Su
Zhu
flipped
the
script.
After
months
of
people
responding
to
his
posts
on
social
media
saying
the
former
hedge
fund
manager
should
be
in
jail,
he’s
now
recommending
everyone
spend
a
stint
in
prison.
Is
it
gall
or
is
it
just
good
posting?
“No
one
wants
to
go
to
prison,
but
I
think
it’s
actually
a
really
enjoyable
experience
overall,”
Zhu
said
in
a
clip
of
an
unnamed
and
unreleased
podcast
shared
recently
on
Twitter/X.
Apparently
his
three
month
incarceration
gave
him
time
to
decompress,
read
and
realign
his
spine.
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Zhu
is
obviously
a
controversial
figure
—
when
3AC
blew
up,
it
reportedly
owed
creditors
$3.3
billion,
helping
to
kickstart
a
contagion
event
that
erased
trillions
in
value
from
retail
and
institutional
investors’
portfolios.
Davies
and
Zhu
then
began
traveling
the
world
(primarily
to
countries
with
non-U.S.
extradition
treaties),
and
refused
to
collaborate
with
investigators.
But
Zhu
is
also
a
master
in
the
art
of
the
post.
Whether
born
or
molded
into
a
troll,
he
has
a
knack
for
building
an
audience
in
a
space
where
attention
is
as
good
as
actual
currency.
When
times
were
good,
people
looked
up
to
Zhu
as
a
trading
guru.
And
now
that
times
are
bad,
it
seems
people
are
hedging
to
see
whether
he
can
bounce
back.
Perhaps
it’s
clever
marketing
to
remind
people
he’s
at
the
beginning
of
his
“redemption
arc,”
discussing
the
spartan
lifestyle
of
a
Singaporean
prison
where
he
relearned
to
value
the
simple
“things
that
in
ancient
days
would
still
be
considered
entertainment.”
Or
it’s
a
way
of
washing
away
the
bad
taste
in
saying
he’ll
never
have
to
work
again
after
blowing
up
a
$4
billion
fund.
It’s
always
been
difficult
to
gauge
whether
Zhu
is
sincere.
When
he
floated
the
idea
of
the
“supercycle,”
predicting
one
bitcoin
could
soon
be
worth
$2.5
million,
it
was
never
clear
if
it
was
because
he
actually
believed
Bitcoin
would
capture
the
same
market
value
as
gold
or
if
he
just
wanted
to
foment
FOMO
for
his
own
personal
benefit.
In
some
sense
it
doesn’t
matter
whether
he
was
dumb
enough
to
personally
believe
crypto
would
never
see
another
bear
market,
because
the
risks
he
took
were
with
other
people’s
money.
He
used
his
influence
and
popularity
to
take
out
loan
after
loan
after
loan
from
institutions
he
would
eventually
help
bankrupt,
running
up
a
number
of
embarrassingly
bad
trades.
Zhu
and
Davies
have
denied
wrongdoing
at
nearly
every
turn,
and
say
it’s
not
a
crime
to
go
bankrupt
or
to
have
bets
go
wrong.
Singaporean
authorities
have
accused
Zhu
and
Davies
of
providing
misleading
information,
evading
arrest
and
have
banned
them
from
conducting
regulated
investment
activities
for
nine
years
while
some
of
their
lenders
said
they
committed
fraud
and
falsified
records
to
get
access
to
more
capital,
but
they
haven’t
been
officially
charged
with
financial
violations.
Investing
is
a
game
of
conviction,
and
it’s
clear
enough
that
Zhu
and
Davies
were
and
remain
true
believers
in
crypto
— at
least
as
a
vehicle
to
make
money.
Their
biggest
trades,
including
trading
the
GBTC
premium,
betting
on
staked
ETH
ahead
of
the
Merge
and
buying
altcoins
including
LUNA
and
AVAX,
were
all
bets
that
crypto
was
on
the
precipice
of
mass
adoption
amid
a
moment
of
rapid
digitization
and
macroeconomic
uncertainty
during
the
coronavirus
crisis.
Arguably,
Voyager
and
BlockFi
are
at
least
partially
at
fault
in
loaning
millions
of
dollars
to
3AC
to
lose,
putting
aside
the
open
question
of
whether
they
were
defrauded.
Voyager
reportedly
lent
over
half
of
its
loan
book
to
this
single
company,
which
speaks
as
much
to
its
greed
as
Zhu
and
Davies’.
3AC
is
also
not
the
only
crypto
hedge
fund
that
forgot
to
hedge.
Sigma
Zhu
But
as
Zhu
creeps
back
into
the
spotlight
—
this
time
espousing
a
more
nuanced
philosophy
that
makes
room
for
the
dangers
of
technology
and
the
importance
of
finding
fulfillment
outside
of
work
and
money
—
it’s
important
to
reflect
on
how
he
became
so
central
to
crypto
and
the
nested
dangers
of
idolizing
the
fame-
and
money-hungry.
As
a
product
of
Phillips
Academy,
Columbia
University
and
Credit
Suisse,
Zhu
helped
grant
legitimacy
to
crypto
by
putting
his
reputation
on
the
line
and
founding
a
trading
shop.
He
climbed
to
the
top
of
an
industry
that
holds
little
respect
among
the
type
of
peers
he
went
to
private
boarding
school
with,
and
vice
versa,
an
industry
that
values
hustle
and
gumption
and
independent
thinking,
but
above
all
prizes
the
ability
to
make
money.
Zhu
shows
that
making
money
in
crypto
isn’t
just
about
what
you
know,
but
who
you
know.
This
is
why
there
are
so
many
copy-trading
bots,
and
why
the
success
of
one
meme
coin
over
another
is
often
a
matter
of
who’s
buying.
Zhu
was
at
the
center
of
a
complicated
web
of
trend
makers
and
influencers
that
literally
drove
the
circular
economics
of
recommending
winning
trades
and
gaining
followers
to
the
breaking
point.
It’s
telling,
for
instance,
now
that
his
reputation
is
practically
worthless,
Zhu
is
trying
to
cultivate
an
identity
of
someone
who
only
wants
to
read
and
finds
meaning
in
simplicity
—
like
a
Zen
master.
Of
course,
Zhu
was
not
completely
abandoned,
particularly
among
self-described
“Sigma
males”
who
can
excuse
allegations
of
fraud
in
their
reckless
disregard
for
societal
norms,
and
who
think
it’s
probably
a
good
trade
getting
in
close
with
Zhu
now
at
his
lowest.
This
is
how
the
cycle
starts
again:
slowly
Zhu
will
rebuild
trust
and
an
audience,
and
with
that
genuine
influence.
I
hope
he
has
changed,
that
he
is
sincere
in
his
recommendation
of
prison
life
to
get
back
on
track.
But
I
think
Zhu
is
just
the
type
of
person
who
will
say
whatever
suits
him,
whether
that’s
to
manipulate
people
or
markets.
