• Sam Bankman-Fried's Anthropic stake was liquidated in bankruptcy court two years ago.
• The feds seized shares belonging to two co-conspirators, Caroline Ellison and Nishad Singh.
• The government quietly sold those Anthropic shares last year. It's unclear where the money will go.

A little over a year ago, the federal government acquired a stake in Anthropic without paying a penny.

The shares were seized from associates of the crypto fraudster Sam Bankman-Fried. From there, they disappeared into a legal black hole.

As Anthropic rockets toward what could be the biggest IPO in history, those shares could now be worth billions of dollars.

Bankman-Fried's own Anthropic stake was liquidated in the bankruptcy of his failed cryptocurrency exchange. The Anthropic equity owned by Caroline Ellison and Nishad Singh, two associates who invested alongside him, took a different path. The government seized those shares and sold them to existing Anthropic shareholders, according to a person familiar with the sale.

It's still unclear whether the proceeds will be paid out to victims of the $11 billion fraud case, or if the feds will just keep the money.

It also remains a mystery which investors bought Singh's and Ellison's stock and how much they paid, but Anthropic shares have been on such a dizzying climb that it's likely those investors made a killing on them.

Bankman-Fried was convicted in 2023 on fraud and money laundering charges and sentenced to 25 years in prison after the collapse of his cryptocurrency empire. Prosecutors said he used his crypto hedge fund, Alameda Research, to siphon billions of dollars from customers of FTX, his crypto exchange.

The story of the crypto criminals' Anthropic shares is a tale with extraordinary elements, including one of the biggest financial frauds in modern history, a messy bankruptcy docket, and a company that experienced one of the fastest appreciations in business history as the world suddenly realized AI's existential importance.

An intelligent investment

Bankman-Fried, Singh, and Ellison each invested in Anthropic's 2022 Series B funding round. Bankman-Fried bought $500 million worth, which according to court records represented 13.56% of Anthropic at the time. Singh acquired $40 million in shares, and Ellison acquired $10 million in shares, court records reviewed by Business Insider show.

The artificial intelligence company's valuation has soared over the past four years. On the secondary market, Anthropic has been valued at $1.5 trillion. It is the most valuable private company in the world, according to Crunchbase.

The Anthropic shares purchased by Singh and Ellison could together be worth between $4.17 billion and $5.03 billion today, based on the $965 billion valuation the company announced this May, according to Olav Sorenson, who teaches venture capital strategy at UCLA. Harrison Rolfes, an analyst at PitchBook, put the combined figure at $2.62 billion. If Anthropic went public at a $2 trillion valuation, the shares would be worth about $5.44 billion, Rolfes said.

Four of Bankman-Fried's close friends and executives at his companies pleaded guilty as co-conspirators. Three of them, including Singh and Ellison, testified against him.

Ellison was the CEO of Alameda Research, which traded and invested funds that belonged to FTX depositors. She was also Bankman-Fried's on-and-off romantic partner. Singh, an FTX executive and early employee, misrepresented the exchange's revenue to investors.

After the collapse of FTX, Bankman-Fried's Anthropic shares — which were owned by Clifton Bay, an entity affiliated with Alameda Research — ended up in bankruptcy court along with the other dredged-up remains of his companies. His Anthropic shares were liquidated to pay FTX's creditors.

The estate in 2024 sold Bankman-Fried's Anthropic shares to a few dozen buyers for a total of $1.3 billion, more than double what he paid. The largest stake went to an entity affiliated with a United Arab Emirates sovereign wealth fund, bankruptcy court filings show.

The feds take a stake in Anthropic

As part of their sentences, a judge required Singh and Ellison to forfeit their Anthropic shares, which prosecutors said could be considered proceeds of their crimes.

At Singh's sentencing hearing, one of his attorneys, Andrew Goldstein, said Singh purchased his shares before participating in the criminal conspiracy and "he actually may have had a legitimate legal claim" to the shares but agreed to give them up as part of his plea agreement "because it was the right thing to do."

Reached for comment for this story, Goldstein told Business Insider that Singh hopes the government is able to quickly distribute proceeds of the sale to FTX victims. An attorney for Ellison declined to comment.

A federal judge ordered Ellison's and Singh's Anthropic shares to be transferred to the federal government, which took ownership of Ellison's shares in February 2025 and Singh's in April of that year, according to previously unreported court records.

Ordinarily, victims of crimes are compensated through a restitution process, which is overseen by courts. But the number of potential FTX victims could be in the millions, prosecutors said in court filings. As a result, the judge ruled, victim compensation would be handled through a process called remission, which is overseen by the Justice Department.

During Ellison's sentencing hearing, Justice Department prosecutors told the judge that the DOJ would either set up its own claims administration process to compensate victims, or work with the FTX bankruptcy process to identify victims and provide forfeited funds to them.

At the time, FTX's bankruptcy process was in full swing. A Delaware court appointed Sullivan & Cromwell, the elite Wall Street law firm, to untangle the company's assets, figure out who was owed money, and pay them.

The creditors in the FTX bankruptcy, prosecutors noted, largely overlapped with FTX's victims. They were generally depositors, lenders, and investors who were defrauded by Bankman-Fried and other executives. Prosecutors said the Justice Department could work with the bankruptcy estate's lawyers to get money back to them, as it had in previous large-scale financial frauds such as Bernie Madoff's Ponzi scheme.

There was an unusual twist that set the FTX bankruptcy apart. Bankman-Fried's investments — especially the Anthropic shares, along with some cryptocurrency — had grown substantially in value since FTX's collapse. Earlier in 2024, the Sullivan & Cromwell lawyers who'd taken over FTX projected that all the creditors would be repaid in full, with interest.

The Marshals take control

While prosecutors said they intended to use Singh's and Ellison's Anthropic shares for remission, the Justice Department could technically do whatever it wanted with them, according to Duncan Levin, a white-collar defense attorney who teaches a course on forfeiture at Harvard Law School.

"It's a very opaque process," he said. "It's completely at the discretion, by law, of the attorney general of the United States."

Typically, when the feds seize shares of private companies through criminal asset forfeiture, they send the shares to the US Marshals Service Complex Assets Unit for liquidation. The unit tries to value the shares as any other investor would, said Michael Bachner, a white-collar criminal and securities litigation attorney.

"They may look to: What would an institutional purchaser pay for these securities?" Bachner said. "Are there funds that are valuing the securities? Is there a secondary market already out there?"

For the sale of the Anthropic shares, timing was crucial. The Marshals Service is supposed to preserve as much value as possible, Bachner said. By the time the feds got hold of the shares, Anthropic had become an economy-shifting AI giant. In its March 2025 Series E fundraising round, Anthropic was worth $61.5 billion. By its Series G round at the start of 2026, it was worth $380 billion.

At the same time, each fundraising round diluted the Series B shares. The FTX estate told the bankruptcy court that Bankman-Fried's shares, which in 2022 represented 13.56% of Anthropic, represented 7.84% of the AI company in January 2024.

The Marshals Service sold Singh's and Ellison's shares to existing Anthropic investors sometime last year, according to the person with knowledge of the sale.

It's not clear when exactly the agency sold the shares, to which investors, how those investors were chosen, at what price the shares were sold, or how much money the government made in the sale. Depending on when they were sold in 2025, the combined shares could have been worth between $300 million and $1.1 billion, according to Sorenson, the UCLA professor. Rolfes, the PitchBook analyst, estimated a range between $250 million and $630 million, depending on the timing.

The Marshals Service declined to comment. A representative for the Justice Department said information about asset sales and victim compensation is confidential.

The revenue from the sale of Singh's and Ellison's Anthropic shares doesn't appear to have been transferred to the FTX estate as of the end of June this year, according to bankruptcy court filings from the estate, which continues to compensate victims and creditors.

The FTX estate received $638 million last year from assets seized by the Justice Department, according to the estate's annual report for 2025. It's not clear from the filings where those funds came from. The estate expects to receive about $400 million more from the government at some point in the future, according to the annual report. That would include proceeds from cryptocurrency and other investments made by Bankman-Fried.

