16. KAISEN
KAISEN
I’d been watching her for three weeks.
Not in a creepy way—at least that’s what I told myself.
Just observing. Learning her patterns. The way she moved through the world like she was carrying something heavy but refused to put it down.
The way she sat in Crescent Park every afternoon around two, laptop open, headphones in, completely absorbed in whatever was on her screen.
Most people came to the park to escape. She came to work.
That intrigued me more than it should have.
Today was warm, the kind of New Orleans heat that made the air thick and lazy.
I parked my car on the street and walked the path toward the bench where she always sat—third one from the fountain, under the oak tree that provided just enough shade.
She was there, exactly where I knew she’d be, wearing a tank top and shorts, her natural hair pulled back in a puff, fingers flying across her keyboard.
I approached slowly, hands in my pockets, trying to look casual. Like I just happened to be walking by. Like I hadn’t spent the last twenty minutes sitting in my car, working up the nerve to do this.
When I got close enough to see her screen, I stopped.
She was day trading. And from what I could see, she was about to close a position way too early.
“You should hold just a bit longer,” I said.
Her head snapped up, eyes narrowing behind her glasses. “Excuse me?”
“That stock.” I nodded toward her screen. “You’re about to sell, right? I’d hold. Maybe another hour. The momentum’s building.”
She stared at me for a long moment, her expression somewhere between annoyed and incredulous. Then she said, very clearly, “I didn’t ask for your opinion.”
I couldn’t help it—I smiled. Most women would’ve been flustered or flattered that I’d noticed what they were doing. She was pissed.
“Fair enough,” I said, holding up my hands. “But look at the volume. It spiked fifteen minutes ago and it’s holding steady. That’s not profit-taking, that’s accumulation. Institutional money’s moving in. If you sell now, you’re leaving money on the table.”
She looked back at her screen, her jaw tight. I watched her scroll through the charts, checking the indicators I’d mentioned. Her fingers paused on the keyboard. Then she leaned back against the bench and crossed her arms, studying me with those sharp, intelligent eyes.
“How long have you been standing there watching my screen?”
“Long enough to see that you’re good at this,” I said honestly. “But you’re playing it too safe. You’ve got the read right, you’re just not trusting it.”
“And you know this because…”
“Because I do the same thing.” I gestured toward the empty space on the bench. “Mind if I sit?”
She hesitated, then shrugged. “It’s a public bench.”
I sat down, keeping a respectful distance between us. Up close, she was even more striking than I’d realized from a distance—the kind of beautiful that didn’t need effort, that came from intelligence and confidence and something deeper I couldn’t quite name.
“How long have you been trading?” she asked, her tone still guarded but curious now.
“Few years. Started when I was trying to figure out how to make money that didn’t involve…” I trailed off, catching myself. “Let’s just say I needed something legitimate.”
Her eyebrow arched. “Legitimate. That’s an interesting word choice.”
“Yeah, well….” I leaned back, matching her posture. “We all got our histories.”
She studied me for another moment, then turned back to her laptop. I watched her pull up another chart, this one showing the broader market trends. She was checking my analysis, verifying what I’d said. Smart. Cautious. Not the type to take anyone’s word at face value.
“You’re right,” she finally said, and I heard the reluctance in her voice, like admitting it cost her something. “The volume’s there. Institutional accumulation.” She glanced at me sideways. “You trade full-time?”
“Nah. More like a side thing. Keeps my mind sharp.” I nodded toward her screen. “What about you? You seem like you know what you’re doing.”
“Trying to learn,” she said, and there was something vulnerable in the admission. “I’ve got some capital now, and I’m tired of letting it sit in a savings account, earning nothing. Figured I’d put it to work.”
“That’s smart. Most people are too scared to even try.”
“Most people haven’t been broke enough to know what scared really feels like.” The words came out sharp, defensive, and I saw her catch herself. She shook her head. “Sorry. That was?—”
“Real,” I finished. “That was real. And I respect it.”
She looked at me then, really looked at me, and I felt something shift in the air between us. Recognition, maybe. The kind that happens when two people realize they speak the same language, even if they learned it in different places.
“What’s your strategy?” I asked, genuinely curious. “You a day trader? Swing trader? Long-term holds?”
