This article was produced in partnership with Type Investigations and with support from the Fund for Investigative Journalism.

When Eli Regalado first heard God speak to him, he wondered whether he was hallucinating. Now he likens the experience to having “a thought that is not my thought.” Divine words echo in his mind like a line from a movie or the memory of a loved one’s voice. “It’s not ‘You better do this,’” he says. “It’s just a knowing inside you: This is what you do.”

Holy messages arrive daily while Eli is praying, reading, or watching television. Sometimes they surface in prophetic dreams or missives from strangers. Occasionally, they appear midsentence, when he pauses to ask, “Lord, what do you want to say here?” 

Eli’s wife, Kaitlyn, tends to get heavenly dispatches in the shower, when she finally has a moment to herself. Other times, she seeks counsel from above. “I’ll be writing in my journal and praying and asking questions and just believing what I’m hearing is Him,” she says. 

God’s directives have been manifold. According to the Regalados, He told them to get married, buy a house, and start having kids. When Eli owned a marketing firm in Colorado, He told him what to name it, whom to hire, and which clients to take on. Then God told him to start preaching in his living room and online. Always, the couple obeyed. 

In 2021, when Eli was 41 and Kaitlyn was 28, divine guidance steered them in an unexpected new direction: crypto. 

That October, the Regalados later testified in court, Eli’s sister and her husband gifted the couple some of their holdings in a little-known digital coin. “Take this to my people for a wealth transfer,” Eli heard God say. He and Kaitlyn felt that they were being called to sell the cryptocurrency to fellow Christians. 

Later, though they had no background in crypto, they came to believe that God wanted them to launch their own coin. Learning as they went, the Regalados created a new cryptocurrency called INDXcoin, which they promoted through family, friends, and contacts in evangelical Christian circles. “I was really feeling that this is the wave of the future,” says Debbie Bonilla, a retired pharmacy technician in her 70s who bought INDXcoin with her husband, Jose. The couple learned about the currency through friends—a minister and his wife, who had also invested. “We just trusted that their judgment was good,” Jose says.

Starting in November 2022, Debbie and Jose withdrew a total of $70,000 from their retirement accounts—a large share of their nest egg—to buy INDXcoin. In all, more than 500 people handed over a total of more than $3 million to the Regalados.

But within a year after the Bonillas bought in, the project collapsed. Investors who had entrusted the Regalados with large sums of cash lost it all, leaving many to wonder where the funds went and some to question whether they had fallen victim to an elaborate fraud.

“Poof—the money just evaporated,” Debbie told me. “Like, how does that happen?”

Though Eli believed God was leading him into crypto, he claims he was initially apprehensive. “Absolutely not,” he recalls thinking. “I don’t know anything about cryptocurrency, and I don’t want to be caught up in some church scam.”

The crypto market was booming, and the Regalados knew people who’d made a fortune investing in early-stage coins. But a growing interest in digital assets also meant a rise in crypto fraud. 

In 2025, crypto scammers collected at least $14 billion worldwide, a 17% increase from the previous year, according to blockchain analytics firm Chainalysis. And in the United States, victims of fraudulent crypto investment schemes reported $7.2 billion in losses to the FBI. 

Fraud is on the rise partly because many people who invest in crypto don’t fully understand how it works, and launching digital coins is relatively easy. More than 3 million cryptocurrencies were minted in August 2026 alone, according to the website CoinMarketCap. “It’s just something anybody can create,” says Jason Ghetian, a former FBI special agent who has served as an expert witness in crypto cases.

In the US, much of the crypto market lacks the oversight and investor protections in place in traditional finance, including rules around transparency and safeguarding customer assets. “There isn’t adequate disclosure; there’s fraud, there’s manipulation of the price, there’s conflicts of interest,” says Timothy Massad, former chairman of the US Commodity Futures Trading Commission (CFTC). The sector is overseen by a tangled web of state and federal regulators, including the CFTC, the Securities and Exchange Commission, the Financial Crimes Enforcement Network, and others. But “every agency has its own tests and definitions,” says Carol Goforth, a law professor at the University of Arkansas who has written a textbook on crypto regulation. “It is a complicated, fragmented, and often inconsistent approach.” 