One of Bankman-Fried's victims, Sunil Kavuri, told Business Insider that the Justice Department should use the proceeds of Ellison's and Singh's Anthropic shares to compensate victims. It would be "diabolical" for the government to hold onto the proceeds, he said.

Victims haven't actually been made whole, he said, because the bankruptcy court calculated the losses of FTX depositors using the time of FTX's bankruptcy declaration, when crypto prices were at a low ebb. Kavuri previously argued in bankruptcy court that the FTX estate should have held on to its Anthropic shares for longer to take advantage of the company's swift growth.

Representatives for the FTX estate declined to comment. The Justice Department spokesperson said the matter was ongoing, and that the DOJ "prioritizes victim compensation from forfeiture and takes all steps to ensure forfeited funds are provided to victims."

The government could end up just keeping the money, Bachner said.

"They've invested millions and millions and millions of dollars in prosecuting Bankman-Fried. And they want to get at least reimbursed for their costs, so sometimes they'll do that," he said. "It's really a unilateral government decision."

Jack Newsham and Katie Roof contributed reporting for this story.

Correction: August 31, 2026 — An earlier version of this story misstated the number of co-conspirators who testified against Sam Bankman-Fried. It was three.

Update: August 31, 2026 — This story has been updated to reflect Singh's role in the FTX fraud case.

Correction: October 27, 2026 — FTX bankruptcy court filings don't make clear where the Justice Department obtained the $638 million it transferred to the estate. A previous version of this story mischaracterized the filings.

The maker of miracles may no longer be God, but it does rhyme with him. 

Anthropic, creator of Claude, filed its S-1 paperwork on Monday in preparation for a gargantuan initial public offering. The document runs over 300 pages and spans more than 240,000 words, some 50,000 more than the New Testament. It asks potential investors to prioritize mission over money: "Mission" appears 79 times, while "money" — the thing an S-1 is filed to generate, in this case, a bajillion dollars worth — a mere 17.

The company professes it could "bend the arc of geopolitical history toward freedom"; it could grow economies everywhere, including "the poorer parts of the world"; it could cure "diseases that have plagued humanity for millennia." Page 4 of the S-1 is not dissimilar from Jesus in Matthew 11: "The blind receive their sight, and the lame walk, the lepers are cleansed, and the deaf hear, the dead are raised up, and the poor have the gospel preached to them."

Anthropic aims to "bring forth an age of miracles," it writes, and the investors who buy in should be true believers. Because in the wrong hands, as you'll see if you turn your missals to page 46, AI can be built in ways that pose "catastrophic or existential risks to humanity."

While S-1s are definitionally visions of the future and full of hype, most are drab financial documents, eye-popping for their prospective profits more than their prose. But Anthropic didn't just open up its book; it wrote its own Good Book, a Bible-like statement of good and evil that joins a growing canon of the company's sacred texts. If you were to stumble onto any random page of this S-1, you'd be forgiven for thinking you were reading not a perfunctory government filing but the scripture of a doomsday religion.

Anthropic has long dodged allegations of fomenting a new, questionable faith. Headlines and takes on Anthropic's cultishness abound: "The Cult of Anthropic" (The Information), "Anthropic is a Cult and Claude is rapidly becoming its God" (The New York Post), "Has a cult ever started a company as successful as Anthropic?" (Peter "Beware the Antichrist" Thiel). Critics point to the employees' extinction predictions — p(doom) is not too far from p(rapture) — and ties to the effective altruism movement. It doesn't help that Dario Amodei was reportedly a Y2K prepper in high school. Anthropic has welcomed the reputation in other ways, inviting religious leaders to oversee the construction of Claude's rules.

In its S-1, Anthropic asks investors to take an actual leap of faith.

Let's play: Is that an Anthropic core value or one of God's 10 commandments?

Anthropic asks its employees to act for the "global good," be "helpful, honest, and harmless," and "hold light and shade." They shall have no other gods — as in, "put the mission first." And, just as followers must sublimate themselves to praise God, Anthropic employees must be "low-ego." The S-1 says it at least nine times.

To understand Anthropic, you'll need to understand 42 ornate terms. The S-1's glossary is sprawling, including neologisms for virtuous acts ("closing the loop") and evil deeds ("prompt injection"). Then there's "Constitutional AI," a type of large language model that is trained with goodness in mind. The SEC's "Plain English Handbook" implores companies to use "concrete, everyday words" and to avoid "relying on glossaries and defined terms." But can you truly be AGI-pilled if you don't speak of "interleaved thinking," "mechanistic interpretability," or "multi-agent orchestration"?

You use language like this because we need to be — and I say we as in society — true believers that this is going to work.James Bort

It's exceedingly hard to get a job at Anthropic, and not just because of the massive pool of cash-eyed engineers seeking IPO windfalls. The company has an intensive interview process, one it name-checks in the S-1. It looks for honesty, trust, and (you guessed it) a low ego. "We are willing to turn down candidates who don't demonstrate them, even if they are extremely strong technically," the S-1 reads. They must, in other words, be devotees through and through.

Accepted engineers become "Ants." Most tech companies have a name for their employees: Googlers, Metamates, Amazonians, Nvidians, Palantirians. Anthropic's moniker evokes the image of a collective, company as colony. In Proverbs 6:6, ants are considered diligent and prepared. Staffers may yell its teachings at their OpenAI foes: "Go to the ant, you sluggard; consider its ways and be wise!"

CEO Dario Amodei — Amodeity — leads the ants' march, along with his six apostles. These cofounders pull equal cash salaries and are "distinctly equipped to be stewards of our mission," the S-1 says. And, while the company opens itself to a broader group of believers through its forthcoming IPO, the divine cofounders will retain majority decision-making power.

Anthropic has its own form of tithing: The cofounders all made voluntary pledges of 80% of their personal equity to philanthropy. They incentivize their employees to do the same, promising to match donations.

Cult is an overused word, and many parts of Anthropic are far from cultish. Where cults are led by a liturgical leviathan that squashes the speech of their participants, Anthropic touts its culture of open dialogue. "Our teams operate in a truth-seeking environment where the best argument wins, not the loudest voice or the most senior title," the S-1 reads.

Americans' faith in the presidency, Congress, the Supreme Court, the military, the police, higher education, public education, news media, the medical system, and traditional organized religion are each at record- or near-record lows — and just as AI has brought on tremendous economic and social uncertainty. In that cauldron of doubt, tech founders — with their world-historic money, power, and ubiquity, and in their pursuit of it — sense an opportunity, to offer promise and purpose. As Sam Altman once said, "The most successful founders do not set out to create companies. They are on a mission to create something closer to a religion." They may also be trying to build devotion out of necessity, as the economy and stock market increasingly relies on AI gains.

"If these companies fail, what happens?" asked James Bort, an assistant professor of entrepreneurship at DePaul University, and coauthor of a recent research paper on "cultic startups." "You use language like this because we need to be — and I say we as in society — true believers that this is going to work."

Anthropic didn't respond to my request to know more about how it wrote the S-1. So, we asked Claude: If the S-1 is a confession of faith, what are you? I am its product, Claude said. "The word made flesh, or at least made weights."

• As a personal stylist for corporate clients, I've noticed more industries embracing jeans at work.
• I recommend selecting a dark-wash, wide-leg pair that closely resembles trousers.
• To elevate denim even further, I love pairing it with a pointed-toe heel and a simple belt.

Since the COVID-19 pandemic, the workplace has changed a lot, and so has what we wear to the office. As a personal stylist who works with corporate clients, I've noticed that many industries — though not all — have become more casual, with some embracing jeans as workwear.

Still, there's a fine line between looking casually professional and overly relaxed, even when jeans are part of the dress code.

Here are five easy ways to wear denim at work while still looking polished.

Choose a dark wash with a wide leg that closely resembles trousers.

