World's Richest Man: I Leaped Across Time

I wanted to act right away, but I needed to wait.

Monday came and went in a blur of lectures, coffee-fueled discussions, and half-hearted note-taking at the university.

By Tuesday morning, I was cruising down I-95 in my red hot Ferrari.

I needed everything in place before I began pulling people to my side. Other than an anonymous persona i will also need offshore funds, another ghost investment firm to be exact, that I could invest into those overshorted penny stocks with.

The Super PAC was essential as well, a way to funnel money into the libertarian political movement.

I parked in the underground garage of a sleek skyscraper in Brickell, Miami's financial heart. The building was a steel-and-glass giant, shimmering under the Florida sun. Inside, the lobby was all polished marble and modern art installations, bustling with professionals in sharp suits and pencil skirts.

At the reception desk, a young woman with honey-blonde hair pulled back in a sleek bun greeted me with a practiced smile. Her name tag read 'Melissa'.

"Good morning, sir. How can I help you?" she asked, her tone professional but tinged with curiosity as her eyes flicked to the tailored jacket I wore.

"I have a meeting with the person managing the Super PAC here," I said, offering her a polite but firm smile.

"Of course. May I have your name?"

"Somnus," I replied.

Her expression shifted subtly—recognition. She picked up the phone and dialed a number. "Mr. Drake? Yes, Mr. Somnus is here to see you."

After a brief exchange, she hung up and stood, gesturing for me to follow. "This way, please. Mr. Drake will see you now."

Melissa led me through a corridor lined with frosted glass doors. The hum of conversation and the occasional clatter of keyboards echoed faintly as we passed. Finally, she stopped in front of an office with a nameplate that read 'Nathan Drake – Strategic Advisor.'

She knocked lightly before opening the door. "Mr. Drake, your guest is here."

Nathan Drake looked up from his desk, a man in his late forties with salt-and-pepper hair and the kind of smooth charisma that made him a natural fit for television. As I stepped in, I recognized him from CNBC—he was a regular panelist.

"Mr. Somnus," he said, standing to shake my hand. His grip was firm, his smile sharp. "I've been waiting for you. Please, have a seat."

The office was modest by Wall Street standards but exuded understated class: dark wood furniture, a leather couch by the window, and framed photos of Nathan with prominent political figures.

"You guys did a lightning job setting this place up," I said.

Nathan chuckled. "Of course. First impressions count, after all. So... Mr. Somnus, I was told that you are to give us direction as to what shall we do with this place."

I sat across from him, leaning back slightly and running a hand over the armrest of the leather chair. "I'll get straight to the point—I'm looking to make a significant contribution to the libertarian cause. And I believe your Super PAC is the right vehicle to make that happen."

Nathan was intrigued. "I see... What exactly are you looking to achieve?"

I tapped my fingers lightly on the armrest, choosing my words carefully. "Let's just say I'm interested in fostering a more decentralized and transparent system. People should have greater control over their lives and finances."

"That's quite the vision." Nathan commented. "And I understand that you want to support particular politicians with the same worldview?"
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"Not exactlly. I want to create a movement and funding is the backbone of any movement," I said. "I'm talking about channel resources into campaigns, media collaborations, and grassroots initiatives that align with these goals."

He nodded slowly. "But these things don't come cheap."

"Money isn't an issue," I said, my tone matter-of-fact. "What I need is someone who can execute efficiently."

Nathan studied me for a moment. Then, a faint smile tugged at his lips. "Alright, Mr. Somnus, let's discuss the specifics."

For the next hour, we delved into the logistics—allocation of funds, key political figures to target, and the media strategy.

The Libertarian Party wasn't exactlly popular, from what I remembered they recieved less than 0.5% of votes back in 2004.

I wasn't confident that I could change that, so the plan at the moment was to influence the way the public thought.

In the end, the political parties constantly change their morals to gain the people's votes.

I also told him he could contact Luna Park from ABC News, to possibly expand the list of news outlets that could spread the message.

By the time I left his office, the groundwork for the Super PAC was in motion.

As Melissa escorted me back to the elevator, I glanced at my watch. It was barely noon, and I still had plenty to do.

Another thing to do was to move funds into offshore funds undetected.

The plan was to move 1 billion dollars out of my Charles Schab account into a fund in Switzerland.

It sounded impossible, but nothing was impossible for my old friend.

...

I passed through the gates of Apex Tax Consultants for the second time in my life and maneuvered the sleek red Ferrari into a parking spot.

As I got out, the metallic shine of the car turned a few heads. One guy even gave me a respectful nod.

I stepped into the air-conditioned lobby.

A young receptionist with sharp bangs and a blazer greeted me with a rehearsed smile.

"Is Mr. Sidorov in his office?" I asked.

Her smile faltered for just a moment before she replied, "Yes, sir. May I tell him who's here?"

"Tell him Somnus is here," I said, leaning slightly on the counter.

She nodded and picked up the phone. As she spoke, her expression shifted—a slight wrinkle in her brow, lips tightening.

"He'll be right here," she said, almost whispering as she hung up.

Before she could say anything else, I saw him. Sidorov. Walking fast, his tailored charcoal suit somehow still immaculate despite the haste.

"Mr. Somnus," he said with a curt nod, motioning for me to follow. "Let's step into my office."

He led the way. Inside his office bookshelves displayed a curated selection of leather-bound volumes and awards. The windows were tinted just enough to keep the Florida sun from being intrusive.

"What brings you here this time?" Sidorov asked, lowering himself into his chair.

I didn't say a word at first. Instead, I handed him a leather-bound folder. He flipped it open, his eyes scanning the first page.

The details of my Charles Schwab account and the billion-dollar chunk I intended to move were laid out in meticulous detail.

"Think you can handle this?" I asked, leaning back in my chair.

"A billion?" he said, almost choking on the word.

His hand instinctively reached for the stress ball on his desk.

He squeezed it. "Fuck." his foreheat glistened with sweat.

For a moment, he looked like he might object, but then the gears started turning. His breathing steadied, and his posture straightened. Minutes later, he leaned forward, tapping a pen against the desk as he laid out the plan.

"Here's how we'll do it," he began. "The $1 billion will be broken into 10,000 smaller transactions, each routed through a labyrinth of shell companies across tax havens—Cayman Islands, Luxembourg, Singapore. Each shell will have its own obscure paper trail, managed by straw directors."

I nodded, already impressed but not surprised. Sidorov was a master at this.

"From there," he continued, "the funds will bounce between dozens of ghost brokerages. These brokerages exist only on paper but have licenses to trade. Finally, the funds will resurface as clean capital in an offshore fund. Managed by a firm operating out of Zurich."

As he finished, Sidorov leaned back, stress ball still in hand. He looked at me, waiting for a reaction.

"Perfect," I said, a smirk playing on my lips.