“Depends on the setup,” she said, and I could hear the passion creeping into her voice despite her best efforts to stay guarded. “I like momentum plays—stocks that are breaking out of consolidation patterns. Clean entries, defined risk, quick exits if I’m wrong.”
“That’s discipline,” I said, impressed. “A lot of people can’t handle that kind of structure. They get emotional, hold losers too long, cut winners too early.”
“Yeah, well, I can’t afford to be emotional about money.” She pulled up another chart, this one showing a stock that had gapped up at the open. “What do you think about this one? Gap and go, or gap and fade?”
I leaned in to look closer, and I caught the scent of her—something clean and warm, like cocoa butter and summer.
“That’s tricky. The volume’s strong but look at the resistance level right above current price.
It’s tested that three times in the last month and failed every time.
I’d wait for a clear break above resistance before entering. Otherwise, you’re just gambling.”
She nodded slowly, her fingers moving across the keyboard as she marked the resistance level on her chart. “That makes sense. I was thinking the same thing but second-guessing myself.”
“Trust your read,” I said. “You’ve got good instincts. You just need to believe in them.”
She turned to look at me again, and this time there was something different in her eyes.
Not suspicion, not defensiveness—curiosity.
Interest. The kind that had nothing to do with trading and everything to do with the way we were sitting here talking like we’d known each other for years instead of minutes.
“You always give unsolicited trading advice to strangers in parks?” she asked, and there was a hint of a smile playing at the corner of her mouth.
“Only when they’re about to make a mistake that I’ve made a hundred times myself,” I said, matching her smile. “Consider it a public service.”
She laughed then—a real laugh, not the polite kind—and the sound did something to my chest that I wasn’t prepared for. Made me want to hear it again. Made me want to know what else could make her laugh like that.
“I’m Kaisen,” I said, extending my hand.
She looked at my hand for a moment, then took it. Her grip was firm, confident. “Truth.”
“Truth,” I repeated, testing the name on my tongue. “That’s different.”
“My mama didn’t believe in lies,” she said simply. “Figured if she named me Truth, I’d have no choice but to live up to it.”
“And do you?”
“Every day.” She held my gaze, and I saw the steel beneath the softness, the survivor beneath the smile. “Even when it costs me.”
We sat there for a moment, hands still clasped, the connection between us electric and undeniable. She was dangerous in a way I hadn’t expected—not because of what she could do to me, but because of what I wanted to do for her. With her. To her.
Finally, she pulled her hand back and returned her attention to her laptop, but I could see the slight flush in her cheeks, the way her breathing changed.
“So,” she said, her voice deliberately casual. “You gonna sit here and critique my trades all afternoon, or do you have somewhere to be?”
I leaned back against the bench, getting comfortable. “I got time.”
She shook her head, but she was smiling now. Really smiling. “You’re trouble, aren’t you?”
“Probably,” I admitted. “But so are you.”
“Yeah,” she said softly, her eyes meeting mine again. “I probably am.”
And just like that, I knew I was in deeper than I planned to be.
The afternoon stretched out like honey—slow, sweet, golden. Truth pulled up another chart, and I leaned in closer, close enough to catch that cocoa butter scent again, close enough to see the way her fingers moved across the keyboard with confidence that came from practice.
“Look at this one,” she said, pointing to a stock that had been consolidating for weeks. “Volume’s been dead, but it’s starting to pick up. You think it’s real or just noise?”
I studied the pattern, the way the price action was tightening into a wedge. “Pull up the options flow.”
She did, her fingers flying. The data populated on screen—heavy call buying, institutional size.
“That’s not retail,” I said. “That’s smart money positioning before a move.”
“So, we’re thinking breakout?” Her eyes were bright, excited. This was her element. This was where she came alive.
“I’m thinking you set an alert above resistance and wait for confirmation. Don’t chase it. Let it come to you.”
She nodded, already marking the level on her chart. “What’s your entry strategy? You wait for the break and retest, or do you buy the breakout?”
“Depends on the setup. If it’s clean—strong volume, no resistance overhead—I’ll buy the break. But if it’s messy, I wait for the pullback. Rather miss a trade than lose money trying to force it.”
“That’s smart.” She pulled up another chart, this one showing a stock that had gapped down at the open and was now trying to recover. “What about this? Gap fill play or dead cat bounce?”
I laughed. “You really do know your shit.”