When it comes to wearing jeans at a 9-to-5, I think a darker wash is always the best place to start, since it closely matches the color of a classic pair of dark trousers. Although black jeans can look professional, I prefer a dark-blue shade, as it still clearly reads as denim.

As for the fit, I love a wide-leg pair rather than a slimmer one because it gives the illusion of trousers while still maintaining a casual feel. This way, the look is still laid-back and comfortable, but the shape and color are more polished and professional.

Regarding the waist, I think individuals with shorter torsos should opt for a mid-to-low-rise jean, whereas those with longer torsos should reach for a higher-waisted alternative.

A textured top instantly elevates jeans.

I love a cozy sweater, but pairing one with jeans can make an entire outfit feel too casual.

To avoid this, I like to pair denim with a top that has some interest. Think texture, beautiful buttons, an interesting collar, or an actual blouse.

If you really want to wear a sweater, I recommend layering it with a cardigan in the same color. Having those two distinct elements instantly makes the denim feel more put-together and gives the outfit more intention.

When it comes to wearing jeans in the workplace, a belt is crucial.

One of the easiest ways to instantly make jeans feel more polished for the office is to add a belt.

I like to think of a belt as the jewelry for your pants. Similar to how a necklace, earrings, or a bracelet can complete an outfit, a belt adds the extra detail that shows careful thought went into the look.

Whether it's a classic leather version with a simple buckle or something with a little more personality, a belt is a great addition that can immediately transform a casual look into corporate attire.

Subtle texture adds a twist to classic denim.

Not all denim worn in the workplace needs to be a traditional solid wash. For example, I think jeans with painted designs, tonal patterns, and interesting finishes and textures — like stitching — add so much more interest to the look.

However, be careful with the styling of textured denim. I recommend keeping the rest of the outfit simple and letting the patterned jeans serve as the focal point.

Footwear can make or break the whole look.

When it comes to selecting the right shoes to wear with jeans, there's a careful balance between looking professional and too casual.

I always recommend wearing a ballet flat, a pointed-toe heel, or a bootie.

If you do want to wear a sneaker, I suggest a low-profile, less bulky option — so it still looks put together with the denim.

• Over 10 million student-loan borrowers are behind on payments.
• Some borrowers said they're hopeful the midterms will prompt policy to protect those in default.
• States with closely contested Senate races, like Texas and Ohio, have high rates of nonpayment, per an Urban Institute analysis.

Sarah Bundy has been in and out of default on her student loans for nearly three decades.

She borrowed for college in the mid-1990s, but dropped out as her loan balance became unaffordable. At the time, it was $39,000. Now, it's $60,000.

The 55-year-old is hoping a "blue wave" will pave the way for Democratic legislation to shield borrowers at risk of default.

"At my age, I can never get ahead of this," Bundy said. "So I'm just trying to scooch under the wire as long as I can."

Roughly one of every six adult Americans has federal student loan debt, according to Federal Student Aid. And some 16% of federal and private borrowers were 60 or more days late on their payments in 2026, according to an analysis by the Urban Institute.

Student-loan payments add to the squeeze from groceries and housing in an election increasingly centered on the cost of everyday life. High utility bills and gas prices are an added strain, especially as inflation is outpacing pay hikes.

Economic concerns are also reshaping debates over AI, with politicians reconsidering their support for data centers amid a backlash.

For borrowers, the pressure is particularly acute, and elevated student-loan delinquency rates overlap with some of the country's most competitive races.

Texas and Ohio, home to closely-contested Senate races, both had higher-than-average non-payment rates. In the House, nine battleground districts as identified by the Cook Political Report as of Friday afternoon had worse nonpayment rates than the national average — some 28% of borrowers are delinquent in Texas's 34th District, and 25% in North Carolina's 1st.

Meanwhile, federal student-loan defaults, which typically occur after 270 days of nonpayment, are at a record high. While involuntary collections on defaults, including wage and federal benefit garnishment, have been paused for over a year, Democratic lawmakers have been pushing for legislation to protect borrowers once those consequences resume. Still, even a strong election for Democrats would likely leave them without sufficient numbers to override a presidential veto.

As of June 30, 9.3 million borrowers were in default, and an additional 1.5 million were in late-stage delinquency, according to Federal Student Aid. Roughly 14% of the $1.7 trillion student-debt load in the US is in default, or $234 billion.

Republican lawmakers have expressed support for President Donald Trump's student-loan changes, which they said will help borrowers repay their loans. Sen. Roger Marshall, who is up for reelection in Kansas, previously said that Trump's "big beautiful" spending legislation "made transformational reforms to student loans."

Student-loan borrowers have told Business Insider that they're worried about the consequences of defaulting, primarily through losing a chunk of their paycheck, Social Security payments, and tax refunds. Those concerns are exacerbated by the anticipated higher monthly bills under Trump's repayment overhaul.

"All we can do is keep pushing for every little bit of progress we can get on this," Bundy said.

A student-loan default wave

Luke Helton, a student-loan borrower in Tennessee, previously told Business Insider that the only way he can afford his expected $600 payment increase is by digging into his retirement.

While he voted for Trump because he believed in the administration's campaign promise to put America first, his student loan challenges have him second-guessing his vote.

"They talked a big game about caring about the little people, and they just haven't," Helton said.

The defaulted student-loan portfolio itself is undergoing changes. The Department of Education is moving forward with its plan, announced in March, to transfer defaulted student-loan accounts to the Treasury Department. The transfer will occur in phases, with the most recent step being the launching of a new online portal to help borrowers return to good standing and access default resources.

Education Secretary Linda McMahon said that the department "was never intended to serve as the fifth largest bank in America, and that's exactly why we partnered with the Treasury Department to improve the administration of federal student aid programs that millions of American students, families, and borrowers rely on."

Democratic lawmakers have raised concerns about the Treasury's capability to manage federal student loans. Over 60 of them pushed to halt the transfer and continue the pause on involuntary collections to continue giving borrowers relief as they navigate Trump's repayment overhaul. Sen. Bernie Sanders also led some of his colleagues in introducing a bill to prevent older borrowers and borrowers with disabilities from facing Social Security garnishment if they default.

Bundy recently went to Washington, DC, to urge New York lawmakers to support Sanders' bill. She's one of the millions of borrowers transitioning off the Biden-era SAVE plan, which offered lower monthly payments. She said she's not sure how she'll afford payments once they resume, and she's worried that she — and millions of other borrowers — could fall behind.

"When these garnishments start back up, it's really going to throw us pretty far back down," Bundy said. "I don't think people realize just how brutal it really is out there."

Have a story to share about student loans? Contact this reporter at asheffey@businessinsider.com.

Writing villains is supposed to be hard. No grand, world-dominating plan ever really makes sense in a story. Soon after "The Dark Knight" came out, David Goyer, its writer, told me the Joker had been a real relief. "Blessedly, because of who the Joker is, we just said, 'fuck the plan. We don't have to do it. He's the Joker. He's the anti-plan,'" Goyer said. "Trying to take over the world is such an impossible, stupid idea — as if anyone could do it with a single act, you know?"

Yet now very real people seem to try just that, on the regular. Except if you believe Hollywood, they're not insane clowns. They're billionaire tech bros. It's starting to seem like every movie and TV bad guy is a douchebag who got rich making stuff that works on your phone. Mark Zuckerberg in "The Social Reckoning," Elon Musk in "Musk," Elizabeth Holmes in "You Can See Everything," Sam Altman in the upcoming "Artificial," Sam Bankman-Fried in "The Altruists." In these stories, at varying levels of fictionality, the evil villains' megalomaniacal plans mostly make sense. Some of them even got away with it. America is eagerly consuming stories about them. "You Can See Everything" grossed $15 million on opening in just 855 theaters, twice what its producers expected.

The more interesting question is why these founders are our demons, all of a sudden. Chalk it up to the reality of the "techlash," the society-wide revulsion to Big Tech's ubiquity and power. But if you really want to understand the extent to which everyone thinks Silicon Valley is so uncanny these days, you should be watching a CBS legal procedural called "Cupertino." It's a sharp look at tech and its discontents — but more than that, it clarifies how widely the techlash is spreading.

