it if I had?" Chen Mo sneered, "Besides, once the price goes up, the wounds disappear quickly."
I hung up, staring at the cuts on Duoduo's arm, heart aching.
I went to her, holding her hand: "Duoduo, does it hurt?"
She shook her head: "No, just itchy."
Tears rolled down my face as I looked at her wounds.
That afternoon, the cuts vanished. And the app showed price at 25 yuan.
But I felt no joy.
I began to regret signing that contract.
But there was no turning back.
Over the next few days, price rose slowly. No matter how I streamed, how I moved people, it hovered between 25 and 30 yuan.
Chen Mo came again.
"Zhang Lei, this won't work," he said, "You need stronger stimulation."
"What kind?"
"More extreme actions," Chen Mo said, "Like... cutting off a finger."
I stood up abruptly: "Are you insane? I won't do that!"
"Think about it," Chen Mo said, "How high would the price go if you cut off a finger? And once it rises, the wound transfers to Duoduo and disappears. No harm done."
"I won't hurt Duoduo!" I shouted.
"Then watch her die," Chen Mo's voice turned cold, "Three months. If it doesn't hit 100 yuan by then, Duoduo won't just stay sick—she'll..."
He didn't finish, but I knew.
I looked at Duoduo playing with blocks in the ward, torn inside.
That night, I didn't sleep.
Next morning, I made my decision.
I opened the stream, pulled out a kitchen knife.
"Hello, everyone. I'm Zhang Lei," I said, "For Duoduo, I'll give everything."
Comments flooded with pleas to stop, but I didn't listen.
I placed my left hand on the table, raised the knife.
Just as I was about to strike, Duoduo rushed over, hugging my leg: "Daddy! Don't!"
I froze, knife hovering.
"Daddy, don't hurt yourself," she cried, "I'd rather not be cured than see you hurt."
I looked at her tear-streaked face, heart breaking.
I dropped the knife, knelt down, and hugged her: "Duoduo, Daddy was wrong. I'll never do that again."
Just then, I noticed the price climbing on the app.
30, 35, 40...
And it kept rising faster.
I froze—what was happening?
I glanced at the chat: "This is real love!" "So touching!"
My hesitation, my last-minute choice to stop... that's what moved them.
Price skyrocketed: 50, 60, 80...
Close that day: 88 yuan.
I was speechless. Just one step away from 100.
Duoduo hugged my neck, kissing my cheek: "Daddy, are we almost better?"
I nodded: "Almost, Duoduo. We'll go home soon."
That night, I had a nightmare.
Duoduo stood in darkness, surrounded by countless faces watching her. She tried to run, but couldn't.
I woke sweating.
I pulled out my phone, checked the app.
Price still rising: 90, 95...
Just as I thought it would hit 100, it crashed.
94, 90, 80...
I panicked. What was happening?
Then Chen Mo called.
"Zhang Lei, bad news!" Chen Mo sounded urgent, "Someone's shorting your stock!"
"What? Shorting?"
"They're dumping shares to crash it to zero," Chen Mo said, "You need to defend the price!"
"How?"
"You need stronger emotions," Chen Mo said, "Something that can overwhelm the malice from the shorts."
I looked at Duoduo sleeping, mind blank.
Stronger emotions... what did I have left?
Then I remembered my wife.
When she died, I blamed myself. I thought if I hadn't worked overtime that day, if I'd taken her to the hospital sooner, she'd still be here.
I opened the stream, told the camera about my wife.
Our first meeting, our wedding, Duoduo's birth, the day she died...
I cried as I spoke.
The chat cried too. Donations poured in.
But the price kept falling: 70, 60, 50...
I panicked, not knowing what to do.
Then Duoduo woke up.
She sat up, looked at me, then at the camera: "Hello, everyone. I'm Duoduo."
The chat went quiet.
"Thank you for caring about me," Duoduo said, "I know everyone wants me to get better."
She paused, then said: "But I don't want Daddy to be sad anymore."
"If my being alive makes Daddy so unhappy... I'd rather not be cured."
She smiled at the camera.
And the price stopped falling.
Then it exploded upward.
50, 60, 80, 100...
It broke 100 yuan, and kept climbing.
110, 120, 150...
I stared, stunned.
Duoduo still smiled, eyes shining.
Then the app notified: [Congratulations! Target fully cured. Contract terminated.]
At the same time, the ward monitors started beeping.
Doctors rushed in, examining Duoduo.
Minutes later, the doctor removed his mask, eyes wide: "Mr. Zhang... it's a miracle. Duoduo's leukemia is gone."
I ran over, hugging Duoduo, tears streaming down.
That night, I took Duoduo home.
Back home, I opened the app, ready to delete it.
But before I could uninstall, a new stock appeared.
Code XW002, named... Chen Mo's Hope.
I froze, clicking to see details.
The K-line was a straight downward line.
Then I got a text from Chen Mo: [Zhang Lei, thank you. My daughter's cured too.]
I stared at the message, then at the stock, cold all over.
Chen Mo had a daughter too. He'd done all this to save her.
Who would be next?
I deleted the app, threw the phone aside.
Duoduo played with blocks in the living room, sunlight streaming through the window, warm.
I walked over, sat beside her, watching her.
At least Duoduo was safe.
But somewhere in this city, how many fathers like me were signing that contract for their children?
And who would be the next "principal"?
That night, I had another dream.
I stood in darkness, surrounded by countless faces watching me.
I tried to run, but couldn't.
Because those faces had the same desperate hope in their eyes—the same willingness to gamble everything.
At the end of the crowd, I saw a man in a gray suit, holding a contract, smiling at me.
Beside him stood a little girl.
The same age as Duoduo.
I woke with a start, sweating.
I turned to look at Duoduo—she slept peacefully, smiling.
I sighed, getting up to get a drink of water.
As I passed the desk, my phone lit up.
I picked it up.
A notification: [New stock available for claim. Code XW003, name:...]
I rubbed my eyes, trying to see the rest.
[New stock available for claim. Code XW003, name: Zhang Lei's Obsession.]
I froze.
The phone vibrated, growing more intense.
I looked at my hand—skin turning transparent, red and green lines flowing beneath the surface, like a K-line chart.
I tried to scream, but no sound came out.
I looked at my body—it was fading, becoming a mass of numbers and lines.
Then an invisible force pulled me toward the phone screen.
I saw Duoduo in the bedroom, sleeping soundly.
I wanted to call her name, but couldn't.
I was sucked into the screen.
Darkness surrounded me, filled with flashing numbers.
Then I saw it.
The stock.
XW003, Zhang Lei's Obsession.
Its K-line moved, red and green lines weaving together into a face.
My face.
I tried to escape, but I was part of it now.
Every price movement was my heartbeat.
Every trade was my breath.
Trapped here forever.
After an unknown time, a new name appeared on the screen.
XW004, Li Ming's Redemption.
Then a man's face appeared, eyes filled with desperation and hope.
Just like me once.
The game was starting again.
And I was part of it.
In the darkness, I heard countless voices.
Like people talking.
Like K-lines ticking.
Tick. Tock. Tick.
And I was the demon stock.