The Bitcoin you took is not treasure; it is a room you must now live inside, windowless, airless, lined with mirrors that show only the instant you became cheaper than your own talent. Every coin is a preserved second of that surrender, every address another glass case around the specimen of your greed, every transfer a needle pinning you more firmly to the board. You may move it until your fingers ache, break it into dust, send it through ten thousand electronic veins, but motion is not escape. A stain does not become clean because it spreads.