They talked for another twenty minutes. Anatoly explained Solana’s architecture — proof of history, tower BFT, the obsession with speed. Mike didn’t need the explanation, but he listened carefully, asking the right questions at the right moments, letting Anatoly enjoy the role of teacher. Except Mike’s questions weren’t the questions of a curious teenager — they were pointed, technical, the kind of questions that revealed an understanding of consensus mechanisms and network throughput that a sixteen-year-old shouldn’t have. Anatoly noticed. Each answer came with a longer pause, a sharper look, a growing recognition that whoever this kid was, he wasn’t ordinary. But as Anatoly spoke, Mike’s mind was somewhere else entirely.
The dream from that morning. Shibuya. The massive LED screen. The old man’s face — younger, sharper, seated behind a desk with the chyron reading CEO — FRONTIER. A Japanese company. A Japanese businessman who carried briefcases full of exosome vials and could survive injuries that should have killed him.
Whoever that man was, he held clues to what had happened to Mike. Without him, Mike would likely be trapped in an impasse of ignorance that would haunt him forever in this new universe of his. The man had shown up at the exact moment of the robotaxi attack, and had injected him with the same substance that had rebuilt his own shattered body in an alley on Divisadero. And did one better by sending him back in time in some parallel universe. This was far beyond anything Mike understood.
If Mike wanted answers he needed to find that man. And that man was in Japan while Mike was a high school senior in Oakland with no passport, no money, and no connections.
Which meant the first problem wasn’t answers. It was capital.
Mike looked at Anatoly, who was drawing a diagram of Solana’s block propagation on a napkin with genuine enthusiasm, and saw his opening.
“Can I pitch you something?” Mike said.
Anatoly put the pen down and leaned back. “Go ahead.”
Mike had no pitch deck, but he did have knowledge of Web3 GameFi from the future.
“You’re building the fastest blockchain in the world,” Mike said. “But speed alone doesn’t win. You need applications. You need users. And the fastest way to get millions of non-crypto users onto a blockchain is through gaming.”
Anatoly nodded slowly but didn’t interrupt.
“I want to build a game on Solana. Not a DeFi protocol disguised as a game — an actual game that people want to play, with real mechanics, real progression, and a real economy underneath it.”
“What kind of game?”
Mike had been thinking about this for exactly ninety seconds, but the words came out like he’d rehearsed them for months. “A strategy RPG. You build a team of characters — each one is an NFT with unique traits. You battle other players, compete in tournaments, breed new characters. The economy is player-driven. Rare characters appreciate in value as the player base grows. Early adopters get rewarded.”
It was, deliberately, a description that borrowed the best elements of Axie Infinity, Illuvium, and a half-dozen other crypto games Mike had watched rise and fall in his past life — stripped of the mistakes, distilled into what actually worked.
Anatoly studied him for a long moment. “You’re sixteen.”
“I can code. I’ve been building games since I was twelve. I know Solidity, I can learn Rust. And I understand what makes people spend money inside a game better than any protocol developer in this room.”
That last part was a gamble — a teenager telling a room full of engineers he understood product better than they did. But Anatoly didn’t flinch. If anything, his expression sharpened with interest.
“What do you need?”
“A small grant. Enough to cover a couple months of development. I’ll build a prototype — a working demo with on-chain assets, a basic battle system, and a marketplace. If it works, we talk about a bigger commitment. If it doesn’t, you’ve lost almost nothing.”
“How small is small?”
Mike calculated. He needed enough to matter but not enough to seem delusional. A number that a well-funded blockchain startup would barely notice but that would change his life completely.
“Ten thousand dollars.”
Anatoly laughed — not dismissively, but with a kind of delight, like he’d just found something he didn’t expect at a meetup he’d almost skipped.
“You know what, Mike? Most people who pitch me ask for half a million and have nothing to show. You’re asking for ten grand and you’ve got more clarity than any of them.” He pulled out his phone. “Give me your email. I’ll connect you with our team. No promises — but I’ll put in a word.”
Mike gave him his email. They shook hands again.
“Build something good,” Anatoly said. “And come to our developer conference in November. I’ll make sure you’re on the list.”
It was almost eleven when Mike heard the front door open. Tom’s keys dropped into the ceramic bowl on the hallway table — a sound Mike’s body recognized even if his mind didn’t. He went downstairs.
Tom was in the kitchen, pouring himself a glass of water, still in the button-down he’d worn to LA. He looked tired. The kind of tired that comes from a long drive back on the 5 after a meeting that didn’t go well.
“Hey, Dad. How was the trip?”
