Pain was the first thing Arthur Vance felt. It was a dull, heavy throb behind his eyes.
His last memory was sharp and violent. It was rain, slick on the roads of 2025. He remembered the blinding white headlights of the truck that ran the red light. He remembered the horrible sound of metal tearing apart. He remembered thinking, with a strange, cold sadness, I never even cleared my desk. Then, there was only darkness.
This was not darkness. This was… a bed.
The sheets were rough, not the soft, high-thread-count sheets from his small apartment. He was lying on his back. The room was quiet, but not the sterile quiet of a hospital. There were no electronic beeps, no quiet hum of machines.
He heard a distant sound. A horse, its iron shoes clicking on stone. A man shouting, "Get your morning paper! War in Europe! Read all about it!"
Arthur's eyes snapped open.
The ceiling was not the white tile of a hospital room. It was plaster, with a small, hairline crack that looked like a river on a map. He sat up, too quickly. The room spun for a moment, and the ache in his head flared.
He looked around. He was in a small, simple room. The walls were covered in pale, faded wallpaper with little blue flowers. A dark wood wardrobe stood against one wall. A steam radiator in the corner clanked and hissed, pushing out a dry heat.
"Where am I?" he whispered. His voice sounded strange. It was higher, younger.
He looked down at his hands.
These were not his hands.
His hands—the hands of a 38-year-old financial analyst—were pale and covered in a fine web of lines from stress and typing. They were the hands of a man who worked 70 hours a week under fluorescent lights.
These hands were smooth, strong, and unblemished. They were the hands of a teenager.
A cold feeling, colder than the January air outside, washed over him. He pushed the rough blankets aside and swung his legs out of bed. He was wearing simple cotton pajamas. He stood up. His body felt different. It felt light, energetic, and unfamiliar.
Across the room, there was a small bathroom. He walked on unsteady legs, his bare feet cold on the wooden floor. He pushed the door open. A single, bare bulb lit the small space. Above the sink, there was a mirror.
Arthur looked. He did not see himself.
He saw a ghost.
The face staring back at him was his own, but it was the face from twenty years ago. It was Arthur Vance at 18. His hair was thick and dark. His jaw was sharp. His eyes were clear. There were no dark circles from sleepless nights, no lines of worry.
He touched his face. The reflection in the mirror did the same.
"This is not possible," he said. The young voice coming from his mouth felt wrong. "I am 38. I was in a car crash. I work at..."
He stopped. He gripped the cold porcelain of the sink. His mind, the mind of the 38-year-old analyst, was wide awake. It was a methodical mind, a mind trained to see patterns, to analyze data, and to find the logical answer.
He began to analyze.
Fact One: I am alive. I should be dead.Fact Two: My body is 18 years old.Fact Three: This room is not from my time. The technology is old. The sounds outside are wrong.
He needed more information. He walked back into the bedroom. On the small wooden dresser, there were two items. A folded newspaper and a thick, cream-colored envelope.
His hand trembled, just slightly, as he reached for the newspaper. He unfolded it.
The New York Times.
The date, printed in dark black ink at the top, was January 10, 1940.
Arthur sat down hard on the edge of the bed. The newspaper slipped from his fingers. 1940. Not 2025. He was not just in a different place. He was in a different time. He was 85 years in the past.
He put his head in his hands. The room was quiet again, except for the hissing radiator.
All his knowledge, all his experience… it was from a future that did not exist yet. His world was gone. His small apartment, his job, the digital stock market he watched every second, the glowing screen of his phone… all of it was dust in a distant, unborn time. A wave of terrible, crushing loneliness hit him. Everyone he had ever known was not even born yet.
He sat there for a long time. Maybe ten minutes, maybe an hour. The 38-year-old man inside the 18-year-old body grieved for his lost life.
Then, the analyst took over again.
The grief did not go away. It was just packed down, put into a box, and set aside. Panic was useless. Emotion was inefficient. He had to think.
He was 18 years old in January 1940.
His mind, a calculator of future events, began to run the numbers. He was not just in the past. He was at the most important turning point in modern history.
In 2025, the 1940s were ancient history. But he had been a financial analyst. He did not just study numbers; he studied history to see the patterns. He knew what was coming.
The war in Europe, the one the newsboy was shouting about, was just beginning. In less than two years, Pearl Harbor would be attacked. The United States would enter the war. The entire country would become a giant factory.
After the war, the great American boom would begin. The suburbs would grow. The television would appear. The rise of companies like IBM. The computer. The microchip. The internet.
He knew. He knew it all. He knew which companies would win and which would fail. He knew where the government would spend its money.
A slow, cold smile touched the face of the 18-year-old in the mirror. He was not a victim. He had not been sent here to be punished.
He had been given the ultimate advantage.
He remembered his old life. He was a good analyst, but he was not rich. He was a servant to the market. He advised other people on how to make money. He would have worked until he was 70 and retired with a small pension.
Now… now he could build. He could build something real. Something generational.
But he was an 18-year-old boy in a rented room. He had no money. He had no power. A brilliant plan without capital is just a dream.
He looked at the dresser. The second item was still there. The thick, cream-colored envelope.
He picked it up. It felt heavy. It was addressed to "Mr. Arthur Vance." His name. He opened the unsealed flap and pulled out a letter.
It was written on heavy, expensive paper. At the top was a name embossed in black ink: "Thorne & Associates, Attorneys at Law."
He read the letter.
Dear Mr. Vance,
It is with deepest regret that I must inform you of the passing of your great-uncle, Mr. Marcus Vance, who passed away in Europe last month. We have been trying to locate you for several weeks.
Arthur paused. He barely remembered this uncle. He was a family legend, a "black sheep" who had left America in the 1920s and was never spoken of again.
He continued reading.
Mr. Vance never married and had no children. His will, filed with our office, names you, his last living relative, as the sole heir to his entire estate in the United States.
His U.S. assets are considerable. After all taxes and fees, the total inheritance to be transferred to your name is…
Arthur stopped breathing. He read the number once. He read it a second time.
$5,000,000.
Five million dollars.
Arthur's 2025 mind tried to understand this number. In 1940. An average family earned about $1,300 a year. A new house cost $4,000. A new car was $700.
This was not just money. This was a fortune. It was the kind of wealth that built cities. It was like having half a billion dollars, or more, in his old time.
And it was clean. It was an inheritance. No one would question it. It was the perfect, sterile seed capital.
He finished the letter. It politely requested that he come to the offices of Mr. Elias Thorne at his earliest convenience to discuss the details. An address in downtown Manhattan was provided.
Arthur Vance folded the letter and placed it carefully back in the envelope.
He stood up and walked back to the mirror. He looked at the 18-year-old boy staring back. The shock was gone. The grief was still there, locked in its box.
But something new was in his eyes. A cold, calm, and patient fire.
He was no longer Arthur Vance, the mid-level analyst, the victim of a car crash.
He was Arthur Vance, a man with 85 years of perfect market knowledge, an 18-year-old body, and five million dollars.
He looked at the newspaper on the floor. "War in Europe," the headline screamed.
Most people looked at that headline and saw a crisis. They saw fear and uncertainty.
Arthur Vance looked at it and saw the single greatest business opportunity in human history.
"Okay," he said, his new, young voice steady and clear. "Let's get to work."