James RienHeart adjusted the cuff of his newly tailored charcoal suit, a faint tremor of anticipation under his calm surface. The year was 1946, and New York City pulsed with post-war ambition. He stood outside the J.P. Morgan building on Wall Street, the heart of American finance. Inside, men played chess with billions, shaping the very fabric of the modern world. James was here not as a soldier, but as a quiet storm.
His wallet held just under $500—survivor's compensation from the army—and his briefcase held nothing but empty paper and stolen time. But his true wealth was locked in memory: economic patterns, future crashes, IPO booms, mergers, and revolutions in banking technology. Everything from the rise of credit cards to the fall of the gold standard. He knew when the tides would shift and which companies would change the world.
His first step wasn't glamorous. It was calculated.
James began shadowing stock brokers, attending public shareholder meetings, and volunteering at finance lectures hosted by Ivy League alumni clubs. He was a ghost in the background, learning the rhythm of Wall Street. To these men, he was just another war vet looking for a future. They didn't know that he had already seen theirs.
Three weeks into his routine, he met Leonard Adler, a Jewish investment banker known for playing long games with stable results. Leonard wasn't flashy—he hated risks, and that made him predictable. But his firm had influence and connections James could use.
The meeting was engineered.
James had spent the week memorizing Leonard's past decisions, philanthropic causes, and family background. He approached Leonard outside a charity auction in Manhattan, wearing a cheap tux and feigning nerves.
"I read your piece in the Times last month. On post-war investment in infrastructure," James said. "It was… grounded. Visionary, but not unrealistic."
Leonard blinked, then smiled faintly. "Most young men your age are chasing steel or oil. You know how boring infrastructure is?"
James laughed. "Boring things make money."
That one line earned him an invitation to coffee. Coffee turned into weekly talks. Talks turned into introductions. James embedded himself into New York's Jewish investment circles, slowly becoming a familiar name among young, up-and-coming analysts.
But it wasn't just schmoozing. Every dollar James saved, he invested. Not recklessly, not in volume, but with brutal precision. He bought stocks in Kodak, IBM, and the infant McDonald's Brothers Burger Bar, using aliases and small amounts through independent brokers.
He didn't care for profit yet. He needed a reputation.
In 1948, when the Dow stumbled briefly, James made a clean prediction to Leonard over lunch: "Recession's a false flag. It'll correct by Q2 next year." Leonard shrugged it off—until the market did exactly that. Then he listened more carefully.
By 1950, James was a quiet but known figure in Wall Street's quieter corridors. He wasn't rich, but he was respected. His knack for safe but high-reward stock plays made him attractive to cautious older investors and hungry younger ones alike.
That year, he founded his first shell company: IronTree Capital Holdings, using a proxy owner, and built its purpose around content-related ventures: distribution, print rights, and media libraries. Not films yet. No books. Just the bones.
The world didn't notice. But James did.
By 1951, he'd identified a dying newspaper chain with access to nationwide printing infrastructure. It was undervalued, collapsing under mismanagement and bad marketing. To everyone else, it was a liability.
To James, it was a future publishing empire's spine.
But he didn't pounce. He waited, moving IronTree Capital closer to the publishing business through minor acquisitions and subtle buy-ins. His capital was still shallow, but his network was expanding.
Still, he knew the real breakthrough wouldn't come from print or stock—it would come from entertainment.
Hollywood was still ruled by the studio system. Writers were replaceable. Directors were puppets. But in five years, that would crack. The Supreme Court had already begun pressuring studios to divest from theatres. Independent creatives were stirring.
And James would be ready.
He spent nights outlining his long-term plan in spiral notebooks. At the centre was one phrase:
"Intellectual property is the weapon. Culture is the battlefield."
He wasn't building a company. He was building an empire of stories—movies, novels, comics, animation, and even games. But before content, he needed infrastructure. Publishing. Distribution. Legal teams. Trademark management. Artist scouting. Marketing arms. Every piece would be in-house.
But first… a single publishing house. A single studio. One that could outlive him.
And he only had five years to get the funding.
In 1956, the space race would begin, and America's appetite for heroic, futuristic stories would explode. Whoever fed that hunger would shape the imagination of a generation.
James intended to be that man.