November 2014. Bitcoin was dying.
Andy watched the charts from his Zurich apartment, watching the line bleed downward. $1,200 in January. $600 in October. Now, mid-November, touching $300. The forums were screaming—capitulation, bubble burst, digital tulips. Friends he didn't have were losing money they couldn't afford.
He felt none of it. Only hunger.
"Fifty million," he told Sarah Chen over encrypted video call. Her face pixelated, then sharpened. "USD. Convert from the holding company through Singapore. Buy Bitcoin through every exchange that will take us. Mt. Gox if we must, though find alternatives. Spread it. Don't let any single market feel our weight."
"Fifty million at three hundred dollars." Sarah's voice was flat, professional, but he caught the undertone. Madness. "That's... what, a hundred and sixty thousand bitcoins?"
"Approximately."
"Andy, the market cap of Bitcoin is barely four billion. We'll own four percent of the entire network. We'll move the price just by buying."
"Then move it slowly. Use bots. Spread orders over weeks." He leaned closer to the camera, willing her to understand. "Sarah. I've done this before. I know how it ends. In two years, this will be worth ten billion. In five, fifty. Trust me."
She looked at him for a long moment. Then: "The other preparations?"
"Proceed. All of them."
The calls happened in sequence, each one rewiring the future.
MiHoYo, Shanghai.
Cai Haoyu answered himself. Twenty-seven years old, three co-founders, a company running on ramen and Guns Girl Z revenue. They'd made $1.2 million last year. They were about to bet everything on a new game—Honkai Impact 3rd—and they needed capital.
"Mr. Firmasyah," Cai Haoyu said, voice careful. English was his second language, practiced but not natural. "Your people said you want to invest. May I ask why? We're small. We're otaku. We make games for... specific audiences."
Andy smiled. He was alone in his apartment, midnight in Zurich, morning in Shanghai. He'd spent three hours researching Cai—his forum posts, his old blogs, his tearful goodbye letter to Ragnarok Online when the servers shut down in China.
"Because I'm a gamer too," Andy said. "I miss playing Ragnarok. I miss World of Warcraft in 2006, when it felt like a world. Open world RPGs became niche, Mr. Cai. Everyone wants mobile now, quick dopamine. But you... you're building something else. Something heavy."
Silence. Then, quieter: "You know Ragnarok?"
"I know you cried when it closed. I know you started MiHoYo because you wanted to build worlds that last." Andy paused. "I'm an otaku too, Mr. Cai. I believe in dreams. Mine is to fund yours. Ten million USD. Series A. No board seat, no interference. Just... build it."
"Ten million," Cai repeated. The number was absurd for a company their size. "For what equity?"
"Twenty percent. Valuation of fifty million. I know it's high. I don't care." Andy looked at his own reflection in the dark window—Redja Firmasyah, twenty-two, pretending to be older than he was. "I know what comes next. Honkai will succeed. Your next project will change everything. I want to be there. Not for ROI. Because I miss good games."
Cai laughed, once, surprised. "You're strange, Mr. Firmasyah."
"I've been told."
"Send the term sheet. We'll sign."
Shilla Hotels, Seoul.
The executive was older, polished, skeptical. "Bali is saturated, Mr. Firmasyah. Four Seasons, Aman, Bulgari. Why would Shilla enter now?"
"Because you don't want to compete with them." Andy had prepared for this. "You want to create something else. Korean luxury. Hallyu wave. Your Seoul properties are full of Chinese tourists who love K-drama. Bali is their next destination. But they want familiar service, familiar aesthetics. A home away from home."
"You've done research."
"I know people." Andy thought of the future—2018, 2019, Crash Landing on You, BTS, the Korean wave cresting. "I know trends. I'm offering fifty million USD. Joint venture. Shilla operates, I finance. We break ground 2016, open 2018. Before the wave peaks."
"And if the wave doesn't come?"
"Then you have a beautiful hotel in paradise and I have a tax loss." Andy smiled. "But it will come. Trust me. I've seen it before."
The executive paused. "You're very confident for someone so young."
"I've been lucky. And I'm betting on you being lucky too."
NVIDIA and AMD.
Easier. Public markets, no persuasion needed. Andy called his broker at Pictet.
"Five million NVIDIA. Five million AMD. Hold for ten years. Don't sell, don't hedge, don't worry about quarterly reports."