After the industry spent around $135 million backing crypto-friendly candidates in the 2024 election cycle, the federal government significantly scaled back enforcement efforts. Last year, the Justice Department disbanded its unit focused on crypto crimes, and the Trump White House created a working group aimed at “eliminating regulatory overreach on digital assets.” 

The SEC has dropped or retreated from the majority of its active lawsuits against crypto firms, including many with financial ties to the president, the New York Times reported. Donald Trump and his family have netted at least $2.3 billion from their crypto ventures since his reelection, Reuters recently estimated. In August 2026, the SEC proposed new rules that would narrow the circumstances in which crypto transactions fall under securities laws, further limiting the agency’s oversight of the industry. “Any future enforcement will have an uphill battle,” Goforth says. 

Even when crypto projects operate aboveboard, prices are often driven by speculation, and large swings are common. Investing in crypto comes with considerable risk, experts say. “With the exception of stablecoins, crypto assets are essentially Ponzi schemes,” says Hilary Allen, a law professor at American University. “There is nothing behind them—no cash flow, no productive capacity—so the only way they can be more valuable is to draw more people in.”

In recent years, state and federal authorities have brought a series of cases against people they allege ran crypto scams that targeted religious communities—an example of what’s known as affinity fraud. Among them are a couple accused of using faith-based appeals to defraud primarily Haitian immigrants of more than $1 billion, an Instagram influencer who took in over $12 million from Muslim followers, and a Miami pastor charged with stealing millions from his Spanish-speaking congregation. “‘God told me’—who can argue with that?” Ghetian says. 

“The ties you have with other people—the trust you have—is what the people who are running the scam play on,” says Tung Chan, commissioner of the Colorado Division of Securities. In a civil case filed in January 2024, she accused the Regalados of using investors’ Christian faith to dupe them into buying crypto that was “essentially worthless.” 

The suit, filed in Denver District Court, alleged that the couple spent around $1.3 million—nearly 40% of the funds they raised—on personal expenses. Purchases included high-end vacations, designer clothing, jewelry, cosmetic dental work, a Range Rover, an au pair, and extensive home renovations. In her lawsuit, Chan contended that the couple’s “drive to make money” was matched only by “their reckless disregard of securities laws and profound lack of scruples towards their investors.”

Then, in July 2025, Denver’s district attorney charged the Regalados with 40 felonies, including theft, racketeering, and securities fraud. If convicted, they could face decades in prison. But the couple maintain that they haven’t done anything wrong and were simply carrying out God’s wishes. 

“If you think following the Lord is reckless, then yeah, we were very reckless,” Eli told me. “Because we just listened and did what the Lord said to do.”

Eli says that when he first heard from the heavens, he was behind bars. 

It was 2002, and he was 22, facing eight years in prison for stealing a Honda Civic. Eli had originally been sentenced when he was 20 but was let out after just seven months; he was sent back to jail when he violated the terms of his probation by breaking a beer bottle on a man’s face. 

This time around, as Eli tells it, his public defender warned him that it was “legally impossible” that he’d be released early again. But he heard a voice in his head repeating, “I’m going to give you probation.” And then it happened: A judge suspended his sentence. The incident became core to his worldview: “It first has to … look completely impossible,” he says, “and then that’s when God resurrects it.” 

After he got out of prison, Eli’s religious zeal didn’t stick. He threw himself into a worldly goal: making money. “I just need to put on this success mask,” he recalls thinking, “so that people would see me as valuable.” He marked “no” when asked about felony convictions on job applications and eventually discovered that he had an aptitude for sales. He hawked everything from vacuum cleaners to leads for contractors, before pivoting to marketing. 

In 2010, Icosa Magazine, a Denver-based publication, brought Eli on as a consultant. “He is the most charismatic bullshitter I have ever met in my life,” says Jan Mazotti, who was editor-in-chief at the time. She recalls Eli telling her that Kimbal Musk, Elon Musk’s brother, had offered to let the magazine host events at his restaurant: “I called up there, and they were like, ‘I have no idea what you’re talking about.’” (Eli doesn’t recall the incident.)

