The money crossed the room in July 1999, and the room applauded. Representatives of Nokia Ventures and Deutsche Bank, at the launch party for a product called PayPal, sent $3 million in venture funding to the company's chief executive using the software on their PalmPilots. It was a stunt in the way all launch parties are stunts. It also worked, which was the point. Nobody at that party would remember the code. They would remember the gesture: a fortune moving through a handheld organizer the size of a deck of cards, from one hand to another, without a bank in between.
The code belonged to Max Levchin. He had turned twenty-four that month. Eight years earlier he had arrived in Chicago from Kyiv, a city in a country that, as he would later put it, had tanks in its streets. Before that he had been a sickly child whose doctors doubted he would survive, and whose grandmother and parents had put a clarinet in his hands so that he might, through practice, make his lungs larger than they wanted to be.
There is a way to tell this story in which the $3 million is the climax: immigrant boy, garage, money through the air, eBay, billions. Levchin's career does not cooperate with that version. The spectacle at the launch party was the easy part. Over the next three years, nearly everything that mattered at PayPal concerned what happened when the money moved and the wrong people were holding the PalmPilots. Twenty-seven years after the launch party, the company he runs now lends money to 27.8 million people. It is the same problem. At what point can you trust a stranger? And how do you build a machine that knows?
By the Numbers
The Levchin Ledger
1991Year the Levchin family settled in Chicago from Kyiv
2.3%Levchin's PayPal stake at the eBay sale, worth roughly $34 million
26His age when MIT Technology Review named him Innovator of the Year (2002)
$182MPrice Google paid for Slide in August 2010; it shut the product down a year later
~$2.5BValue of his Affirm stake the day after the January 2021 IPO
$50.2BPayments processed by Affirm in fiscal 2026
$0Late fees Affirm charges its borrowers
A body the doctors doubted
Begin with the lungs, because Levchin has.
In an interview with Emily Chang of Bloomberg, he described a childhood shaped by respiratory illness serious enough that doctors questioned whether he would live. The family's answer, steered by his grandmother, was the clarinet. Wind instruments are a kind of training regimen disguised as music; you learn to take in more air than feels natural, to hold it, to release it in controlled, measured portions over the length of a phrase. It is a strange prescription and a very Soviet one, the domestic improvisation of a family that had learned not to wait for the system to fix anything.
The record is thin on what came next. Levchin was born Maksymilian Rafailovych Levchyn on July 11, 1975, into a Ukrainian-Jewish family in Kyiv, then the capital of the Ukrainian SSR. He spent his adolescence watching the state around him come apart. When he described those years publicly, decades later, he did so in the context of an argument about American tax policy, which tells you something about how the memory functions for him: not as nostalgia, but as evidence.
There were tanks on the streets, because we couldn't — couldn't contain the populace from tearing the country apart.
— Max Levchin, on Ukraine at the Soviet collapse, Yahoo Finance, 2019
Notice the stutter, the repeated couldn't. It is the kind of thing transcription preserves and memoir would edit out. The we is interesting, too. A teenager in Kyiv was not containing anyone. But the pronoun claims membership in a society that had lost the ability to hold itself together, and the lesson he drew from it was institutional rather than personal. Systems fail. Currencies fail. Promises made by large impersonal bodies fail with a regularity that people raised in stable countries find hard to imagine.
In 1991 the family settled in Chicago. Levchin attended Mather High School on the city's North Side, then the University of Illinois at Urbana-Champaign, where he earned a bachelor's degree in computer science in 1997. He was, by every account that survives, a programmer first: someone who wanted to make machines do precise things. That ambition, with the memory of tanks behind it, turned into something more specific. He wanted to build systems that did not betray the people relying on them. Cryptography, the mathematics of trusting no one, would be his first love.
He was also, in the language of a later era, an immigrant founder. In 2013 he contributed to FWD.us, the Mark Zuckerberg–backed lobbying group for high-skilled immigration, and narrated his own story in a video the group released. The same year he publicly defended the National Security Agency against much of Silicon Valley, arguing that an agency built to protect the country from terrorism deserved support even when it overstepped. Those two positions sit together more comfortably than they first appear. Both belong to a man who has seen what happens when the state stops working, and who has decided, with some reluctance, that he prefers a state that works too hard.