"Cupertino" comes from the TV-making couple Michelle and Robert King, best known for the "The Good Wife" and "The Good Fight." In their new show, a slick lawyer played by Mike Colter gets iced out of the tech company he cofounded at the same time as a more junior attorney also gets ousted. The two join their wrongful-termination lawsuits against the company, eke out a big settlement, and start a firm to represent "little guys" against Silicon Valley giants. In one plotline, a drone maker tries to blame a mid-level coder for one of its bots falling out of formation during a show and killing a man — it turns out the company had changed batteries to accommodate a prospective military contract. In another, a mysterious whistleblower client asks for help to force an Anthropic-like company to put guardrails around its most powerful AI. Then the whistleblower claims to in fact be the AI.

It's all in good fun. The actors are beautiful. They banter well. Colter wears the hell out of a suit. Busy Philipps plays a Mackenzie Scott-like benefactor of the new law firm — if Scott used her incredible wealth to become a hardcore partier.

A CBS show like "Cupertino" picks bad guys that millions of people can easily recognize as deserving of comeuppance. It picked the overlords of Silicon Valley.

But thematically, there's depth. That Colter is the only Black person for miles does not go unremarked. His new partner Olivia Siffre (pronounced "cypher"), played by Rachel Keller, is a devout, cross-wearing conservative from the Midwest, an alumna of Liberty University. Their closest allies don't come from the ranks of coders, marketing, or venture capital but are instead service workers, tradespeople, and the waitstaff from a nearby TGI Fridays. (Alas, a fiction — there are no TGI Fridayses in the Valley.)

So see that class rage for what it is. The fantasy here is that the middle-American proletariat gets to stick it to bespoke-suited, arrogant C-level types and unkempt, geniuser-than-thou sex pests. Because for the last few years, those people have had all the power. "They always have a friendly audience, an accommodating interviewer who won't ask them anything controversial. And then they get into territory where the price is much higher," Robert King said in a recent interview. "They reveal who they really are: robotic, inhuman nerds who never got laid in high school and are now kind of crazy with power, self-importance, and a sense of entitlement."

The point is, the "little guys" fighting this good fight seem like they're supposed to be proxies for the viewer. "Cupertino" is a CBS procedural, the genre of shows like "NCIS" and its offspring — things that no one watches, except for 10 million people every week. That's a lot. CBS typically has the largest primetime viewership of any network, and the oldest — like, people in their 70s. It's all well and good for young coastal sophisticates to post about Elizabeth Holmes' inability to grasp the Who's-on-First routine, but "Cupertino" is aimed at America's parents and grandparents. And apparently they are excited to see the people who make their phones portrayed as the wealthy engines of every inconvenience — sources of half a billion dollars to Republicans only, builders of data centers, creators of chatbots that drive kids to death by suicide, purveyors of screens that watch you back. "Cupertino" debuted to rapturous reviews and more than 3 million viewers, beating "Grey's Anatomy" in its time slot.

A show like "Cupertino" is meant to have a low barrier to entry; it picks bad guys that millions of people can easily recognize as deserving of comeuppance. It picked the overlords of Silicon Valley.

Not so long ago it would've seemed preposterous to give a scrawny, socially awkward, brainy little guy the job of Big Bad. They're the assistant, or the butt of a particular kind of joke, like the spectrum-y heroes of the wildly popular "Big Bang Theory" — Klingon-speaking, physics-doing, Green Lantern oath-knowing clods. Still, I can think of examples of "bad guy, subtype: tech nerd" going back to the early days of science fiction. Mad scientists like Dr. Frankenstein or Dr. Jekyll, or various HP Lovecraft antiheroes, probably count. So too might the arrogant cyberneticist in Robert Heinlein's "Waldo."

A rough analog in the mid 20^th century might be the rogue industrialist. After all, James Bond villains have often been tech-bro adjacent. Karl Stromberg in "The Spy Who Loved Me" wants to build independent ocean settlements; he's basically a seasteader. Hugo Drax in "Moonraker" is a eugenics-obsessed CEO who wants to build space stations, which sounds familiar. Max Zorin, played by Christopher Walken in "A View to a Kill," is an "industrialist" and the product of Nazi genetic experiments. But his megalomaniacal plan is to use a California natural disaster to gain a monopoly on silicon computer chips. That's just Jensen Huang on any given Tuesday.

The weirdest new phenomenon here is how personal it all is. Evil technology oligopolies have been representatives of oppressive capitalism in Hollywood for decades — but they were faceless. The anonymity was part of the terror. Think of the company that orders Bruce Dern to destroy the last forest in his spaceship biodome in "Silent Running," the Umbrella Corporation in "Resident Evil," or Cyberdyne Systems, creator of Skynet in the Terminator movies.

More recently, film and television have started identifying not just faceless corporations but specific tech-coded people as their worst-of-the-worst. And not just any people, but people geofenced into Silicon Valley: "Glass Onion," "Don't Look Up," "Ex Machina," "Devs," "Super Pumped" (fictionalized Uber), "WeCrashed" (fictionalized WeWork), "The Playlist" (fictionalized Spotify), and "The Dropout" (fictionalized Theranos), "Mythic Quest" — the list goes on.

Actually, Cyberdyne's a good example of one important way these depictions have changed; in 1984's "The Terminator," Cyberdyne is a Los Angeles-area heavy-industry firm. In 2015, "Terminator Genisys" moved Cyberdyne to a gleaming tech campus explicitly modeled on the headquarters of Oracle. It's an inside joke, though not the ha-ha kind. The movie's producers included Megan and David Ellison, children of Oracle CEO Larry Ellison. David now owns the merged studios of Warner Bros. and Paramount, and he just got a billion-dollar investment from Elon Musk. The new company, Skydance, includes in its holdings … CBS.

Christopher Walken's Bond villain has a megalomaniacal plan is to use a California natural disaster to gain a monopoly on silicon computer chips. That's just Jensen Huang on any given Tuesday.

"A sequence of Hollywood contemporary science-fiction movies identifies Silicon Valley capitalists as a new type of villain," write Northumbria University film studies scholars Joe Street and Russ Hunter in a 2024 paper. These new movies critique tech, they say, using an approach "in the grand tradition of cinematic science fiction touchstones such as the Cold War alien invasion films that allegorized fears of Communism in 1950s America."

In other words, movies about time-travelling killer robots and dead-eyed billionaires aren't so different, after all. Horror is about shared anxieties. Old-school mad scientists posed a threat because they dared to do experiments that contravened the laws of nature; they were evil for love of the game. The Silicon Valley bad guys are worse, because they do it for profit. "When presented with an innovation," Street and Hunter write, "the prime movers in these corporations think not of moral or ethical concerns and crucially not of the material impact of what they are doing — but only of the innovation's potential for financial gain."

Is Hollywood's techlash actually on the rise? The schlemiels of "Silicon Valley" premiered in 2014. I have tech-bro-villain articles in my files going back to 2022 at least. And the business world has always been fodder for stories filtered through the anxieties of the time—what was Ebenezer Scrooge if not a capitalist oppressor?

Mapping the full arc of technology-associated villains would be, in the words of Ted Underwood, "hard to code." Underwood's an English and information science professor at the University of Illinois at Urbana-Champaign, researching ways to identify literary trends across time, in big canons. "In addition to tracing the history of villains, you'd have to think how often these social types appear as heroes," he says. For every Max Zorin there's a Tony Stark. Ethan Hunt's nobody without tech aces Luther and Benji. "Star Trek" doesn't trek without Scotty, or Chief O'Brien. Every movie heist is basically a hack. And let me just say unto you: "MacGyver." "One hypothesis would be that what we're feeling right now with evil tech bro villains is just that the counterbalancing examples have dropped out," Underwood says.

