The cold was the first thing Damon Hemsworth registered, a biting, bone-deep ache that had no business existing in the sleek, climate-controlled apartment he'd owned in 2025 Manhattan. That, and the scent—not the clean, filtered air of his old life, but a dense, smoky aroma of coal, expensive wool, and faint, unfamiliar perfume. He was Damon, a private equity titan who had just closed the deal of his life, celebrating with a bottle of hundred-year-old scotch, and then… nothing. Now, his mind felt like a tumbler of shaken ice, and his body was a foreign, adolescent cage.
He opened his eyes, blinking against the gaslight glow filtered through heavy velvet curtains. He was lying in a monumental four-poster bed, dwarfed by the sheer scale of the room. The ceiling was a coffered, dark mahogany expanse, and the walls were covered in silk-flocked wallpaper, deep crimson and gold. This wasn't a room; it was a testament to Victorian excess, an artifact he might have bid on at a Sotheby's auction, not woken up in. His limbs felt heavy and slight, unfamiliar hands resting on the brocade coverlet. They were small, smooth, and utterly untouched by the decades of relentless gym work and aggressive handshakes that defined the Damon Hemsworth he knew.
A frantic, visceral panic tightened his chest. He pushed himself up, the movement causing the starched linen of his nightshirt to rustle loudly. He stumbled out of bed onto a thick Persian rug, the cool, dark wood floor hitting his feet. He lunged toward the nearest mirror, an ornate, gilded oval hanging between two tall windows.
What stared back was a boy. Not him, but a younger, healthier version of the Hemsworth line he vaguely remembered from old family portraits—a narrow face, sharp blue eyes, a determined, almost arrogant set to the jaw, framed by a shock of dark brown hair. He looked perhaps thirteen, fourteen at most. A quick, desperate search of his memory confirmed the terrifying, impossible truth: he was Damon, but he was also Damon Hemsworth II, the only son of the powerful New York financier, Arthur Hemsworth. The year was 1902. The year of his actual birth, in his past life's history, was 1990. He, the 2025 man, was trapped in the body of a Gilded Age youth.
He stood there for a long time, breathing in the century-old air, piecing together the fragments. He was in the family's Fifth Avenue mansion. Arthur Hemsworth & Sons Bank, already a formidable institution, was located just down the street from J.P. Morgan's headquarters. The family wealth was immense, old, and rooted in railroad and government bonds. His new existence was defined by capital, connections, and credibility—the three pillars he'd always preached were necessary for true empire building. This was not a pauper's rebirth; this was a loaded starting gun.
The terror slowly gave way to a chilling, almost maniacal clarity. A 123-year head start. He knew the entire global economic timeline: two World Wars, the Great Depression, the rise of the Soviet Union, the collapse of Bretton Woods, the Oil Crises, the birth of Silicon Valley, the 2008 crash, and the precise moment when disruptive technologies would be born and die. He knew which railroad stocks would bankrupt men, and which obscure chemicals would build the future. He knew, for instance, that air travel was not a luxury for the ultra-rich, but the inevitable mass transit of the future, and that the black sludge coming out of Texas would fuel that future for a century.
His ambition, which had been a refined, cynical force in 2025, now became a primordial, consuming fire. He hadn't just been given a second chance at life; he'd been given the blueprint for a global monopoly. The thought of building an empire that survived, adapted, and dominated every major economic shift for the next century was intoxicating.
A sharp knock came at the door, startling him out of his reverie. "Master Damon? Are you ready for breakfast? Your father is waiting." The voice was that of Jennings, the family's long-serving butler.
Damon swallowed, forcing the boy's voice out. "Yes, Jennings. Five minutes."
He quickly surveyed the room. The furnishings were heavy, opulent, and suffocatingly formal. He walked over to a small mahogany desk and picked up a copy of the New York Times left there by a meticulous maid. The date leaped out at him: April 14, 1902. The headlines spoke of coal strikes, the Philippine-American War, and the growing antitrust concerns against the trusts. Standard Oil. The Rockefellers. J.P. Morgan. The names that had been historical figures in his old life were now his immediate, flesh-and-blood rivals. He had to be smarter, faster, and more ruthless than all of them combined.
He quickly dressed in the clothes laid out for him: thick woolen trousers, a crisp white shirt, a stiff collar, and a vest. He tied the intricate cravat with a practiced hand, realizing his old muscle memory had somehow mapped onto the boy's body. He stared into the mirror again, a faint, determined smile touching his lips. He was only a boy, yes, but he held the keys to the future.
The plan formed with dizzying speed and clarity. The current bank was his anchor. His first move would be to leverage the bank's capital to secure futures in two key areas: Gold and Oil. The 1907 Panic was coming, and he could use his foreknowledge of that liquidity crisis to destroy rivals and consolidate power, all while hoarding the one asset that would always hold value. Oil was the obvious fuel for the coming automotive and air travel revolutions. He wouldn't just invest; he would aim to control the refining and distribution infrastructure.
Next, the Automobile industry. No messy early startup ventures. He knew the internal combustion engine's destiny. He would fund the innovator who focused on mass production and standardization, not the boutique luxury car manufacturers.
The biggest challenge wouldn't be money; it would be time and credibility. How could a thirteen-year-old boy, even an intelligent one, suddenly start giving industrial advice that ran counter to the conventional wisdom of the most powerful men in the world? He needed a proxy, a channel for his genius—and that channel had to be his father, Arthur Hemsworth.
He descended the grand, winding staircase, the sounds of the active household—servants bustling, the distant clinking of silverware—filling the air. He entered the dining room, a long, high-ceilinged space dominated by a massive oak table.
Arthur Hemsworth sat at the head, a formidable man with his son's sharp eyes but weighted with the gravity of accumulated decades. He lowered his copy of The Wall Street Journal and gave his son a curt nod. "Damon. You're late."
"Forgive me, Father," the boy Damon replied, his voice a little deeper, more self-assured than his father expected. "I had a rather… eventful night. I've been thinking about the Alaska Gold Company shares we hold. Have we considered the implications of the recent Klondike boom tapering off and the subsequent liquidity risk to our smaller lenders?"
Arthur Hemsworth froze, his coffee cup halfway to his lips. He lowered it slowly, his shrewd eyes narrowing as he studied his son. That wasn't a boy's question. That was the question of a man who understood the intricate web connecting a frontier boom, bank lending, and market stability.
"The Klondike has provided a very healthy return, Damon. We've certainly not considered any immediate liquidity risk," Arthur said, his tone shifting from patrician impatience to cautious curiosity. "What, precisely, prompted this thought?"
Damon took a measured bite of his toast, the simple act of eating feeling strange yet essential. "It's simple logic, Father. The boom is over. The influx of gold will slow, which tightens credit. We are a banking family. We shouldn't be gambling on mines. We should be providing the capital for the factories that the gold will build. I urge you to look into selling off seventy percent of our resource holdings and funneling that capital into vertical industrial integration—specifically, an automobile manufacturer and a new high-efficiency refining company in Pennsylvania. The future is not in extracting things; it's in making things."