The Champaign pipeline
Silicon Valley's founding myths are set in Palo Alto. PayPal's actually begins two thousand miles east, in the flat cornfield country of central Illinois. Confinity's corporate records placed its headquarters in Champaign County. Its engineering culture was imported from there too.
In the summer of 1995, as an undergraduate, Levchin co-founded a company called SponsorNet New Media with two fellow Illinois students, Luke Nosek and Scott Banister. It does not appear in many histories, which is appropriate; it was apprenticeship rather than achievement. What it produced was a set of relationships that would compound for three decades.
Nosek, an Illinois computer science student like Levchin, was the type of friend who gets you into rooms. He had pitched a web-based calendar to a young investor named Peter Thiel, who put $100,000 into it. The project failed. Nosek then introduced Thiel to his friend Max, who had an idea about cryptography. Nosek would later run marketing and strategy at PayPal and become a partner at Founders Fund, and his life became a long demonstration that a failed company can be more valuable than its balance sheet suggests. Banister, an early PayPal adviser and board member, later joined Thiel and Nosek in backing Ron Paul's 2012 campaign. Three Illinois kids. A summer company. A web of loyalties that would show up again in Founders Fund deals and political action committees.
Then Levchin did something that turned out to be a strategic weapon, though he likely did not think of it that way. When Confinity needed engineers, he recruited them from Urbana-Champaign. Most of the company's early engineers came from the University of Illinois, sourced by Levchin. The business people came from the other pole of the company's personality: Thiel's network, many of them alumni of The Stanford Review, the libertarian student paper he had co-founded in 1987.
So the company was built from two talent pipes. One carried Stanford-trained contrarians who read Girard and argued about Western Civ. The other carried Midwestern engineers who mostly wanted to make the code run. The PayPal Mafia's Wikipedia entry notes, almost in passing, that most of its members attended either Stanford or Illinois. That note is the whole hiring strategy compressed into a clause. Illinois engineers were not being courted by Stanford money. They were available, they were good, and they owed their opportunity to the person who had found them.
Levchin, the Kyiv-to-Chicago kid recruiting his classmates west, was doing what immigrant communities have always done. He was bringing his people over.
The investor who became a chief executive
Peter Thiel did not want to run anything. That is the detail worth sitting with.
According to the company's own timeline, the idea for the company was Levchin's. Thiel was initially interested only in being an investor, and Levchin convinced him to become CEO. The usual founder story runs the other way. The visionary insists on the throne and the money men grumble. Levchin, at twenty-three, looked at a thirty-one-year-old former derivatives trader and decided that the company needed him at the top more than it needed Levchin there.
Thiel's own biography reads like a variation on Levchin's theme. Born in Frankfurt in 1967, he was carried to Cleveland as an infant. His father was a chemical engineer whose mining work moved the family to South Africa and to what is now Namibia, where Peter changed elementary schools seven times and attended a German-language school in Swakopmund that used corporal punishment. He was remembered there as a smart, withdrawn boy whom other children avoided because they knew he would not stay long. He became a chess prodigy, a Stanford philosophy major, the founding editor of the Review, a law clerk, a Sullivan & Cromwell associate who lasted under a year, and a currency-options trader at Credit Suisse. In 1996 he returned to California and raised $1 million from friends and family to start Thiel Capital Management.
Two displaced children, then. One made rootless by a father's career, the other made stateless by a collapsing empire. One drew from that experience a philosophy of the sovereign individual. The other drew a cryptographer's practical paranoia. They met because a mutual friend's calendar startup had failed.
In 1998 they founded Fieldlink, a security company that let users store encrypted data on PalmPilots and other handheld devices so the devices could serve as "digital wallets." Thiel provided the initial $100,000. In February 1999 they raised $500,000, mostly from friends and family; $35,000 of it came from Thiel's parents. By the middle of that year they had raised $4.5 million, $3 million of it from Nokia Ventures, which is how a Finnish handset company came to be beaming venture money across a Palo Alto room. The company renamed itself Confinity. The first version of the PayPal payments product launched in 1999.
What Thiel thought PayPal was for is on the record, and it is grander than anything Levchin has said:
It will be nearly impossible for corrupt governments to steal wealth from their people through their old means because if they try the people will switch to dollars or Pounds or Yen, in effect dumping the worthless local currency for something more secure.
