The rain had turned Birmingham's streets into a mirror of dull grey, reflecting the half-lit neon of corner shops and the occasional flicker of a passing car's headlights. Steph was late from work, thinking about the spreadsheet he had just finished for a client. In the future, he knew exactly how much he had earned, where to invest, and how to navigate every financial loophole in the world. But that knowledge didn't save him from a sudden screech of tires, a blinding pain, and the sensation of falling into darkness.
When he opened his eyes, everything felt… wrong. The room smelled of damp carpet and cheap paint. A broken radiator hissed quietly, and the furniture was small, almost toy-like. Then he saw himself — a small boy of three, with a round face and wide, curious eyes staring back from the mirror.
Panic surged. Memories of his adult life — the billions, the strategic investments, the luxury — flooded his mind. But the body he now inhabited was fragile, small, and utterly powerless. He touched his face, his tiny hands trembling, and realized: he had somehow… traveled back in time.
He remembered everything. Every missed opportunity, every future trend, every investment he would have wished to make. And suddenly, a smile crossed his tiny face.
Karen, his mother, was busy in the kitchen, trying to scrub dried pasta off the counter. She hummed quietly, oblivious to the child staring at himself in the mirror. Marcus, his father, sat on the threadbare sofa, a look of exhaustion etched into his face. Bills were scattered on the coffee table, overdue notices glaring like threats.
Steph's three-year-old brain — now fully integrated with the memories of his 25-year-old mind — immediately began calculating. He glanced at the old family PC sitting in the corner, humming quietly. It was slow, outdated, but it would do.
Bitcoin.
He remembered it clearly: a digital currency that would one day take the world by storm. In 2006, nobody cared, nobody understood, and no one valued it. But he did. He dug through the drawer where his parents kept their savings and found £1,000 in small notes, neatly stacked. His tiny fingers trembled as he carried it to the computer, careful not to make a sound.
He opened the clunky PC, navigated the ancient software, and registered the very first account he would ever create. With precision that no child should possess, he typed in a complex password, scribbling a copy in crayon on a page from his coloring book. This was the seed of a fortune beyond imagination — a fortune that would remain hidden for years, growing quietly in the digital shadows.
Karen glanced up from the sink. "Steph, what are you doing over there?"
"Nothing, Mum," he said, the voice small, childlike, but his mind already racing with the knowledge of future wealth. Nothing at all, he thought, hiding the potential that would one day make him a billionaire.
He leaned back, watching the numbers climb on the screen. Every coin mined, every byte recorded, every tiny fluctuation in the system was a step toward freedom. He remembered the poverty of his family, the struggles in their neighborhood, the fear in the eyes of other children when gangs prowled the streets. I will change this, he thought. And I will do it without anyone knowing.
Outside, the rain continued to fall on Birmingham, washing the streets, but nothing could wash away the spark that had ignited in a three-year-old boy's mind: the spark of knowledge, power, and the quiet rebellion against a life of mediocrity.
Steph turned to his parents, smiling innocently. In their eyes, he was just a curious little boy. But in his mind, he was already a master of finance, law, and strategy. And in a few short years, he would begin the journey that would make him the invisible billionaire, living in luxury while the world never suspected a thing.