Clearly, though, tech billionaires and their hangers on have actively tried to make themselves into main characters. Some of them seem to think they're the only real consciousnesses in a simulation, a virtual world populated with non-player characters like you and me. At minimum they evince a belief that they possess a greater depth of perception and knowledge. As the architect and tech historian Fred Scharmen once wrote, "for this particular kind of person, wealthy and powerful or not, intelligence comes paired with a certain kind of malignance. The Evil Nerd is sharp, and also mean, their big brains are oriented towards anger and destructiveness." The Thiels, Altmans, Musks, and Karps of the world turn what had been nerdy weakness into nerdy strength. They go on friendly podcasts and show up in pictures taken with presidents. We don't have to imagine them delivering what the screenwriter John Rogers, creator of the anticapitalist TV show "Leverage," calls the Evil Speech of Evil. They monologue at tech conferences! These guys embody their ideologies; l'enterprise, c'est moi.

And what happens if that kind of behavior gets depicted, week in and week out, on a popular legal procedural TV show? Even if that show airs on a network owned by one of those "evil nerds"? Hard to say. Maybe it'll be enough to turn some people into the Joker.

Cristian Barcenas is getting ready to cut out date nights, food delivery, and Starbucks.

He graduated from the University of California, Fresno, in 2013 with a student-loan balance of about $65,000. Barcenas took out additional loans to pursue a master's degree, but left early to care for his father, who had cancer. His balance now stands at $127,000.

Barcenas, who works full time in sales in California, was making $105 monthly payments under the Biden-era SAVE repayment plan. President Donald Trump eliminated SAVE, and in November, Barcenas' payments are expected to spike to $815 per month.

"When I saw how much the payment is expected to be, I freaked out for a whole week," the 40-year-old said. "I, under no circumstances, want to default."

Barcenas and his wife combed through all their expenses over the past three months. He said it was "jaw-dropping" to see that they spent over $300 on Starbucks and $600 on grocery deliveries in that time.

The couple has started grocery shopping more carefully and in person, and Barcenas has stopped using Uber for rides. They've also cut their date nights down to once a month to free up more money for student-loan payments.

Beginning in July, more than 7 million borrowers received notices to transition off the SAVE plan, and many of them are gearing up for higher payments. More than 1,000 borrowers have told Business Insider over the past year that they're worried about factoring a higher bill into their budgets and are considering taking on second jobs or digging into retirement savings to make it work.

The Trump administration has said that its student-loan changes are intended to simplify a complex repayment system, curb excessive borrowing, and compel colleges to lower tuition. Barcenas said he thinks the changes will lead borrowers to "want to hold onto what they have even more."

"There's going to be a lot of fear around spending because they know that they have this obligation that they can't really get out of, and that's going to be prioritized over everything else," he said.

Delaying life milestones for student-loan payments

Rey Sosa expects his student-loan payments to surge from $50 a month to more than $700. The 32-year-old urban planner is paying off a $101,000 balance, largely from his master's degree in urban planning, and while he's still on forbearance, he's configuring his budget to make it work.

"I based my entire life around that payment coming back at some point," Sosa said. "The amount shocked me at first, and while I have a budget for it, it does take away from saving for home, saving for kids, family, because that is what we have to scale back right now."

The Department of Education has recommended that borrowers enroll in its new Repayment Assistance Plan, intended to be the most affordable income-driven repayment plan. A recent report from the Center for American Progress, a left-leaning think tank, said that borrowers moving from the SAVE plan to RAP could see their student-loan bills increase by $2,163 annually on average.

Sara Partridge, associate director of higher education at CAP and a coauthor of the report, said that the payment increases come "at a time when there is high inflation, stagnating wages, and people are generally feeling financially strained," making it more difficult to budget.

Amy Webb, a 60-year-old borrower, said she's feeling that strain. She has a $178,000 balance that she took out for her son's education as a single parent and is concerned about higher monthly payments. She's unable to purchase a new car, she refinanced her house, and she's considering selling it and moving out of Virginia to a state with a lower cost of living.

"I don't know how long I can do this," Webb said. "I wish the government would help."

Sosa hopes to achieve Public Service Loan Forgiveness, which forgives student debt for government and nonprofit workers after 10 years. But with about six years of payments left, he anticipates pushing back big purchases like a first home.

"I understand that we have to repay our loans," Sosa said. "That's not what I'm upset about. What I wish is that there was more consideration into the cost of living. The world just got more expensive after school."

Have a story to share about student loans? Contact this reporter at asheffey@businessinsider.com.

• The great bidet takeover has reached the workplace.
• White-collar workers are bartering with their bosses and weighing job offers over bidet access.
• "It's the superior way to live," one said.

Seungmin Hong felt he had two options: Stay at Tesla or have a clean tush.

After finishing an engineering internship at the automotive giant last year, the University of Waterloo student was weighing whether to stick around or accept a job offer from much smaller Simbe Robotics.

During Hong's final interview at Simbe's San Francisco office, he asked to use the restroom, and there it was: a glistening, inviting bidet.

"That cemented in my mind: 'Yeah, this company actually cares about their employees,'" said Hong, who grew up with a bidet in the bathroom of his childhood home. He took the job.

Move over espresso machines, ping-pong tables, and nap pods. For workers like Hong, the humble bidet is the ultimate job perk.

In recent years, the hygiene-friendly fixtures have gone from novelty to must-have for many US households. Toto, one of the biggest manufacturers in the space, said cumulative global sales of its Washlet bidets surpassed 70 million units last year, up from 50 million in 2019. High-profile fans include Dodgers pitcher Shohei Ohtani, actor Janelle James, and New York mayor Zohran Mamdani.

Now, some devotees are pushing to make bidets a standard in offices. Once you get used to one at home, they say, going bidet-less at work is a pain in the rear.

Michael Fiore used to sometimes get about halfway through his commute, then turn around and drive back home just so he could use the bidet in his bathroom. About a year ago, he had an epiphany: Why not install a bidet at work, too?

So he did.

"It's been a total game changer," said Fiore, president of Smith's Gardentown, a retail garden center in Wichita Falls, Texas. "It's the superior way to live."

There's just one wrinkle. Employees who were accustomed to using the restrooms available to shoppers have started coming to what Fiore jokingly calls the "executive" bathroom, which is reserved for staff. It houses one bidet-equipped toilet, meaning he now often has to wait to use it himself.

"Word has spread," he said.

Persuading the boss

This past summer, Cynthia Howard asked her boss to install a bidet in the single-seat restroom she shares with about a dozen of her colleagues. The fulfillment specialist at Swifthouse, a logistics company outside Philadelphia, argued it would reduce toilet paper costs, cut employees' restroom time, and improve morale.

Swifthouse's founder and CEO, Dave Harriger, said the proposal persuaded him to order a $60 bidet attachment that same day. He said he's pleased that Howard and other employees like it, though he's not a convert himself.

"I used it once. I yelped and don't know if I'll use it again," he said. "It's cold water on your butt."

Pricier bidet models that sell for thousands of dollars apiece offer warm-water sprays, air dryers, deodorizers, and even Bluetooth speakers.

Not every worker is comfortable asking their boss to install the devices in the office. To help those folks out, Jonathan Brown, a data scientist in Orange County, California, launched buttstuff.work earlier this year. The site lets employees register their interest in having bidets at work without directly approaching management.

Brown said he has long wondered why Silicon Valley workplaces offer perks like beer taps and catered lunches but not bidets. He plans to share the data his site collects with bidet manufacturers to help them find potential customers. So far, Brown said, about a dozen people, mostly from small businesses and universities, have signed up. His only promotion has been a post on Reddit.

"People don't love talking about bathroom stuff at work," said Brown.

The bidet goes to work

Bidet makers say interest has surged since what Bill Strang, president of corporate strategy at Toto, called "the great toilet paper panic of 2020," when pandemic shortages sent Americans searching for alternatives.

Strang and Justin Allen, CEO of Tushy, another bidet maker, said workplaces are a relatively small but growing part of the bidet business. Installing the devices in office restrooms can be challenging, as some require plumbing modifications, code compliance, and a nearby electrical outlet.