— Peter Thiel, on PayPal's mission
Read that with Kyiv in mind. Thiel was describing, as theory, a world Levchin had lived through as fact. You can imagine the conversation in which the theorist and the witness found they agreed. You can also imagine that the witness was the more skeptical of the two, because he knew that the people who most needed a stable currency were also the people least likely to own a PalmPilot.
The PalmPilot thesis failed anyway. Confinity found little traction with the handheld business, and the product drifted toward something humbler: payments by email. By November 1999 there was a fully functional website, and staff were emailing friends offering $1 for signing up. Between December 1999 and February 2000, the team noticed where the users actually were. They were on eBay, a marketplace with an enormous concentration of buyers and sellers and no standard way for them to pay each other.
The cryptography company had become a payments company, and the payments company was about to discover that its main problem was crime.
A merger of enemies
There were two companies chasing the same idea, a few blocks apart, and the second one was run by Elon Musk.
Musk had already founded and sold Zip2. In early 1999 he started X.com, an online financial services company, with co-founders Harris Fricker, Christopher Payne, and Ed Ho. In December 1999 X.com, chaired by Musk with Bill Harris as CEO, added online payments to its account service and made that its focus. Confinity and X.com were now building competing products for the same eBay sellers and paying for users in the same expensive way.
Then, on March 1, 2000, eBay announced Billpoint, its in-house payment service built with Wells Fargo. The platform that both startups depended on for growth had decided to compete with them. The next day, March 2, Confinity and X.com announced their merger. It is hard not to read the dates as cause and effect, though the discussions had begun in February. The combined entity took the name X.com, thought to have broader long-term potential than either Confinity or PayPal. Confinity's senior people received vice-presidential titles.
What followed was a year that the participants have spent two decades narrating to each other. Harris was out by April or May 2000, depending on the account. The sources differ, as sources about PayPal tend to. Musk became CEO, Thiel became chairman. In October 2000 Musk decided to close X.com's other banking operations and focus on payments. That same month he was replaced as chief executive by Thiel. The company dropped the X.com brand from its product, though not from its legal name, until June 2001, when it formally became PayPal.
Levchin's role in all of this was technical and, by most accounts, decisive. The merger brought together two codebases, two cultures, and two founders with large egos. One of the engineering questions underneath the fight concerned whose software stack the combined company would run on. The CTO was the person with the most to lose from getting it wrong. He was also the one who could not afford to leave. Founders can be replaced. The person who understands why the system works usually cannot.
The phrase "a merger of enemies," which has since become a YouTube documentary title, is mostly right, but it misses one thing. The enemy that brought them together was not each other. It was eBay. Meg Whitman, eBay's chief executive, later laid out PayPal's growth in three phases: "First, PayPal focused on expanding its service among eBay users in the US. Second, we began expanding PayPal to eBay's international sites. And third, we started to build PayPal's business off eBay." By then we meant eBay. The rival had become the owner.
Prove you are human
Somewhere in this period a new image entered the visual culture of the internet: a box of warped, crowded letters that a user had to read and retype before the machine would let them continue. A machine was asking a stranger to prove that he was a person.
The Gausebeck-Levchin test, named for Levchin and his PayPal colleague David Gausebeck, was one of the first commercial implementations of what became known as a CAPTCHA. It existed because PayPal was being robbed.
As early as 2001, PayPal had serious problems with online fraud. International hackers broke into accounts and siphoned small amounts out of many of them at once, a strategy designed to stay below the threshold of anyone's attention. The conventional defense against payments fraud was the state: find the criminal, prosecute him. That defense did not work across borders. PayPal was losing millions of dollars a month and struggling to get the FBI to pursue international cases. The company was effectively stateless. Nobody was coming.
So the engineers built their own police. From mid-2000 through 2001, Levchin led the company's fraud work. One product was the CAPTCHA, which made it harder for automated scripts to create accounts in bulk. Another was a system called "Igor," which identified online activity that looked fraudulent and froze it. The details of Igor's internals are not in the public record I have seen. Its name alone tells you something about the company's humor: a reference to a lab assistant, a servant who does the dirty work while the master gets the credit.
The timeline is clear on why this mattered. Fraud costs had limited PayPal's ability to offer affordable services. A payments network that cannot tell good actors from bad has two options. It can charge everyone enough to cover the thieves, or it can die. Levchin's systems allowed a third option, and that option is a large part of why a startup that had lost its original thesis survived to an IPO.