In 2013, Eli launched Mad Hatter Agency, a marketing firm specializing in crowdfunding campaigns. Nikko Lobato, an early employee, observed that Eli got a rush from selling that reminded him of Leonardo DiCaprio’s character in the film The Wolf of Wall Street. Eli accepted so many projects, Lobato says, that he sometimes ended up “overpromising and underdelivering.” Four clients I contacted were satisfied; three were not, including one who ended his contract “due to poor performance.” Mike Stemple, an entrepreneur and author, told me that Eli volunteered to help him market a course but never did. (Eli says they had a “personality conflict.”) “My hope, Eli,” Stemple wrote in an email, “is that you understand that your gift to be able to sell anything to anyone … can easily be destructive.” 

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Eli’s personal life was chaotic. “I was always in and out of relationships,” he says. “I was drinking, partying, doing drugs.” He blames his professional missteps on cocaine use and a “nervous breakdown.” He told me that by 2018, as he approached 40, he felt “scared of not becoming somebody” and contemplated suicide. Eli was coming off a three-day cocaine bender when his mother gave him a book called The Power of Right Believing by a Singaporean pastor, Joseph Prince. It moved him deeply. He began delving into charismatic Christianity, a movement that emphasizes a strong personal relationship with God, including prophecy, healing, and speaking in tongues. 

Heeding divine direction, Eli says, he quit drugs and hired nearly a dozen friends and relatives to work at his marketing agency, which he renamed Grace Led Marketing. He also started leading daily Bible study with employees and preaching at weekly gatherings in his living room. In 2020, he formed a church called Victorious Grace and began broadcasting sermons on Facebook. 

That summer, Eli met Kaitlyn at a party. Thirteen years his junior, Kaitlyn was slender and soft-spoken, with straight dark hair and a gleaming smile. Immediately, she told me, “I just trusted the man with my life.” On their first date, Kaitlyn was “saved” over dinner. Within four months, they wed and bought a house in Denver, and Kaitlyn began running operations at Grace Led Marketing. 

By the end of 2020, however, the newlyweds’ income had begun to nosedive. Crowdfunding campaigns were underperforming and clients were paying late, they say. Eli owed over $160,000 in unpaid taxes. “I feel like a failure,” he recalls thinking.

The Regalados further strained their finances by again following what they saw as God’s will. After learning that she was pregnant in March 2021, Kaitlyn took $60,000 out of her 401(k) and paid an architect to draw up plans for a home renovation. Their vision started small but expanded, nearly doubling the home’s original square footage: enlarging their bedroom, adding another, and creating two offices, a gym, and a family room with a bar. “The Lord’s like, ‘Just do it how you want to,’” Kaitlyn recalls. Within months, they had emptied the 401(k). On the strength of another divine pronouncement, they shuttered their marketing business. “We needed a financial miracle badly,” Kaitlyn says.

One night, the Regalados woke at around 4:30 a.m. to a blaring television. Onscreen, Bill Winston, a televangelist based near Chicago, was talking about “sowing a seed.” Often associated with the prosperity gospel, the practice holds that by donating money to worthy recipients, believers create the conditions for future blessings. 

“God is telling us to give all we have in both the business + personal accounts to receive 100 fold,” Kaitlyn wrote in her journal in mid-October 2021. The couple had no income and were struggling to pay their bills. Yet shortly before their first child was born, they say, they sent their last $2,718.44 to Bill Winston Ministries.

Just two weeks passed before their divine bounty seemed to arrive. Eli’s sister Raina Applegate and her husband, Daniel, gifted them a trove of cryptocurrency called Sumcoin, the Regalados later testified in their civil trial. In his testimony, Eli recalled them saying, “God is telling us to sow this into you.” (Raina did not respond to requests for comment; Daniel declined to answer specific questions but disputed our reporting and warned that Eli’s version of events should not be trusted.) 

