The winter of 1982 settled over Brussels like a quiet warning. The air had turned crisp, and the Weiss estate glowed with amber lamps and the faint scent of pine and polished oak. Stefan sat at his desk, the same heavy mahogany one that once belonged to his grandfather Vittorio, surrounded by a constellation of newspapers and documents.
He wasn't studying for school. He was studying the world.
The headlines were relentless:
"Video Game Market Surges in the United States."
"Computers Enter European Homes."
"Japan Dominates the Technology Race."
Stefan tapped a pen against the paper, eyes narrowed. Every few seconds, he'd circle a number or underline a company name. His mind moved like a strategist preparing for a campaign — patterns, probabilities, outcomes.
He leaned back, remembering flashes from his other life — a different century, a different Europe, one obsessed with consumption and entertainment. He could almost hear the whirring sound of cartridges, the soundtracks of arcades, the plastic shells of consoles lined in millions of homes.
In that world, he had watched fortunes rise and collapse.
He'd seen the industry burn bright — and then crash.
This time, he intended to control the fire.
"Your tea, Master Stefan," said Pierre, the butler, with his usual precision. The man's calm voice pulled him back to the present.
"Thank you," Stefan said, not looking up. "Tell my father I'll join them shortly."
Pierre hesitated. "They're with guests, sir. Important ones."
That made him look up. "Who?"
"The Morettis. Industrial investors from Milan."
Stefan nodded slowly. "Perfect."
He set the papers aside and stood, buttoning his vest with a practiced motion that seemed too deliberate for someone his age. When he reached the dining room, conversation was already flowing — his father Fabio's diplomatic baritone blending with the cheerful Italian lilt of the guests.
Vittorio sat at the head of the table, his gaze sharp despite the warmth of his smile. Across from him, Gianluca was already lecturing the visitors on "the soul of investment."
"…you see, gentlemen," Gianluca was saying, "timing is everything. You can't buy tomorrow with yesterday's instincts."
Stefan entered quietly, and all eyes turned for a moment.
"Ah, our young strategist joins us," Vittorio said with amusement. "Stefan, these are the Morettis — friends of the family and men who know how to turn iron into gold."
Stefan offered a polite smile and handshake. "It's an honor."
One of the guests chuckled. "Your grandfather tells us you have a head for numbers."
"Numbers tell stories," Stefan replied simply. "You just have to listen."
Vittorio's eyebrow twitched upward. "Indeed."
As dinner unfolded, Stefan observed. The Morettis spoke passionately about manufacturing, about shifting investments to technology and electronics, though most of them didn't yet understand what that meant. They saw hardware; Stefan saw potential monopoly.
At one point, when the adults discussed a struggling electronics company in France, Stefan quietly interjected.
"Thomson-CSF?" he asked.
The men turned to him, mildly surprised.
"Yes," one of them said. "Do you know it?"
Stefan nodded. "They're too dependent on government contracts. But if they moved toward entertainment or computing, they could become very profitable. France doesn't have a consumer tech giant yet."
The room went silent for a moment — not because the adults disagreed, but because they hadn't considered that angle.
Vittorio's lips curved into the faintest of smiles. "Continue."
Stefan shrugged lightly. "The world's changing. People want not just utility but distraction. Japan and America already understand that. Europe will follow — late, but it will. That's where the next wave of influence lies."
One of the Morettis laughed nervously. "You talk like a man, not a boy."
Stefan smiled politely. "That's because I'm planning to be one sooner than most."
Later that night, after the guests had gone and the dining hall was quiet again, Vittorio and Fabio remained behind. Stefan was at the fireplace, turning a coin in his hand — an old lira, worn at the edges.
His father approached him. "You handled yourself well tonight."
"Thank you."
"Though," Fabio added, "you didn't exactly behave like a child."
"I wasn't raised to."
Vittorio's deep voice echoed from behind them. "He's right."
The old man stepped closer, lighting a cigar. "You've been watching the markets. Speak."
Stefan looked between them, knowing this was his moment.
"I want to invest," he said simply.
Fabio blinked. "In what?"
"The future."
Vittorio smirked. "That's a poetic way to say nothing, Stefan."
Stefan smiled faintly. "Then let's call it by its real name — video games."
Fabio exhaled through his nose. "Games?"
"Entertainment, yes," Stefan corrected. "But not trivial. The United States and Japan are already building empires around it — Atari, Nintendo, Sega. Europe's still asleep. But there's opportunity here — in publishing, in distribution, even in local software houses."
He unfolded a set of papers from his pocket — hand-drawn charts, market data, names.
"I want to buy shares in Commodore International. They're moving from calculators to personal computers and gaming. They'll release something revolutionary soon. If I'm correct, this is the entry point before the boom."
Vittorio leaned forward, smoke curling around him. "And if you're wrong?"
"Then I'll lose a fraction of my allowance," Stefan replied calmly. "And learn something invaluable about risk."
The silence that followed was heavy but not hostile.
Fabio glanced at his father. "You're encouraging this?"
"I'm considering it," Vittorio said. "Every empire begins with one bold investment."
Then, to Stefan: "You'll draft a proposal. Convince me as you would an investor."
Stefan nodded once. "By morning."
He barely slept that night. The estate was silent, save for the ticking of a clock and the scratching of his pen. He drew projections — revenue curves, consumer growth patterns, and rough comparisons between hardware companies. But between every line of ink, memories from another lifetime surfaced.
He saw the Commodore 64, the way it had dominated the early market, the way it had made computing accessible — and fun. He remembered its inevitable decline too, the chaos that followed when the industry crashed.
But foreknowledge was power only if used precisely.
He planned his entry, his exit, and his fallback.
By dawn, a full portfolio lay on the desk — annotated, reasoned, mature beyond his years.
The next morning, Vittorio and Gianluca were already waiting in the small study.
"Well," said Vittorio, "let's hear your plan."
Stefan stood straight, placing the folder on the table. "Gentlemen, Europe is late to the digital frontier. The Americans dominate innovation, the Japanese dominate efficiency. But what they all share is one thing — accessibility. Commodore is bridging that gap between professional and personal technology.
"If we acquire shares before their next release — within six months — we secure a position that will triple in value by 1984."
Gianluca rubbed his chin. "And why Commodore, not Atari or Nintendo?"
"Atari is overextended," Stefan replied. "Too many titles, too much distribution cost, and their quality control is slipping. Nintendo will rise — but in Japan first. Commodore's in Europe's reach. Logistics matter."
The old men exchanged a look. They didn't laugh this time.
"Fabio," Vittorio said, "open a minor trust under Stefan's name. Let him manage a small portfolio. If he succeeds, we'll discuss expansion."
Fabio sighed but nodded. "So be it."
Stefan inclined his head, calm but inwardly thrilled.
Weeks later, as the first snow of December fell, Stefan received the confirmation: the shares were purchased, his first real investment.
He walked alone through the frosted garden, exhaling into the cold air.
One small step, he thought. But every empire begins somewhere.
His gaze drifted eastward, toward the faint glow of the city lights beyond the horizon.
Europe had once been a continent of conquerors. Now it was a continent of bureaucrats. But perhaps, through vision — and calculation — it could be reborn.
He smiled faintly. "Let's start with a game," he whispered.
Then, softer — as if speaking to ghosts from his past life:
"This time, I'll play to win."