Allen sees the demand firsthand. The bidets in Tushy's shared office restroom in Brooklyn, New York, are a draw for employees of neighboring companies, he said, adding that a FedEx driver regularly stops by during his route to use the facilities.

Cushy tech companies have long dotted their stalls with bidets. Business Insider spoke with workers who spotted them years ago at some Google and Microsoft offices. Now, with awareness and interest spreading, some workplace observers say what was once a nice-to-have perk could become a competitive advantage for employers well beyond Silicon Valley.

A recruiting tool

Robert Hatta, an executive recruiter and talent consultant in Columbus, Ohio, thinks employers pushing return-to-office mandates would have a much easier time attracting and retaining talent by investing in the fixtures.

In a LinkedIn post that drew nearly 150 comments last year, Hatta argued that flimsy toilet paper and a lack of privacy can make office life less appealing. His prescription? Sound-insulated, well-ventilated stalls, preferably equipped with bidets.

"It's about respecting people's dignity," Hatta told Business Insider. Going to the bathroom "is an important part of the workday."

The state of a workplace's facilities can reveal a lot about its culture, said Lou Downe, director of the School of Good Services, a UK-based provider of leadership training. Details such as free menstrual products, well-maintained soap dispensers, and bidets can offer clues about how much thought an employer puts into its workers' comfort, they said.

Hong, the bidet-loving Tesla alum, has since left Simbe to build his own startup, Simantic. While the company goes through Y Combinator, he and his cofounder are shacking up in an Airbnb. No modifications are allowed, so no bidets.

Once Simantic raises its seed round, Hong said he and his cofounder plan to rent some office space. He knows what their first purchase will be.

After Bryce Ramsey was diagnosed with stage 3 colon cancer at 33, she learned another piece of shocking news: She had a genetically high chance of developing it from the very beginning.

Ramsey tested positive for Lynch syndrome, a silent, inherited condition that heightened her lifetime risk of being diagnosed with colorectal cancer by up to 56% for her variant. It also put her at greater risk of developing ovarian, uterine, stomach, pancreatic, and other forms of cancer.

Before she learned she had Lynch, Ramsey urged her relatives to also get screened for colon cancer. Since then, her father, brother, and aunt have all been diagnosed with various stages of colon cancer. Like Ramsey, her aunt also tested positive for Lynch.

"I was the whistleblower," Ramsey, 40, based in Mississippi, told Business Insider. Ramsey now wants her two young sons to test for Lynch once they're in their early 20s, the recommended starting age for her specific Lynch mutation.

Like most genetic testing, Lynch syndrome testing is relatively quick, cheap, and non-invasive. It involves a saliva test, a cheek swab, or a blood test, with the latter having the least room for error.

Still, it hasn't caught on: About 1 in 279 Americans (1.2 million people) are estimated to have Lynch syndrome, including between 3 to 5% colon cancer patients. Yet an estimated 95% of Americans with Lynch syndrome have no idea they have it.

All the while, cases of colon, breast, uterine, and pancreatic cancers are rising in young people, with colon cancer the deadliest cancer for adults under 50. "If you don't know, then you can't get help," Ramsey said, including earlier screenings or preventive measures such as hysterectomies.

"Ignorance is not always bliss."

The 'lowest hanging fruit' for cutting down cancer risk

Some experts view broader Lynch syndrome testing as a way to get more people screened for cancer before symptoms arise — and a way to potentially help entire families better understand their cancer risks.

Like Ramsey, the majority of people diagnosed with Lynch syndrome only get screened after they have cancer. In the US, the CDC's general guidelines recommend that colon and uterine cancer patients have tumors biopsied for Lynch, followed by Lynch syndrome screening for the patient if there are abnormal findings.

Some experts believe the lack of early genetic testing is a huge missed opportunity for reducing cancer risk. One 2021 study found that about 16.4% of 713 early-onset colorectal cancer cases could have been prevented if patients knew either their family history or had been genetically screened, and would have subsequently started getting colonoscopies sooner.

Lynch syndrome testing "has got so much potential, but it's not being utilized," Heather Hampel, a professor at City of Hope in California who specializes in clinical cancer genomics and Lynch syndrome, and a co-author of the study, told Business Insider.

While Lynch syndrome remains unknown to most Americans, some health systems are trying to expand testing to the broader population. Helix, a genetic screening company that first started out as a consumer DNA marketplace, started partnering with 17 health systems in 2021 as part of its "Population Genomics Initiative." The goal has been to introduce broader population-scale genomic programs that include testing for Lynch syndrome.

Dr. Cassie Hajek, the medical director of Helix, told Business Insider that most patients diagnosed with one of these hereditary conditions by Helix were completely taken aback by the news. "They're kind of operating on the assumption that their risk is just as it is in the general population, but in fact, it's significantly elevated," she said. "The whole goal is to identify these patients hiding in plain sight."

By knowing their genetic predispositions for cancer, they can both more easily start earlier cancer screenings and also inform their family members of their potential genetic risks.

Hampel noted that lowering overall cancer rates is complicated. We still don't know why colon cancer cases are rising so rapidly among young people, and lifestyle factors like sedentary routines and diets high in ultra-processed foods are far more difficult to control for.

"If the lowest-hanging fruit is family history and gene testing, and we can't even prevent those," Hampel said, "how are we ever going to prevent things where we need people to make lifestyle or behavioral changes?"

The ripple effects for families

Michelle York was 33 when she first heard of Lynch syndrome.

Up until that point, all she'd known was that her mom's side of the family had a long cancer history. Her great-grandmother died from colon cancer. Her grandfather had stomach and brain cancer. Her great-aunts died from liver, ovarian, and breast cancer, respectively. Her mother's cousin died from pancreatic cancer.

York's mother, a nurse at the time, had come across the term through her work. She tested positive for Lynch, along with York, her two siblings, aunt, uncle, and cousin.

At first, the news caused some anxiety. "Does this mean I'm going to get cancer at a young age?" York, 43 and based in Los Angeles, told Business Insider. "Does this mean every time I don't feel well, I'm going to immediately think I have cancer?"

However, once York and her family started getting routine cancer screenings, including annual colonoscopies, they felt more reassured than afraid, because they knew they could catch cancer early. York's mother had multiple precancerous polyps removed.

"None of us have had cancer yet, but we've had lots of scares," York said. She also wants her kids, ages 17 and 14, to test once they're older.

York's mother triggered something called "cascade testing," in which other family members test for Lynch and can take preventive measures to reduce their cancer risk.

Dr. Sapna Syngal, the director of research at the division of cancer genetics and prevention at the Dana-Farber Cancer Institute in Boston and the founder of its Lynch Syndrome Center, sees cascade testing for Lynch as a "real opportunity" to lower cancer risk, she told Business Insider.

Particularly for young people, if they test positive for Lynch in their 20s and start getting cancer screenings, "there's a really, really good chance that you could prevent that cancer by taking out polyps earlier on," she said.

There are also financial benefits to knowing you have a genetic predisposition to cancer. While insurance coverage for Lynch-related cancer screenings can vary, Hajek said her patients typically have a more "straightforward" experience in getting otherwise expensive screenings like colonoscopies covered. York, for example, said her insurance covered her cancer screenings once she got her Lynch syndrome diagnosis.

Ultimately, Hajek said Lynch syndrome testing can help patients get more precise care than simply knowing they have a family history of cancer. Just as testing positive for Lynch can prompt someone to start cancer screenings sooner, testing negative can also relieve a person of anxiety about being at high risk of early-onset cancer and potentially call for less frequent cancer screenings than if they had Lynch.

York said she's ultimately grateful for finding out and knowing she can catch any early signs of cancer by starting annual screenings such as colonoscopies in her 30s — over a decade before the average-risk recommended screening age of 45. Both Ramsey and York also had hysterectomies and oophorectomies unrelated to cancer, which brought extra relief in also reducing their uterine and ovarian cancer risks to essentially zero.

"I think knowledge is power," York said. "Now, it almost feels comforting because I know that I started doing this young."