Created in 2016 by Ty Jacobsen, a 32-year-old in Idaho who published content about investing online, Sumcoin billed itself as “the world’s first index based cryptocurrency.” The coin’s website stated that its price was determined by an algorithm that tracked the performance of the top 100 cryptocurrencies. According to their civil trial testimony, the Regalados believed that the Sumcoin they had been gifted was worth around $2 million.

Soon after receiving the cryptocurrency, Eli was praying at his kitchen table when he heard God instruct him to “take this Sumcoin to my people, the church.” To the Regalados, signs that they should start selling the coin to other Christians seemed irrefutable: Kaitlyn was drawn to scripture containing the word “hidden”—which translates to kryptós in Greek. A friend who had agreed to pray about whether they should venture into crypto called to confirm: “The Lord says yes.” Despite Eli’s initial concerns about their lack of experience, the Regalados decided to proceed.

The friend, who ran a faith-based coaching business, invited people to join Eli in video calls that were part Bible study, part Sumcoin sales pitch. Within five days, the Regalados had recorded around $9,000 in profit. By February 2022, they were fielding so many queries that Eli hosted a webinar. “Sumcoin is the only coin that can’t be pumped and dumped,” he declared. “It’s very similar to, like, the S&P 500.” (Unlike stock index funds, Sumcoin had no underlying assets to back its value.) That month, the couple made over $260,000 in sales.

Yet Sumcoin was not listed on any of the major crypto exchanges, meaning that those who owned it could mainly trade it with others one-on-one at whatever price the parties agreed on. In a video call with Eli and people interested in Sumcoin, Daniel stated that “the goal is to get the coin 100% liquidable in every facet there is,” including “putting the coin on the exchanges.” The Regalados also told the people they sold Sumcoin to that it would soon appear on exchanges. Once that happened, coins would trade at the price Sumcoin’s algorithm set, according to a deck the Regalados sent one investor in February 2022. One slide put that price at more than $1,200 and included a chart offering coins for $60 to $80. 

But months into peddling Sumcoin, the Regalados learned from Jacobsen, its founder, that he wasn’t planning to list it on mainstream exchanges. Jacobsen told me he never intended for the coin to be traded like a stock, asserting, “I’ve never really looked at it as an investment.” This proved to be a major point of contention between Eli and Jacobsen. “He was lying to people about what he was doing,” Jacobsen says, “about what the future was going to hold.” Eli insists, “I was relaying what I was being told.”

By June 2022, the Regalados were hearing a new heavenly instruction: “Build your own coin.”

The Regalados called it INDXcoin. Like Sumcoin, it would base its price on the value of the top 100 digital coins by market cap. Most new cryptocurrencies are tokens created on top of existing blockchains—something anyone can do in minutes through an online token generator. But Eli heard God say, “Don’t do that; it has to be its own thing.” So the Regalados chose a harder route: launching their own blockchain and native coin. They say they paid two developers who’d worked on Sumcoin $100,000 to bring the project to life. Eli says he and Kaitlyn told them, “We don’t know anything that we’re doing.” 

The couple learned on the fly, typing questions like “What is a blockchain?” into YouTube and ChatGPT. Eli saw that crypto projects often issue a white paper to outline their strategy and mechanics, so he hired a freelancer to draft one. The resulting document explained that INDXcoin’s target market included “Christian Believers” and “less experienced crypto enthusiasts.” A website the Regalados created referred to INDXcoin as “the perfect crypto” and touted “incredible growth with minimal risk.” (It noted that INDXcoin was “not a fund” and “does not own the coins it indexes.”)

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The Regalados gave the people they’d sold Sumcoin to INDXcoin instead. Friends, relatives, and others in their religious network spread the word, and the couple offered some of them referral commissions of 30%. The Regalados also gifted INDXcoin—what they considered “sowing”—to ministries and individuals, some of whom went on to buy more. And they publicized the project on social media, a podcast, and a Christian TV program, as well as through a promotional contest.