"Ten years?" The broker's voice cracked. "Mr. Firmasyah, these are semiconductor companies. Cyclical. Volatile. In ten years—"
"In ten years, one will be worth fifty billion more. The other, thirty." Andy spoke with the certainty of memory. "Buy. Hold. Tell me when it's done."
The phone sat on his desk for three days.
His mother's number. He'd memorized it at six years old, the rhythm of digits, the way she'd made him recite it before he was allowed to cross the street alone.
Now he was twenty-two. Now he was Redja Firmasyah, chairman of companies, holder of infinite cards, architect of futures. And he was terrified of a phone call.
He waited until 6 PM Zurich time—midnight in Bandung, when she would be asleep, when he could leave a message. Cowardice, but necessary cowardice. He needed to speak without seeing her face. Without seeing the hurt.
The ring was loud in his silent apartment. Once. Twice.
"Hello?" Not asleep. Awake, worried, the voice rough from crying or waiting or both.
Andy froze. The script he'd prepared—Ma, it's me, I'm safe, I'm sorry—evaporated.
"Ma," he said. Just that. The word childish, automatic.
Silence. Then a sound, half-gasp, half-sob. "Redja? Redja, is that you? Where are you? Your father is sick, he's been looking for you, the police—"
"I'm safe." His voice cracked. He pressed the phone harder against his ear, as if proximity could bridge the distance. "I'm in Zurich. Switzerland. I'm... I'm working, Ma. I sold the car. I invested the money. It's... it's complicated."
"Complicated?" Her voice rose, the teacher's authority cutting through relief. "You disappeared for three months! We thought you were dead! Your father took early retirement, Redja. He gave up his pension. For you."
The words landed like physical blows. Andy sat down, suddenly, his legs unable to hold him.
"I didn't know," he whispered.
"How could you know? You didn't call! You didn't write! One message—trust me—and then nothing!" She was crying now, the anger dissolving into fear. "What happened to you? Are you in trouble? Drugs? Gambling? Those people who buy cars for cash—"
"No, Ma. Nothing like that." He looked at his reflection in the window—expensive suit, expensive haircut, the face of a stranger. "I won, Ma. I bet on football. The World Cup. I knew... I guessed right. I have money now. A lot of money. I'm building companies. I'm trying to help people."
"Money." She said the word like it tasted bad. "Your father has worked thirty years for money. You think we wanted money? We wanted you. Graduated. Safe. Normal."
"I know." Andy closed his eyes. He could see her now—small, tired, sitting at the kitchen table with her grading papers, the phone pressed to her ear with her shoulder the way she always did. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. But I'm not... I'm not normal anymore, Ma. I can't be. But I'm good. I'm safe. I'm coming home."
"When?"
"Soon. Jakarta first. Then Bandung. I need to... prepare. I need you to understand before you see me."
"Understand what?"
"That I'm different. That I have responsibilities now. That I can help you—help Papa—help everyone. But I need you to trust me. One more time. Just... trust me."
She was quiet for a long moment. He heard her breathing, shaky but controlled. The sound of her gathering herself, the way she'd done when he was sick as a child, when disasters struck, when life demanded more than she had.
"Your father will want to see you," she said finally. "He will want to understand. I don't know if I can explain, Redja. I don't know if I understand myself."
"Just tell him I'm safe. Tell him I'm coming. Tell him..." Andy's throat closed. He forced the words out. "Tell him I sold the car to buy him a better retirement. Tell him it worked."
"Redja—"
"I love you, Ma. I'm sorry. I'll see you soon."
He hung up before she could respond. Before he could hear more crying, more confusion, more love that he didn't deserve yet.
The apartment was silent. Outside, Zurich was dark, the lake invisible, the mountains just shadows against shadows. Andy sat with his phone in his lap, staring at nothing, feeling the weight of three months, three hundred million dollars, thirty years of his parents' sacrifice pressing down on his chest like a stone.
He had built structures. Companies. Investments. Futures.
But he had not built the courage to face his own mother. Not yet.
Tomorrow, he would book the flight. Jakarta first. Then, when he was ready—when he could explain, when he could be believed—Bandung.
Tonight, he opened his laptop and watched Bitcoin tick upward from $300 to $305 to $310. The future arriving one block at a time, immutable, irreversible.
He was Redja Firmasyah now. For better or worse.
But somewhere inside, he was still Andy. Still the boy who wanted his parents to be proud.
Still learning how to be both.