Chapter 32: The Crossover and the Big Lie
Early September 2015
The call to Harris had been surprisingly easy.
"Move?" said the lawyer over the phone, his voice sounding bored. "Good. Less risk of neighbors complaining about noise. Where to?"
Michael explained the plan. Not an apartment downtown, but a cheaper house in the outskirts. He emphasized the "saving money" part. Harris liked that. It meant fewer withdrawals from his management fund.
"Alright," approved Harris. "Pay the deposit and the first month's rent with your personal account. Send me the signed lease agreement and I'll authorize a reimbursement from the LLC."
Michael hung up. He didn't even bother arguing. He would use the money left from his Burger Barn checks.
He moved the next day.
The process was pathetically simple. He didn't have furniture to worry about. He stuffed his clothes into two trash bags. His music equipment (the second-hand MacBook, the AT2020, the Squier guitar) was carefully packed in its original boxes.
He loaded everything into his Corolla. He made two trips.
The new house was at the end of a dirt road in one of the suburban canyons, twenty minutes from civilization. It was small, single-story, with peeling paint and a backyard that was more dirt than grass.
But it was perfect.
It was affordable. The rent was cheap. And it was secluded. The nearest neighbor was a hundred meters away, separated by a dense cluster of oak trees.
Michael stood in the empty living room, the echo of his footsteps bouncing off the bare walls. For the first time since arriving in this universe, he felt like he could breathe.
There wasn't the smell of dust and death of his parents' house. There wasn't the constant noise of the city.
There was silence. A blank canvas.
"I can make all the noise I want," he thought, and a smile drew across his face.
Michael spent the first day in his new empty house. The sensation of privacy was incredible. He could hear his own thoughts.
But the silence also made the clock in his head sound louder. 'September. September. September.'
He was in his new house, but he was still working with his old, worn-out equipment. The second-hand MacBook overheated. The AT2020 microphone was good, but it wasn't great.
He knew that for the next phase of his career, and for the next phase of his financial plan, he needed the best tools. He could no longer afford to be an amateur.
He picked up his phone. It was time to make the first call to his "guardian".
"Harris's office," answered a professional voice.
"Michael Gray, for Mr. Harris," he said, his voice calm.
There was a click, and then Harris's smooth voice. "Michael. Congratulations on the new house. I hope you're comfortable. Everything in order?"
"All good," said Michael. "Actually, I'm calling you for business. I need to release funds from the 'Gray Matter' account."
There was a pause on the other end of the line. Michael could hear Harris's faint typing on his computer.
"Funds," Harris repeated, his tone becoming noticeably colder, more professional. "For what?"
"I need $15,000," said Michael.
There was another pause, this one longer. "Fifteen thousand dollars. That is... much more than rent, Michael. Furniture? A new car?"
"No. It's a capital investment," said Michael, using language he knew Harris would understand. "An investment in the company itself. In 'Gray Matter, LLC'."
He continued, his voice a rehearsed monologue. "The equipment I have is second-hand trash. I bought it with money from the Burger Barn. If I'm going to make this music company profitable, if I'm going to generate revenue that justifies your management fee, I need professional tools."
"I need a powerful new Mac that can handle complex audio projects. I need a real studio microphone. An audio console (interface) that doesn't introduce noise into my recordings. Good headphones for mixing. They are assets for the company. Tools of the trade."
Michael made his final move, appealing to the only logic a man like Harris would respect: risk.
"Harris, I'm going to be honest. My main investment plan, the bond one, is for the future. But right now, I'm betting on myself. I'm betting on this music company. And if I'm going to take a risk, I better risk it all. I can't do it halfway."
There was a long silence on the line. Michael waited, his heart pounding. If Harris said no, his plan would get complicated.
Finally, Harris let out a sigh. It wasn't a sigh of frustration. It was almost... of respect.
"Fifteen thousand dollars," said Harris. "It's a considerable initial investment for a business of... SoundCloud music. But you're right. It's a legitimate capital expense."
Harris kept typing. "Alright. The judge's order allows me to authorize reasonable business expenses. I will consider this as 'Startup Costs'. I will authorize the transfer of the $15,000 from your $50k fund. But I want a receipt for every item. Understood?"
"Understood," said Michael, the relief was immense. "Thank you, Harris."
"Don't thank me. Just make the company earn money, kid."
Click. Harris hung up.
Michael put down the phone. He had just secured his arsenal.
The next day was like Christmas morning. Michael woke up on the floor of his new house, wrapped in a sleeping bag. He was stiff, his whole body ached, but he didn't care.
He got up and looked at the receipt Harris had signed. $15,000. The money was in his account. It was time to go shopping.
He spent the whole day in his Corolla, driving around Los Angeles. He didn't go to thrift stores. He didn't go to Craigslist. He went to the best professional music stores in the city.
He walked into Guitar Center in Hollywood. He felt like a kid in a candy store. He walked straight to the laptop wall.
"I want the most powerful MacBook Pro you have," he told the salesman. The 15-inch model, with maximum RAM.
Then, he went to the microphone room. The salesman, a guy with piercings and tattoos on his arms, tried to sell him a beginner's package.
"No," said Michael, pointing behind the glass. "I want that one. The Neumann TLM 102."
The salesman raised an eyebrow, impressed. "Good choice, kid. You know you need phantom power for that?"
"I know," said Michael. "That's why I also need an Apollo Twin interface."
The salesman stopped treating him like a kid.
Michael left the store an hour later, having spent almost five thousand dollars. But he had his arsenal. He bought the new gear.
