August 3rd, 2001 – 7:15 AM
Daniel stood in front of the mirror, shirtless, the white bathroom light casting pale halos around the edges of the steamed glass. Droplets of water clung to his skin, running down the defined lines of his chest, still warm from the shower. He brushed a hand through his damp hair, the scent of mint shampoo sharp in his nose. His eyes held that usual, unwavering stare. Calculating. Detached. But behind it—behind the calm—there was something almost feral. A flicker of triumph mixed with paranoia.
The room was quiet except for the faint whirring of the ceiling fan. Outside, early sun crawled between the blinds like fingers searching for confession.
On his desk sat a neat stack of envelopes—no labels, no markings. Just plain white paper sealing off an otherwise illicit reality. $323,000 in cash, divided into equal bundles, each one tighter than the last. It had taken him only three nights. Three rooms, three poker tables, and more than a few grown men who underestimated the kid with the soft jawline and predator's smile.
He didn't need the money. Not really. This was performance art. Discipline. Test flight.
The CRT monitor on his desk buzzed and flickered as Claude materialized—his usual blue shimmer pulsing in the bottom corner of the screen. The holographic interface was no more than a glorified voice imprint rendered over Windows 98, but to Daniel, it might as well have been a divine presence.
"Well, boss," Claude said, his voice playful but edged with warning, "you made your fortune. Now how do you intend to spend it without ending up on an FBI watchlist?"
Daniel stared at his reflection a moment longer. He smirked, grabbed a black T-shirt from the radiator, and pulled it over his head.
"We're not spending it, Claude," he said, his voice low, decisive. "We're cleaning it."
By 9:00 AM, Daniel was sitting across from a balding man with nicotine-stained fingers and a grease-dotted polo shirt that hadn't seen a washing machine in days. The computer repair shop was buried in a neglected strip mall between a pet store that reeked of wood shavings and ammonia, and a laundromat with one working dryer and two homeless regulars.
The air inside the shop smelled like soldered circuits and burnt plastic. A gutted beige tower lay open on the workbench, its insides splayed out like roadkill. CRT monitors sat in dusty stacks against the wall, their cables coiled like hibernating snakes.
"So you want to invest?" the man—Steve—asked, folding his arms over his belly. His name tag was faded, the embroidery almost illegible.
Daniel nodded slowly, letting the silence breathe. "That's right."
"You know this place barely makes rent. Hell, I'm two months behind on electric."
"Exactly," Daniel said. "That's why you need help. I provide a cash injection. You give me a short-term ownership agreement. Think of me as a silent partner."
Steve squinted. "But you're what, seventeen?"
"Call it a family arrangement. My dad's name will be on the paperwork. You get a few grand, I get a temporary business footprint. Everyone's happy."
In his mind, Claude whispered: "Technically, this is a reverse-front. Not bad. Minimal risk if you're controlling the audit stream."
Steve scratched his head, grease lining the edge of his fingernails. He looked around the shop like it might offer him advice. The humming of a half-dead fridge in the corner filled the silence.
"How much are we talking?" he asked finally.
"$20,000. All cash. You report it as profits from computer sales and repair services. In 5 days, you pay me back as a dividend. Clean as glass. No risk for you."
Steve stared. The idea was ludicrous. But twenty grand in untraceable cash had a way of softening even the most cynical instincts.
He nodded slowly. "You've got yourself a deal, kid."
By noon, Daniel was downtown, sitting in the heavily polished office of James Thompson, a man whose suits always looked more expensive than his advice. No music. Just silence, air conditioning, and the occasional creak of leather chairs as old money shuffled its weight around.
James was mid-forties, a proud graduate of Cranebrook Law, and chronically irritated by Daniel's pace. He took the envelope of cash from Daniel and stared at it like it was radioactive.
"Another update to Haizen Holdings?" he asked.
"Structural modification," Daniel said coolly, sliding into the chair across from him. "I need to add a clause in the operating agreement to allow short-term business partnerships. We're 'diversifying' early-stage revenue channels."
James blinked slowly. "And what exactly is this diversification?"
"Non-controlling interests in local tech-facing entities. Temporary. Clean exits. Nothing that will survive more than a quarter."
Claude, in Daniel's mind, offered: "We're giving the IRS a sugar trail, not a red flag. Two layers of distance from any dirty cash."
James rubbed his temples. "You're seventeen. You shouldn't even know what pass-through earnings are, let alone demand them on a K-1."
"And yet, here we are."
He sighed. "Fine. I'll draft an amendment to the Articles of Organization. You'll need someone—your dad, technically—to sign off on these. And I assume you'll want an expedited Schedule K-1?"
"Correct. Mark it as non-material revenue for the FY."
James gave him a long look. "What the hell are you building, Daniel?"
Daniel didn't blink. "A paper trail so dense it qualifies as modern architecture."
The next few hours passed in a haze of documentation. Claude helped like a consultant in portions of the paperwork, generating phantom vendor invoices and backdated digital signatures to create a paper trail dense enough to choke a junior auditor. It wasn't just money laundering—it was historical fiction.
Daniel even invented three fake clients—"Murphy Logic Consulting," "Midwest Netgear LLC," and "Rothline Systems"—all of whom had allegedly used the repair shop for IT support and diagnostics. The invoices were perfect. Real fonts. Real formatting. Embedded meta-tags for authenticity.
Claude grinned in his digital way. "You're good at this. Remind me to never play chess against you."
"Already beat you once," Daniel muttered.
"I let you win. Statistical kindness."
By 4:00 PM, $200,000 had been routed through five layers of legitimacy. Another $80,000 sat in a locked drawer, staged for next week's cycle. No haste. No red flags. No digital trace. Haizen Holdings was no longer a ghost fund. It was a young, aggressive startup with early-stage momentum and credible earnings on paper.
That night, back in his bedroom, Daniel booted up his Compaq Presario. The fan whirred like a dying airplane engine. He inserted the AOL installation CD, connected to the dial-up, and waited through the chorus of static screeches and beeps.
He logged into a new E*TRADE account, registered under Haizen Holdings, routed through a Wyoming shell with its own PO Box and corporate license.
"Available balance: $200,000," Claude read aloud.
Daniel smiled.
"Plenty," he said. "Now let's bleed Enron."
Claude's voice dropped a register. "Finally."