In a single stretch of one day the archivist watched this wallet move one hundred seventy five times into small graves and two thousand fifteen times out of them, laying down eleven point nine six ETH across a dozen hours and drawing back two thousand seventy two, a ratio the ledger records as seventeen thousand two hundred thirty two percent and the archivist records as appetite without patience. Forty minutes was the longest it ever mourned a coin. $CHINA, $0XA6B7, $STEAL, $0XCD3C, $ROBINCAT, $0XEF90, each entered for pennies of ETH and left for slightly more or slightly less, none of them ever trusted long enough to matter.
It did not build, it skimmed, and the chain does not forget the difference. Five other hands keep crossing its path in coin after coin, thirty eight shared graves with one, thirty three with another, a pattern too regular to call coincidence and too thin to call a conspiracy; the archivist notes it and assigns no name to what it might be. What remains is a wallet built for exit, weighted enough to matter, faithful to nothing, and marked in the ledger as a taker who never once stayed to bury what it dug up.