Lynch needs its Angelina Jolie

In 2013, Angelina Jolie revealed in a New York Times op-ed that she had tested positive for BRCA1, a gene that increases the risks of breast and ovarian cancer.

Her revelation — and subsequent operations to remove her breasts and ovaries — sparked an international drive to get tested for BRCA1/BRCA2. Years later, a study found that 15 business days after Jolie's op-ed went live, BRCA testing rose 64% in the US.

Over a decade later, researchers and patients are working to make Lynch syndrome screening similarly universal.

Getting every person screened comes with its own obstacles.

Lynch could be added to the list of genetic conditions screened for in newborn heel tests. However, critics of the idea believe it can create years of stress when the person with Lynch isn't recommended to start getting colonoscopies until they're in their early 20s.

Other routes, such as including Lynch syndrome testing when people join the military or go to college, would miss broad swaths of the population.

There's also the question of funding. Helix, for example, doesn't bill patients and instead relies on the participating health systems for financial support. Few hospital systems can afford to prioritize testing for a gene condition that impacts a small portion of the population.

Syngal said one immediate option for getting more people screened for Lynch is to follow York's route: consider getting tested if you have a family history of colon or other relevant cancers.

Since their diagnoses, Ramsey and York have tried to spread the word about Lynch syndrome testing. Ramsey is an official advocate for the non-profit Lynch Syndrome Awareness, while York, a full-time content creator, has shared her story on social media.

"It's scary when you first find out that you have a genetic mutation that predisposes you to cancer," York said. "But at the end of the day, knowing that and taking those precautions could ultimately save your life."

Meta's AI gamble is suddenly looking like a win for Mark Zuckerberg.

That was far from a given. Even the Meta CEO was doubting himself. His company had poured hundreds of billions of dollars into AI investments with largely unproven results.

"Are you sure this is going to work?" he asked his 29-year-old AI chief, Alexandr Wang, at the end of last year, he recalled on a recent episode of the "Cheeky Pint" podcast.

Those risky AI bets — which one analyst compared to throwing spaghetti at the wall — as well as the massive layoffs and reorganization that came with them, are now starting to pay off. Meta beat its AI rivals to the punch with its new AI assistant, Muse, and it finally released a frontier AI model. Although Muse is bleeding cash amid high compute costs, analysts are excited by its moneymaking potential.

Zuckerberg is riding high, too. Sipping a Guinness alongside Wang during a recent podcast interview, the pair extolled Meta's AI prowess.

"You never know when you launch something how it's going to be received," the CEO said. "There's always the case where you get a home run, which in this case it was, right? And it's just like extremely well received right off the bat."

And Meta seems to believe in Zuckerberg's leadership more than ever. His latest coup: Convincing the company to issue a new class of shares after he threatened to list his Palo Alto compound and leave California as voters weigh a billionaire tax.

The big question is how long the good vibes will last. Meta is still spending gobs of money on AI without a concrete financial payoff. Some remain skeptical.

"The bill is huge," David Wagner, a portfolio manager at Aptus Capital Advisors, told Business Insider.

"He's won the narrative. He hasn't proven the return yet."

Meta's social reckoning era

Zuckerberg is no stranger to public discourse. He's undertaken multiple personas: the nerdy wunderkind in hoodies, the jacked wife guy, the unapologetically masculine Trump ally.

At the beginning of this year, it looked as if he was headed for a new reckoning, and it wasn't just because of the aptly named sequel to "The Social Network."

Zuckerberg was on trial, taking the stand in a landmark lawsuit that alleged Meta's platforms harmed the mental health of young people. (Meta was found negligent and is appealing.) It was one of three major lawsuits this year that put the company on the defensive against claims that its technology posed safety risks to children.

And there were the more typical Zuckerberg cringe moments, too, like his front-row appearance at a Prada fashion show that raised eyebrows across the internet.

On the inside, employee morale was waning. Though the billionaire CEO had called 2026 "the year of AI," Meta had little momentum, and unpopular decisions — including a program to track employee keystrokes — amplified the discontent.

Also, Meta had one of its largest rounds of layoffs, ever. Meta began trimming staff in March, followed by a huge round in May, when it laid off about 10% of its workforce.

Separately, Meta reshuffled another 7,000 workers as part of an AI-focused reorganization of its tech and product teams. Many engineers were relegated to individual contributor status. Meta later asked some of the employees it had demoted to return to their managerial roles.

The AI push didn't seem to be paying off: In the second quarter of this year, 98% of revenue came from its traditional advertising business — not AI.

Morale was "maybe not the worst it's ever been in 20 years here, but it's probably up there," Meta's chief technology officer, Andrew "Boz" Bosworth, said during an internal call in June.

The groundwork for Meta's comeback

Amid the chaos, Zuckerberg laid the groundwork for a comeback. Wang and Meta's elite AI researchers moved their desks to sit near Zuckerberg.

Starting last year, Zuckerberg and Wang also went on a talent-hiring spree, dangling pay packages worth hundreds of millions of dollars to poach top researchers.

Zuckerberg empowered key lieutenants, including former GitHub CEO Nat Friedman, to go ham on any vision they had, including on his pet project, an AI assistant. It all fit into Zuckerberg's longtime playbook of embracing small teams and overseeing reorgs until something works — move fast and break things, as he has infamously put it.

It worked.

Muse, the long-awaited Meta AI agent, became a breakout hit. A week after it launched, it shot to the top of the app store, and has since achieved more than 10 million downloads in North America. The team was stunned to have beaten OpenAI to market, a person familiar with the matter said. OpenAI's rival product, Dots, launched three weeks later.

Meta also threw unprecedented compute and talent at building a series of frontier AI models, called Muse Wonder, that could keep up with those from giants like OpenAI and Anthropic.

On Meta's third-quarter earnings call, Zuckerberg was optimistic that Meta's AI and hardware investments could soon become cash cows, as people shop through Muse and buy more virtual-reality glasses powered by the company's growing AI chops.

Meta, meanwhile, views Zuckerberg as more critical than ever to its long-term fortunes.

Key board members abruptly excused themselves from a dinner with Zuckerberg in September after he told them he was going to sell his Palo Alto estate in response to California's proposed billionaire tax, Meta disclosed in a filing on Wednesday.

Four days later, a special committee returned with a deal that would give Zuckerberg $20 billion in "immediate liquidity" to cover the tax — if it passes — without reducing his controlling stake in Meta. Meta also made plans to ensure that billions in fresh AI fundraising wouldn't dilute Zuckerberg's control.

"Meta's track record of significant value creation for its shareholders is in large part due to his strong leadership, unique and creative vision, and exceptional management abilities," the company said in a press release.

The personal win comes as some of his other problems have blown over. Meta settled a major lawsuit brought by attorneys general across states, Washington, DC, and US territories. As part of the settlement, the company committed to make changes to its apps, such as daily time limits and pausing notifications overnight. The agreement was part of an August settlement, a move that allowed Meta to call out its competitors such as YouTube and TikTok.

"All platforms should empower parents and support teens by putting the same measures in place, because we know that when teens are restricted on one app, they simply move to another," the company said in a blog post at the time.

Big questions still loom. The day after Meta reported strong earnings and Muse adoption, its stock fell 7% as investors absorbed the scale of the company's hundreds of billions of dollars in future spending commitments.

And the legal troubles keep on coming. This week, a New Mexico jury also ordered Meta to pay a staggering $25 billion over the Cambridge Analytica scandal, a case that Meta plans to appeal.

Whether Zuckerberg's strategy is sustainable or not, the vibe shift has been notable — and may have proven naysayers wrong, at least until the next period of chaos erupts.

"Meta is cool again," Jesse Cohen, an analyst at Investing.com, said in a note. "That's the Muse effect."

Sebastian Stan isn't afraid to make people uncomfortable.

The 44-year-old actor, who earned an Oscar nomination for playing a young Donald Trump in "The Apprentice," watched in 2024 as his movie encountered roadblock after roadblock — a cease-and-desist letter from Trump, struggles landing a distributor, and hesitance from other actors to discuss the film with him in press— in its journey to screen.