BusinessWeek called him an "Online Fraud-Buster" in September 2002. That same year MIT's Technology Review put him on its TR100 list of top innovators under thirty-five and named him Innovator of the Year. He was twenty-six.
The fraud work did not stay inside PayPal. The company's Wikipedia history states the lineage plainly: fraud monitoring software built at PayPal led Peter Thiel to create Palantir, a big-data company whose original mission was to "reduce terrorism while preserving civil liberties." One of the people who carried that knowledge across was Nathan Gettings, PayPal's former director of risk and R&D. Gettings co-founded Palantir, and later co-founded Affirm with Levchin. He is the kind of figure who rarely appears in a magazine headline and appears in every cap table that matters. He spent his career studying how bad actors behave in data, and his work became the plumbing for two companies with very different missions: one hunting terrorists for governments, the other underwriting a sofa purchase for a twenty-eight-year-old in Ohio.
Levchin did not build the CAPTCHA because he wanted to stand between humans and machines. He built it because, at that moment, it was the only way to keep the bank open. A generation of internet users learned to squint at warped letters because a refugee from a failed state could not get the FBI to return his calls.
The consigliere
PayPal went public on February 15, 2002, at $13 a share. The price peaked at $22 and closed at $20 on the first day. Sources put the proceeds anywhere from $61 million to $70 million. On July 8, 2002, eBay announced it would buy the company in an all-stock deal, reported as $1.5 billion by most outlets and $1.3 billion by the Associated Press. The deal closed in October. Levchin's 2.3% stake was worth about $34 million. Thiel's 3.7% was worth about $55 million.
Then almost everyone left. PayPal's people struggled with eBay's more conventional corporate culture. Within four years, all but 12 of the first 50 employees were gone. They stayed in touch socially and professionally and kept starting companies together, and by 2007 there were enough of them in prominent places that Fortune ran a group photo of them dressed as gangsters. The headline was "The PayPal Mafia." The photograph is now famous. The absences are almost more interesting. Fortune reported that Musk wanted to come but was in Chicago receiving an "innovator of the year" award, and that YouTube's Chad Hurley and Steve Chen bowed out "after their Google handler objected to the gangster motif."
The magazine gave Thiel the role of don. "Today they call upon one another when they need money or advice," Fortune wrote, "and when they need both, they go to Thiel, who seems to be at the center of it all." Levchin got the other part.
'PayPal mafia' doesn't bother me much because the original article that used it in 2007 described me as the consigliere, and I always thought the 'consigliere' was the coolest guy in a mafia.
— Max Levchin, TechCrunch, 2020
The quote is charming and a little evasive, which may be appropriate for a consigliere. In The Godfather, the consigliere is the outsider in the family, the adopted son, the one whose power comes from judgment rather than blood or muscle. He advises. He does not inherit. For a man whose first company was co-founded with a CEO he recruited, and who would not become chief executive of his eventual great company until two years after he founded it, the role fits better than he may care to admit.
The more revealing part of that 2020 interview came afterward. Levchin said that at PayPal he had deliberately screened for entrepreneurial ambition when hiring. He preferred candidates whose goal was to eventually start their own companies. The PayPal Mafia was not a lucky accident of shared hardship. To some meaningful degree it was the planned result of a recruiting filter. He was hiring people he expected to lose. He said he hoped to replicate the same dynamic at Affirm, and the evidence suggests he has: SentiLink, the identity-verification company founded by Affirm alumni Naftali Harris and Max Blumenfeld; Resolve, spun out of Affirm under Chris Tsai; Jeremy Solomon, an Affirm alumnus who joined the venture firm Nyca Partners through his connection to Levchin. Levchin invested in the first two.
The consigliere's other job is to place bets for the family. Levchin was a key early investor in Yelp, founded in 2004 by PayPal alumni Jeremy Stoppelman and Russel Simmons. He served as chairman of Yelp's board from its founding until July 2015, and by 2012 he was its largest shareholder, with more than 7 million shares. That week Forbes ran the headline "Who Got Rich This Week: Chief Yelper Levchin." Suhail Doshi, who founded Mixpanel at twenty-six, credits Levchin with the company's survival. Levchin was a seed investor in WePay, SmartThings, and Zendrive, an investor in Square, TransferWise, Pinterest, and AdRoll, and a backer of AngelList alongside Chad Hurley and David Sacks. He served on the boards of Evernote from August 7, 2006, to 2016, Yahoo from December 2012 to December 2015, and Kaggle, Quid, Unity Technologies, and the San Francisco Symphony.
