The bull has appeared, and this time everyone saw it.

The market is flashing green, the candlesticks are rising straight up, and trading volume is starting to surge. Old screenshots are being dug up, and new stories are being quickly woven—"This time is really different," "Miss it and you'll have to wait four years," "It's still not too late to get on now." The excitement in the group skyrockets, as if every account is inhabited by a bull waiting to be ridden.

Everything seems to be in order. Prices are rising, narratives are being laid out, and the countdown to financial freedom is calculated precisely to the month. People who were discussing faith yesterday are planning to buy houses today. Confidence has built into a consensus, and that consensus turns into celebration.

But the bull never speaks.

It watches these people—talking grandly about market logic during the rally, blaming the market's unfairness during the dip; calling profits investment insight, and losses liquidity traps. The bull's patience finally runs out. It gently flicks its tail, draining liquidity at some key price levels late at night, then turns and leaves.

This time, it left very quietly. No warnings, no announcements. Only candlesticks shrinking back, their colors changing from green to red to gray. By the time most people realize what’s happening, the screen has already changed, and the group begins to debate "This is a healthy correction," "Big players are shaking out," "It will definitely come back."

Only the account knows the truth.

The screenshots at the peak still lie in the album, and the cost basis of the full holdings hasn't changed. The phrase on the timeline repeats over and over: The bull came, and it left, just like it never showed up at all.

But those numbers in the account remember every time it was here.