The rest of the money he spent on essentials: Yamaha HS8 studio monitors (bigger and better than he had planned), good mixing headphones (the Sennheiser HD 650), a professional MIDI keyboard, and all the cables and stands he needed.
Finally, he went to the register and bought a card with a code. The full and legal license for Ableton Live Suite. He threw the pirated version in the trash that same night. It was a symbolic act. The pretending was over.
He spent the night moving in for real. He unpacked the few boxes of clothes he had. And then, he dedicated six hours to setting up his new studio.
This time, there were no hanging sheets. He had bought real acoustic foam panels, thick and professional. He installed them meticulously on the walls of the second room, the smallest one.
On Saturday, his friends came over. Leo, Sam, and Nate.
"Dude!" shouted Sam as he entered, holding his PS4. "This place is... empty! But it's cool! No neighbors!"
Leo walked in, looking around. "It's... clean. I like it."
They spent the afternoon on the living room floor. Sam connected the PS4 to the old tube TV Michael had brought from the other house. They played Mortal Kombat X and Call of Duty, shouting and eating pizza out of cardboard boxes.
Michael leaned back against the wall, controller in hand, watching Sam and Leo argue about who was the best at Smash Bros. (even though they were playing Call of Duty).
It felt good. His house, his first real home in this universe, was full of noise. But this time, it was good noise.
That night, after his friends left, Michael stayed alone in his new studio. All the gear was set up, the small LED lights glowing in the dark. It felt like the cockpit of a spaceship.
He opened Ableton. The program loaded instantly on the new MacBook. It felt professional.
It was time.
Michael was in his new studio. The smell of fresh paint and new plastic from the equipment filled the room. He had spent the last few days in a state of near-manic bliss.
His new Neumann microphone was incredible. His voice sounded warm and professional. His new MacBook Pro compiled his projects in seconds, not minutes. He felt, for the first time, like a real professional.
But time was running out.
He looked at the calendar in the corner of his laptop. September 9, 2015.
He opened a browser tab and searched for the price of Ethereum. His heart skipped a beat. $0.80.
It was in the valley. At the lowest point he remembered. It was now or never.
All the work, all the planning, came down to this moment. To a phone call.
He stared at "Shark" Harris's number.
His hands were sweaty. He had to do this right. He had to be convincing.
He took a deep breath and dialed.
"Harris's office," answered the receptionist's voice.
"Michael Gray, for Mr. Harris," he said, his voice calm, rehearsed.
A click. Harris's smooth voice came on the line. "Michael. Everything good with the new equipment? I hope so, for what it cost."
"Everything perfect, Harris. Actually, I'm calling you about that," said Michael, starting the performance. "I was researching all week. You're right about risky investments. I'm not going to play with this."
There was a satisfied pause on the other end. "Glad to hear it, kid. So, are we talking about those Treasury bond funds?"
"Exactly," said Michael. "I'm going to go as safe as possible. I want to buy long-term U.S. Treasury Bonds. It's the safest investment on the planet. The interest rate on the bank savings account is an insult. Bonds will at least give me 2%."
"That's it, kid!" said Harris, his tone now genuinely proud, like a father congratulating his son. "Now you're thinking like an adult! It's the smartest decision you could make. I was worried you wanted to buy stock in... I don't know, a video game company."
"No. Just bonds," said Michael, feeling a twinge of guilt for how easy it was to lie to him. "I just opened a corporate brokerage account on E*TRADE. I need you to authorize the transfer of the remaining $350,000 to that account so I can make the purchase."
"Absolutely. Email me the account details. I'll authorize the transfer immediately. Well done, Michael. Well done."
Click. Harris hung up.
Michael stared at the phone, his heart pounding. He felt dirty. And brilliant.
He sent the email. Ten minutes later, he received a notification. Harris had authorized the transfer.
Michael refreshed the page of his new E*TRADE account.
The balance changed: $350,000.00.
He stared at the number. The guardian had opened the cage.
He went to the "Markets" tab. He ignored the "Bonds" section. He went straight to the "Cryptocurrencies" section, which in 2015 was primitive, almost hidden.
He typed "ETH".
The price was there, blinking. $0.80.
He moved the cursor. Typed the amount: $350,000. Pressed "Buy".
The order executed instantly. His dollar balance disappeared, replaced by a new number:
437,500 ETH.
The plan was in motion. The biggest bet in history had just been placed, and the only person who knew was a 16-year-old kid in a rented room.
He felt a wave of euphoria so intense he almost laughed. He needed to channel that energy.
He closed the E*TRADE tab. He opened Ableton.
It was time to celebrate. And it was time to create a smokescreen.
He opened the project he had saved in his "WEAPONS" folder: White_Iverson_Final_Mix.
The song was almost finished, but now, with his new Neumann equipment and Yamaha monitors, he could hear the imperfections.
He spent the next few hours re-recording the vocals. His voice sounded crystal clear, professional. The bass rumbled perfectly. The mix was flawless.
At three in the morning, he exported the song. He went to SoundCloud.
He uploaded 'White Iverson'.
It was the perfect move. He released his biggest, most commercial "hit" at the exact moment he secretly executed the financial investment that would make him a billionaire.
If Harris ever asked, he could prove that "Gray Matter, LLC" was active, releasing music that was starting to be played everywhere.
He pressed "Publish" and closed the laptop. The secret was planted. The smokescreen was deployed.
He went to bed, feeling that finally, the game had truly begun.