The Symphony is the one that catches the eye. A boy who learned the clarinet as therapy ended up governing an orchestra.
The family's most important adviser may not have been in the photograph at all. Nellie Minkova worked in financial-system product management at PayPal. She and Levchin married in 2008, after a long relationship. In 2010 they co-founded SciFi VC, which describes itself as an early-stage generalist firm focused on fintech, science, and AI. Its portfolio includes Uber, Stripe, and Anduril. Levchin credits her with many of the fund's most successful deals and many of his angel investments. When Business Insider interviewed the women of early PayPal, the "PayPalians" who built the company but were rarely listed among its mafiosi, Nellie Levchin noted that bias makes it hard for women leaders to raise early funding. She was speaking as someone whose judgment had produced returns that are often credited to her husband. The consigliere had a consigliere. The 2007 photograph, like most corporate origin stories, is accurate about who stood in the frame and quiet about who chose the investments.
Slide, or the uses of failure
There is a photograph of Max Levchin playing Guitar Hero at a conference. It's worth keeping in mind, because the next chapter of his career looks, in hindsight, like a man trying hard to have fun and finding that fun does not compound.
In 2004 he founded Slide, a personal media-sharing service built for the social networks of the time, MySpace first and later Facebook. Slide made slideshows, widgets, and the small decorative objects that teenagers used to cover their profile pages. In April 2008, AllThingsD covered him under the headline "Max Levchin Becomes the Internet's New Wacky Pix Guy!" The exclamation point is the reporter's, and it does a lot of work. The PayPal fraud-buster was now making novelty images.
In the same period he served as a producer on Thank You for Smoking, the satire about a tobacco lobbyist who can argue anything. It is an odd credit for a cryptographer. I have not found anything in the record in which he explains it. The detail lingers anyway: a man who made his name building systems to catch liars helped bring to the screen a comedy about the art of persuasive deception.
He also talked publicly about mistakes. At Y Combinator's 2007 Startup School, he described his entrepreneurial path, the errors he had made, and what he had learned. The New York Times profiled him that October, under a headline that captured the moment: "After Succeeding, Young Tycoons Try, Try Again." The Israeli newspaper Haaretz sent a reporter to Silicon Valley around then, and the line it filed has a nice dryness to it: "Levchin, 32, Jewish of course and born in Kyiv, refused to discuss money."
In August 2010, Google bought Slide for $182 million. On August 25, Levchin joined Google as a vice president of engineering. On August 26, 2011, Google announced it was shutting Slide down and that Levchin was leaving the company.
That is not quite a year, to the day. It is a remarkably clean ending for an acquisition. There was no lingering, no years spent drifting inside the parent company collecting vested shares. Founders of acquired startups often stay on as prisoners of a retention package. Levchin had already lived through that once, in watching PayPal's founding team leave eBay within four years. This time the whole thing took one.
Was Slide a failure? Not to anyone who bought shares in it. A $182 million exit is the dream of most founders. But measured against the arc of Levchin's career, it was a detour. He had spent seven years building a company in a category where switching costs were close to zero and where the platforms — MySpace, then Facebook — controlled the terms. It was the eBay problem again, without a payments business underneath to make it worth enduring. A product that decorates other people's platforms lives at their discretion. He had learned that once with Billpoint. Slide taught it to him again, at a higher price.
What came next was explicitly a reaction.
Hard, valuable, fun
In late 2011, weeks after leaving Google, Levchin started a company called HVF. The letters stood for "Hard, Valuable, and Fun." HVF was meant to explore and fund projects built on data, including data from analog sensors, the physical world's version of the signals he had once mined for fraud.
The name is a filter, and filters are Levchin's genre. He had hired at PayPal for future founders. He had built CAPTCHA to sort humans from scripts. Now he set out three conditions for his own time. Slide had been fun and probably valuable; it was not hard, at least not in the way that matters for building something defensible. PayPal had been hard and valuable; it was fun only in the way that war is fun for people who survive it. HVF tried to require all three at once.