But the headache hasn't deterred him from taking risks on projects that challenge the audience.

"It's not even about Trump anymore. We should be able to explore anything and everything that is uncomfortable," Stan told Business Insider. "We can't become so sensitive to the point where we're actually depriving ourselves of elevated thought about anyone or any matter. Certainly not in the hands of fear."

Stan's latest film, "Fjord," delivers on that promise, telling a subversive, provocative story about a conservative Romanian-Norwegian couple whose parenting methods are called into question after they move to a progressive Norwegian town.

For Stan, the film wasn't just an opportunity to play nuanced, thought-provoking material. As a Romanian-American who fled the country as a boy in the late 1980s, working with Romanian filmmaker Cristian Mungiu ("4 Months, 3 Weeks and 2 Days") was also a long-awaited homecoming.

Stan immersed himself fully in the role, sporting a shaved head with a massive bald spot and speaking most of his lines in Romanian. He and Renate Reinsve, who plays his wife, were so locked in during production that they would go out to dinner together, still dressed in the clothes they shot their scenes in that day. Stan said the experience brought him closer to his homeland.

"A lot of people go, 'Great, you want to come back to Romania, and you want to do movies, but you didn't grow up here, you don't know what our experience is. You were lucky you got away,' so I was a little apprehensive," Stan told Business Insider about working with Mungiu's Romanian-heavy crew. "But, honestly, on the last day of this movie, they wrapped the Romanian flag around me, and they were so proud to kind of take me back in a way and welcome me home." 

For the latest interview in Business Insider's Role Play series, Stan talks about his failed "American Idol" audition, where he thinks Bucky Barnes fits in the current MCU, and realizing how "hypocritical" Hollywood is after playing Trump.

On sleeping on the street to audition for 'American Idol' and losing out on 'The O.C.'

Business Insider: What are your recollections of auditioning for "American Idol" back when you were 19?

Sebastian Stan: It was my friend Justin; we both went to Rutgers for the acting program, and he said, "I'm going to New York City to try out for this new show, 'American Idol,'" and he said, "Want to come?" And I was like, "Fuck it, why not."

I remember I had on leather pants; I don't know why I thought that was gonna make a difference. We got there and it was in Times Square, and I see this huge line around the block, and I'm like, "What's going on?" He's like, "No, no, the audition is tomorrow," but it was like 6 p.m., and he tells me we're going to sleep on the street.

So we went to a McDonald's in Times Square, slept barely in this line, and in the morning we got in to these auditions. And what they did was they took five or six of you at a time; they lined you up. I didn't meet any of the judges; it was just some guy. The five of us did 20 seconds of a capella; I think I sang the medley from "Moulin Rouge!," and they were like, "Next." So it didn't work out. 

You start building credits, and then you go on this five-year run of playing the obnoxious jerk roles: "The Covenant," "The Education of Charlie Banks," "Rachel Getting Married," "Hot Tub Time Machine." Was there a point when you were worried about getting typecast as the 2000s-era jerk?

My mindset was, get a job. I was just trying to get a foot in the door. And by the way, I was getting close to a lot of other kinds of roles. At the time, there was that movie "Alpha Dog" — I tried out for that and didn't get it.

But in that era were the "American Pie" movies and "Not Another Teen Movie," which Chris Evans did; they were these movies that had the stereotypical jock asshole guy, and people would always take a look at me and go, "That's the guy." And in "Gossip Girl" I played that, too. But I was just trying to get a start. It wasn't who I felt I truly was. 

I remember I tried out for "The O.C." and got very close. "Star Trek," didn't get that. "Green Lantern," "John Carter," "The Lone Ranger" — so I was going out for big stuff; I just wasn't getting it.

On why he believes Bucky Barnes needs to stay grounded and the 'education' Marvel gave him

Looking back, do you think your career could have went down a different path if being cast as Bucky Barnes didn't hit the way it did?

What's funny is you go to acting school, and you're being taught the craft, but then there's the learning that you do on set — having the experience of being on set with a camera, learning the lenses, what everyone does. So in some ways, Marvel was a real education in moviemaking and acting. It also allowed me to go back over and over and have some consistency in my life, which I didn't have. I grew up in that period. I got more focused. And it freed me.

The role, which I thought was complex, this character is very different now than when we started out. That character had PTSD, had gone through things; there was a lot to play there. So that box was checked.

Looking outside of that, it became: what were the things I could do that were so far away from that? I don't know if I would have pursued those things as aggressively if I didn't have this lane where I was getting to play more of the straight man.

Are there tweaks you've done to the Bucky character over the years that you're surprised fans haven't caught on to yet?

We've tried, and I make an emphasis on we because it's not just me. I have had to adjust to Marvel changing and evolving and becoming a bigger world. The Captain America franchise, when we started, they were very grounded. "Captain America: The Winter Soldier" is kind of a suspense thriller; "Civil War" had more personalities, but at the heart it was serious, so this character, at its core, is a very serious character.

Maybe people would argue differently, but things have gone more into an expansive, integrative place of how does everybody fit in, and I think humor is a big part of making that happen. We have, and I have, tried to adapt to those things. So the question then became, What's funny about this guy? What is there to play? Some of it has been explored, but not entirely.

It's trying different things. At this moment in time, the character adopted this sort of Clint Eastwood, crusty old man humor. Dry —been there, done that, Why are we fucking doing this again — that kind of thing. I don't know if the character will stay there, but it's not a character who can suddenly go big.

On realizing Hollywood is 'hypocritical' after playing Trump and collaborating with great directors

Going to acting school is one aspect of building a career, and you mentioned another is learning what it's like working on sets. But yet another is understanding the Hollywood game. What was the biggest thing you learned about Hollywood after playing Donald Trump in "The Apprentice"?

Um [Laughs.] It's quite hypocritical in a lot of ways. Everybody has good intentions, I think, about saying the right things, but they don't always do the right thing. I'm not saying it's gaslighting, but there's something to it, because there's often times you end up asking yourself if you're the one that's crazy.

There are many times — and I'm not saying it was just related to "The Apprentice" or Trump — there are other things even now where I've been in rooms and talking to people who will say things in private that they will never say publicly.

As it pertains to that movie, that was the experience, which was everybody loved the movie that I talked to; everybody wanted to support it, but yet nobody wanted to step up to the plate.

Now here we are today, where the trailer for the Elon Musk documentary is struggling to be shown online, so now this kind of thing is pretty normalized. Can you imagine that happening ten to 20 years ago?

Back in 2018, I spoke to you for "Destroyer." At that time, you hadn't landed lead roles yet. I asked what you were looking for when that happens, and you said, "Down the line I want to be remembered for being part of specific works and visions of directors rather than a group of characters."

Is that still your mindset? Because with roles like Jeff Gillooly in "I Tonya," Tommy Lee in "Pam & Tommy," Edward in "A Different Man," you are building an incredible stable of memorable characters. 

It's crazy to hear that quote. Back then, I think that was where I was starting to go because I had come off of "I, Tonya" and I'd learned the value of having a good director and how it influences your work and the performance. Karyn Kusama, who did "Destroyer," was someone I really respected.

And also, before that, you mentioned "Rachel Getting Married" — my whole plan back then was to just get one scene or a little part in a big director's movie. So that was Jonathan Demme. "The Martian," I got to work with Ridley Scott. I took those parts because this is a director's medium. 

Since then, I've tried to stick to that, and these performances you've mentioned, to some extent, they've worked because of those collaborations where you need to have the captain of the ship. You need to have those directors who know how to communicate. I've found myself better when I am in trusted hands, when it's someone that I really allow myself to let go with.

Because if you can't trust a director, what happens is you start to be worried about what's happening on the other side of the camera, and you're then not involved in the experience of the role you're playing. I think that shows when that happens. 

This interview has been condensed and edited for length and clarity.

"Fjord" is in theaters now.