The shriek of AOL's dial-up pierced the quiet of dawn, a grotesque metallic screech that seemed to punch holes in the morning calm. The ancient modem was like a war drum—loud, erratic, and somehow sacred. It had become the ritual. Every morning before sunrise, Daniel sat cross-legged in his chair in front of his Compaq Presario, listening to the orchestra of bleeps and static, the handshake of analog pulses connecting him to the early 21st-century battlefield: the stock market.
Claude groaned in his ear. "We're seriously doing this again? I swear, this connection is physically painful. I'm not built to live inside this fossil. My consciousness feels like it's trapped in a toaster oven."
The machine buzzed, clicked, whirred—then finally, with a triumphant final screech, the connection was made. Daniel stared at the screen. Slowly, line by line, the AOL welcome page crawled into existence. The old CRT monitor flickered like a candle fighting wind, and when he moved the mouse, the cursor left a ghostly trail behind it. He opened Internet Explorer and winced as the E*TRADE homepage began its sluggish render.
"Behold," Claude said with faux awe, "the cutting edge of 2001 technology. Next you'll tell me we're heating water over fire."
"You're the one who insisted we couldn't draw attention to ourselves," Daniel said, rubbing sleep from his eyes. "This is how people lived. It's the camouflage."
"Camouflage? Daniel, we're broadcasting every keystroke at 14.4 kilobits per second. If a squirrel sneezes on the phone line, we lose the trade."
Daniel didn't argue. He'd lived through worse. In a sense, the limitations brought clarity. There were no distractions. No real-time social feeds. No noise. Just patience, precision, and Claude's whining.
The last two weeks had been grueling. His $200,000 war chest had been meticulously divided, every trade timed to the second with Claude's assistance. Day after day, he executed with the discipline of a machine. But it wasn't easy.
The machine wasn't kind.
Sometimes, when he clicked to confirm an order, nothing happened. Sometimes, just as he was about to execute a perfect trade, the modem dropped—his mother would pick up the phone in the kitchen, unaware she'd just cost him a thousand dollars.
"Daniel!" she'd call. "Are you on the internet again? I need to call the doctor!"
He'd sprint down the hall, slamming the phone back into its cradle.
"Mom! I told you—I'm working!"
"You're always working! It's summer!"
"It's a school project!"
She'd roll her eyes. "Whatever it is, it better not make the phone bill worse than last month."
His father, meanwhile, was more elusive. Between shifts and odd jobs, they barely crossed paths. But when they did, his dad always asked about the "project." He never pried, but Daniel could feel the curiosity simmering under the surface.
"You're really locked in, kiddo," he said one night over dinner. "Don't forget to enjoy your youth a little. You'll blink and it'll be gone."
Daniel wanted to tell him everything—how he was planning trades that would turn the family's life upside down, how the numbers he stared at were more than just financials—they were memories from a future no one else remembered. But he couldn't. Not yet.
Instead, he said, "I've got a good feeling about it."
His dad nodded, pride tempered with worry. "Just don't burn yourself out. That old PC of yours makes it sound like you're building rockets in there."
Claude chuckled in Daniel's ear. "He's not wrong."
It was August 6th when the first trade fired.
Apple. They were about to report earnings. Claude knew exactly what was coming: a modest beat, Jobs in a black turtleneck, and a teaser for a coming wave of iPod marketing.
Daniel bought 250 call contracts. Strike price: $20. Expiration: two weeks out. Total cost: $15,000.
He closed his eyes and visualized the candle charts. He knew how this one ended.
The next day, Qualcomm. Claude remembered the overlooked report, buried in page six of a regional paper: a surge in chipset shipments. Daniel went in with $30,000 in call options.
Midday, Bloomberg picked it up. The options surged.
Profit: $22,000.
Daniel's fingers trembled as he logged the gain in his notebook. He had a crude spreadsheet drawn in pencil, manually tracking each move. It wasn't just about the money. It was the control. The feedback loop. Every success stitched tighter into his brain the growing belief that he could master this world.
The Apple trade hit right on schedule. Jobs appeared in his classic black, declared a future of "1,000 songs in your pocket," and the market went euphoric.
Daniel sold at $1.75 per contract.
Payout: $43,750.
He kept his celebration internal. He didn't shout. He didn't dance. But when he walked to the fridge later, he caught his reflection in the microwave door and saw it: a smirk. The edge of something dangerous.
By August 10th, he was rolling. Cisco. Pfizer. Even a cheeky short on Gateway. Claude guided each play like a sniper.
The modem disconnected twice that week. Once, it was his neighbor accidentally calling their own house. Another time, his mom needed to confirm a dentist appointment. Both times, Daniel almost screamed. But he didn't. He held it in. He waited, redialed, reloaded.
By the weekend, his portfolio stood at $387,000.
He slept thirteen hours that Saturday. When he woke, he walked barefoot into the kitchen, still dazed.
His mom looked up from her coffee.
"You alive?"
"Barely."
"Maybe get some sun. You look like a vampire."
He smiled. "School project's going well."
She laughed. "This must be one hell of a science fair."
Sunday night, Daniel sat in the garage with his dad. They listened to the White Sox game on a little radio, neither saying much.
"Just promise me you're not into anything illegal," his father said.
Daniel blinked. "I'm not."
"You've always been smart. Just... don't skip being a kid."
Daniel wanted to say, I don't have time. Instead, he nodded.
The second week hit harder.
JDSU bounced on hype. Daniel took the quick gain.
WorldCom got downgraded. Claude had the timestamp. Daniel moved before the press even caught wind.
ImClone erupted on a fake merger rumor. He rode the wave, sold, and watched the SEC halt the stock minutes later.
Each trade was another notch in the evolution of Daniel Haizen. The money was secondary. It was the execution that mattered.
The computer's whirring had grown louder by then. Claude swore the machine was actively trying to die.
"This fan," she said, "is screaming like it knows we're pushing it beyond mortal limits. I can hear the capacitors sobbing."
Daniel tapped the monitor. "Hold together, old friend."
On August 17, he crossed $800,000.
His heart beat differently now. Slower, heavier. He wasn't anxious. He was precise.
That weekend, he turned off the computer for the first time in two weeks. He walked outside. He sat under a tree and closed his eyes. A breeze rustled the leaves, and for a brief moment, he felt sixteen again.
But the feeling passed.
August 20.
Best Buy earnings. Claude was exact.
"Buy at 10:13. Sell at 10:20. The forecast will be rosy. Stock spikes. Exit before logistics costs are mentioned."
Daniel obeyed.
Strike: $45. 400 contracts. Entry: $1.25. Exit: $2.00.
Profit: $195,620.
The AOL connection held. The Compaq didn't crash.
Account balance: $1,005,620.
Daniel leaned back, staring at the ceiling, his hands resting on the keyboard like a pianist after a final note.
Claude's voice was quieter now. "You did it."
"I know."
"You could stop here."
"I won't."
There was more coming. Something bigger. Something darker. And he needed more than money.
He needed fire.
Claude whispered.
"Now we can talk about Enron."
Daniel nodded slowly.
"Let's burn the house down."