What came out of the studio is a portrait of a restless mind. In 2013 HVF launched Glow, a fertility app to help couples conceive naturally. Quartz greeted it with a headline Levchin presumably did not enjoy: "The co-founder of PayPal wants to put a baby in you." HVF invested in Emerald Therapeutics, which applied cloud computing to drug discovery. The common thread was the one that ran through Igor and the warped letters: the conviction that patterns hidden in data could tell you something important about a person that the person might not be able to say for themselves. Is this transaction fraudulent? Is this cycle fertile? Is this borrower good for the money?
That last question became Affirm.
In early 2012, Affirm spun out of HVF with the goal of building a next-generation credit network. Its founders, depending on which record you consult, were Levchin, Nathan Gettings, and Jeff Kaditz of First Data — or those three plus Alex Rampell. The ambiguity is very PayPal. Confinity's founding list varies by source too; one names Russel Simmons, others leave him off. Credit, in the attributional sense, has always been as contested in Levchin's world as credit in the financial one.
Gettings's presence is the significant fact. The man who ran risk at PayPal, and then helped turn PayPal's fraud tools into Palantir's intelligence software, came back to apply the same instincts to lending. Fraud detection and credit underwriting are cousins. Both try to predict, from a trail of behavior, whether a stranger will honor an obligation. PayPal asked: is this person who they say they are? Affirm asks: will this person do what they say they'll do? The second question is harder. It is also more valuable, and if you are the sort of person who builds fraud engines for pleasure, more fun.
Levchin did not take the CEO title right away. He became Affirm's chief executive in 2014, the same year the company announced it had raised $45 million. Once again he let the company exist before deciding he should run it. This time he decided he should. In July 2015 he stepped down as Yelp's chairman. The Silicon Beat blog read it as "a sign Affirm is taking off." The consigliere was becoming a don.
Paying over time
The product is simple to describe and hard to build. At checkout, online or at a store kiosk or inside a digital wallet, Affirm offers a shopper a fixed installment loan and decides in real time whether to approve it. Merchants pay Affirm a fee, sometimes as high as 12.5%. Borrowers pay interest, from 0% to 36% APR, on loans up to $25,000, over periods of one to sixty months. Sometimes both sides pay. Affirm says it charges no compound interest, caps its interest, and charges no late fees. A borrower who falls behind is not fined. They may be refused the next loan, and the missed payment may affect their credit score.
That last design choice deserves attention, because it is where the philosophy lives. The modern credit card business earns a large share of its money from customers who fail: penalty rates, late fees, interest compounding on interest. Its incentives point toward the borrower's trouble. Affirm's structure tries to make the lender's profit depend on the borrower succeeding, by deciding at the start how much to lend and then declining to profit from the borrower's slip. Whether it works that way in every case is a question for regulators and plaintiffs. As an engineering thesis, it is Igor turned around. PayPal's systems existed to catch people who would cheat the company. Affirm's pricing is meant to show the borrower that the company will not cheat them.
A USA Today headline from December 2014 summarized Levchin's market read in four words: Young people "dislike big banks." He had grown up in a country whose institutions had failed spectacularly. His customers had grown up after 2008, in a country whose institutions had failed less dramatically and more expensively. The emotional texture was not the same. The distrust rhymed.
The growth came through the same door PayPal's had: other people's platforms. Affirm's service was available on Shopify, Magento, and Salesforce Commerce Cloud by 2016. Walmart signed on in February 2019, at self-checkout kiosks and online. Then came the pandemic years. Affirm filed to go public on November 18, 2020, postponed in December, and listed on Nasdaq on January 13, 2021, raising about $1.2 billion. By the next day the share price had doubled, and Levchin's stake was worth about $2.5 billion. A man who had sold his first company for a 2.3% slice of $1.5 billion now owned a fortune in a company he ran.
Partnerships piled up. Amazon in August 2021, then as Amazon's exclusive U.S. buy-now-pay-later partner through January 2023. Target and Apple. Stripe in May 2022. Booking.com, American Airlines, Best Buy. In June 2024, Apple announced that Affirm loans would be available inside Apple Pay in the U.S.; shortly afterward it said it would shut down its own Pay Later service after a year. The largest company on earth had tried to build Affirm's product, and then decided to rent it. Shopify made Affirm its exclusive pay-over-time provider and took the partnership to Canada and then Australia. JPMorgan Chase's payments unit, FIS's banking clients, Costco, Intuit's QuickBooks, Expedia. Affirm Edge now lets banks embed Affirm's loans directly in their own apps.