Tom shrugged. “It was fine. You know how these things go. They liked the pitch, they said they’d circle back, which in Hollywood means they’ll forget my name by Thursday.” He took a sip. “But that’s the game. You keep swinging.”
Mike could see it — the disappointment Tom was trying to sand down into something lighter. The same stubborn optimism from his past life. The screenwriter who kept writing scripts nobody bought, kept driving to meetings that led nowhere, and kept telling himself the break was coming.
“What about you?” Tom asked. “How was your day? You survive without me?”
“Actually — yeah. Something kind of happened.”
Tom leaned against the counter. “Good something or bad something?”
“Good. I went to a developer conference in the city tonight. And I pitched a game concept I’ve been working on.”
Tom’s eyebrows rose. “You pitched something? At a conference?”
“It’s a game that runs on a new platform — like, a new kind of internet infrastructure. And the company behind the platform, they have a grants program for developers who want to build on it. I pitched my concept and they liked it. I’m going to receive a few thousand dollars to build a prototype.”
“A few thousand dollars,” Tom repeated slowly. “To build a video game.”
“A crypto game. It’s different. But yeah.”
Tom studied him. Not with suspicion — with the careful attention of a father trying to figure out when his son had suddenly grown up without him noticing. “That’s — that’s amazing, Mike. First off, I’m incredibly proud of you! But what the hell is crypto?”
“It’s… it’s an interesting new concept. Mostly useful for memes but I think maybe there’s something there. You know how excited I was about AR and PokemonGo and all that stuff. I try to keep up with new tech. I think one day I can also be helpful to you, Dad, when you’re writing and producing the next blockbuster movie.”
Mike chuckled softly and let the warmth of the moment settle. Then he pushed forward.
“There’s one more thing. Part of the development involves some research I need to do in Japan. Tokyo, specifically. There’s a big gaming market there and I’m required to benchmark some Japanese online games that are doing similar things. The company is going to set me up with a point of contact there — someone who can show me around, introduce me to the right people.”
Tom’s expression shifted. The pride drained and concern flooded in. “Japan? Mike, you’ve never been outside California. You don’t have a passport. You’re sixteen years old.”
“I know, but—”
“How are you going to get to Japan? By yourself? Do you even know anyone there?”
“That’s what I’m saying — the company will set up a contact for me. Someone local who’ll meet me, take me around. I won’t be wandering Tokyo alone. It’s all organized.”
Tom set down his glass. “Mike. This is a lot. Yesterday you were going to school and playing video games. Now you’re pitching at conferences and flying to Asia?”
Mike sat down at the kitchen table. He looked at Tom directly.
“Dad. My birthday is October 1st. It’s my last birthday as a high school senior. I’ve never had an opportunity like this before — nobody’s ever told me they believe in something I’m working on. And I’m not asking you to pay for anything. They’re covering everything — flights, hotel, all of it. I’ll FaceTime you every single day. I’ll go for three, maybe four days tops. I’ll put it over a weekend so I only miss a day or two of school. That’s it.”
Tom was quiet for a long time. He picked up his water glass, put it down, picked it up again.
“You’ll call me every day.”
“Every day.”
“And there’s a real person — an adult — meeting you there.”
“Yes.”
“And this company is legitimate. They’re paying for this.”
“They are.”
Tom exhaled through his nose. The exhale of a single father who knew his kid was growing up faster than he could keep pace with, and who had spent his own life chasing long shots that never landed. Maybe that’s why he said yes. Because he recognized in his son the same stubborn, irrational conviction that had kept him writing screenplays for twenty years.
“Fine,” Tom said. “But I want first an official letter from this company that’s sponsoring everything and I want to talk to a representative there. If anything feels off — anything — this is not happening.”
Mike gave him the most reassuring smile he could possibly conjure up.
Mike lay in bed staring at the ceiling. The house was quiet. Tom had gone to sleep an hour ago.
Everything he’d told his father tonight was either premature or fabricated — but none of that mattered. What mattered was that Tom had said yes. The door to Japan was open. Now Mike just had to make everything he’d promised actually real — the grant, the game, the contact — before his birthday on October 1st.
Three weeks was what he had. Somehow, Mike felt confident that if he reached out to Anatoly and explained the situation, he would oblige and help out. Or would he not…? No matter, the die had been cast and now he had to finesse a lie into the truth in order to find the man who might just solve his mysteries. Then, Mike had to begin building the foundation for a life that would eventually put him face to face with Keith Adams.
He closed his eyes. For the first time since waking up in this universe, he felt something that wasn’t grief or confusion or fear.
It was purpose.
End of Episode 6