The first rule of the game revealed itself quickly: wait.
It was 1975. Too early for him to act, too dangerous for him to speak. Apple was already founded, yes, but its real explosion was still years away. Microsoft had yet to take the world by storm. The internet, the dot-com boom, the rise of semiconductors — all the waves he planned to ride were still out on the horizon.
If he opened his mouth now, talking about stocks or companies, people would only laugh — or worse, look at him strangely. A five-year-old speaking like a seasoned banker was no genius, it was a freak. And freaks attracted attention. Attention was the enemy.
So he decided: patience first, action later. For now, he would live like a normal child. Or at least, close enough to one.
The problem was, he couldn't bring himself to enjoy the silly games of the children his age. Running around pretending to be cowboys, throwing mud, chasing each other with sticks — it all felt so hollow, so beneath him. He had memories of coding, of watching stock tickers, of reading dense novels. How could he lose himself in games of tag when his mind was busy sketching out the 21st century?
So he stayed apart. Not unfriendly, but quiet, more introverted than the other kids. Adults said he was "mature for his age." They praised him for being calm, polite, and thoughtful. Only he knew the truth — that he was a grown man trapped in a child's body, unable to bridge the gap.
But introversion gave him an advantage: he could channel his focus into studies. If he tried to talk about stocks or advanced mathematics at five, he would be branded a freak. But if he showed quick mental arithmetic, read fluently, absorbed knowledge faster than his peers — then he would be called a genius. And genius was celebrated.
He drew the line carefully. He solved addition and subtraction problems with ease, read books far above his age, remembered details teachers barely touched upon. His teachers began to marvel, his parents to beam with pride. He wasn't a freak. He was a gifted child. And that was exactly the disguise he wanted.
Meanwhile, his new family gave him comfort. His parents were doing well — very well. Their combined salaries were around $200,000 a year, a staggering sum for 1975. They weren't even at the peak of their careers yet. His father's role at Universal was only growing, and his mother, sharp and articulate, was moving steadily upward in her legal profession. The household wasn't rich like the tycoons of Wall Street, but it was comfortable, secure, and filled with promise.
That, too, was a gift. He wouldn't need to rush for survival. No desperate scrambles for food, no clawing for rent money. His foundation was solid. That meant when the time came, he could strike from a position of stability — not fear.
Until then, he would wait. Watch. Learn. Build his knowledge quietly. A child on the outside, a strategist on the inside.
The real game hadn't even started yet