The platforms can also take things away. In March 2025, Walmart replaced Affirm with Klarna as its exclusive provider after Walmart-backed OnePay was permitted to take a stake in Klarna. Affirm disclosed that the Walmart relationship had accounted for about 5% of its gross merchandise volume. That was a real loss, and a familiar one. Billpoint had been eBay deciding it would rather own its payments than rent them. A quarter-century later, the retailer had done the same thing through an equity side door.
Hard times came on schedule. In mid-2022, as interest rates rose, the securitizations that funded about a third of Affirm's lending got cheaper for investors to buy and more expensive for Affirm to issue. In February 2023 the company cut 19% of its workforce and shut down its crypto unit. There was no drawn-out wind-down. The pattern from Slide held: when a thing should end, end it.
Then came the regulator, and here Levchin did something most fintech founders do not do. In 2015 he was appointed to the Consumer Financial Protection Bureau's advisory board for a three-year term, the first Silicon Valley executive given that seat. That same year, PayPal Credit, which was the old Bill Me Later business that eBay had bought for $945 million in 2008 and rebranded, agreed to pay $25 million to settle a CFPB complaint alleging that consumers had been signed up for credit accounts without their knowledge. The company Levchin co-founded was settling with the bureau in the same year the bureau was asking him for advice. If he noted the irony in public, I have not found it.
When the CFPB opened an inquiry into buy-now-pay-later lenders in December 2021, Affirm said it welcomed the investigation. In 2021 Levchin argued publicly that the tech industry needed to engage more with regulators. In May 2024, the bureau applied some of the credit-card rules under the Truth in Lending Act to buy-now-pay-later companies: dispute investigations, refunds for returned products, periodic statements. In late January 2026, Affirm applied to Nevada's Financial Institutions Division and to the FDIC to charter an industrial loan company called Affirm Bank. Levchin described the application as a bid for regulatory clarity for Affirm and its partners. He called it a long-term investment, and he said approval could take many years, with an uncertain outcome.
So the young man who once could not get the FBI to chase his thieves is now asking the federal government to examine his books. That is an evolution in posture, though not in philosophy. At PayPal, the state was absent, and so the company had to build its own police. At Affirm, the state is present, and the company has decided to join it rather than route around it. Either way, the underlying belief is the same one a teenager formed in Kyiv. The system you rely on must be made trustworthy, by someone, on purpose.
The numbers for fiscal 2026, reported in August of that year, show what that belief became when it compounded: $50.2 billion in payments processed, $4.26 billion in revenue, $147 million in operating income, $1.93 billion in net income, 27.8 million customers, 5.2 million card holders, 571,000 merchants, and 2,358 employees. In October 2025 the Coca-Cola Company elected him to its board. In April 2026, Forbes ranked him among its "Self-Made 250: The Greatest Living Self-Made Americans." He has funded the Levchin Prize since 2016, awarded each year for advances in cryptography with real-world impact. Among its early honorees were the programmers behind AES and the Signal messaging app: people who build the mathematics that lets strangers trust one another.
Measured breath
Return to the launch party, to the $3 million moving across a Palo Alto room on a PalmPilot in July 1999. Everyone watched the money. Almost no one thought about what had to be true for it to arrive. Someone had to be sure the sender was the sender. Someone had to be sure the receiver was the receiver. Someone had to be sure that the people the system served were people at all, and that they would not take more than they were owed.
Levchin has spent his life on those questions. He asked them as a cryptographer, as a fraud-buster, as an investor who hired people he expected to leave, as a lender who refused to profit from the borrower's slip, and finally as an applicant to the institutions he once had to build around. He has never been the loudest person in the photograph. In the most famous one, he is the consigliere: the adviser who sits slightly to the side and is trusted with the family's secrets.
His own origin story, the one he tells when asked, is not about tanks or money. It is about a child in Kyiv whose lungs were not supposed to be strong enough. His grandmother had an idea. The family found an instrument.
The record does not say what he played, or whether he was any good. It says only that he learned, day after day, to draw in more air than his body wanted to hold, and to let it out in measured portions.