In a video sent to prospective buyers, Eli was open about his criminal past and lack of crypto experience. Quoting scripture, he hyped the venture as the latest in “a chain reaction of miracles” and said, “God wants you to have things.” 

Debbie and Jose Bonilla, the retired couple who bought $70,000 worth of INDXcoin, say that when they watched one of Eli’s presentations before investing, he appeared to be well versed in scripture. “He seemed sincere,” Debbie says. “He seemed like he was hearing from God.” Because it was a “God-driven vehicle,” she says, she “didn’t feel like we would have nefarious things going on that happen with other cryptocurrencies.”

A more tangible prospect also beckoned. “There was an explanation of how wonderful the returns would be,” Jose says. “That was the selling point—that you could become rich overnight.” 

Initially, the Regalados told buyers that they were working to list INDXcoin on established exchanges. They learned that many platforms conduct a legal review to determine whether a coin could be considered a security. For crypto projects, courts have ruled that “when you sell something to people, and people have some reasonable expectation of profit from your actions, then it’s a security,” Massad, the former CFTC chair, told me. Issuers of coins deemed securities must follow the same laws governing stocks and bonds, including registering with the SEC and providing detailed financial disclosures. 

The Regalados were not complying with those rules, and Eli began consulting attorneys, whose assessments were concerning. “Freaking out here,” he wrote in his journal in the summer of 2022. “Lawyers are saying it could be a security. Which means I illegally sold this to 100+ people.” But after praying with a “prophetic team” they’d convened to advise them, the Regalados continued selling INDXcoin. 

By the fall of 2022, the couple seemed to have found a way forward: After meeting with an attorney named John Benemerito, they decided to position INDXcoin as a “utility” coin, the main purpose of which would be unlocking access to products or services—akin to tokens redeemed in a video game. The Regalados devised a plan to create Kingdom Wealth Community, a members-only platform where INDXcoin holders would have access to coaching, merchandise, courses on finance and spirituality, and more. After reviewing their vision, Benemerito stated in a letter that INDXcoin didn’t need to comply with securities laws, because “it does not provide a direct expectation of profits.” 

“Utility coins do not need to be asset-backed as their value is within the platform itself,” a lawyer from Benemerito’s firm later wrote to the Regalados. “However, if the intent is to give the coin a value independent of the platform, then it would need to be asset-backed for it to maintain its value.”

Eli later admitted in court that he did not inform Benemerito that people who bought INDXcoin wanted to make money. (Benemerito told me that “any legal opinion issued by my firm was based on the facts and representations provided to us by the client.”)

Around the same time, Eli told me, the Regalados were having trouble getting INDXcoin listed on existing exchanges. They decided to build not just Kingdom Wealth Community but also their own platform—Kingdom Wealth Exchange—where people could trade INDXcoin for bitcoin, ether, and US dollars. Hundreds of crypto exchanges exist, but the top few handle the vast majority of transactions; it’s rare for cryptocurrency creators to build an exchange just to enable trade in their coin. But the Regalados had told buyers there would be a way to cash out. “There was a lot of pressure as more people were coming in,” Kaitlyn says. “Like, ‘Oh, we gotta get them an exit.’” 

The Regalados announced that it would take five weeks to build the exchange, but development work, which they’d outsourced to an Indian firm they’d found online, dragged on into early 2023. “Nothing was working right,” Eli says. 

Other roadblocks piled up. A Singaporean consulting firm the Regalados hired suggested that they register Kingdom Wealth Exchange as a money services business in Canada, “allegedly because they were the fastest,” Kaitlyn says, but that process also stalled for months. Meanwhile, the members-only community and crypto wallets the Regalados were building were rife with technical issues. When the couple commissioned a security audit of INDXcoin’s blockchain, it scored 0 out of 10. A follow-up audit in March 2023 noted that the issues had been fixed but raised additional concerns, and it yielded a score of only 5.4. (Eli announced that they’d “passed with flying colors.”) 

Insiders were also voicing misgivings about the project’s financial footing. During a live YouTube update back in November 2022, two viewers asked Eli to comment on INDXcoin’s “liquidity pool.” Earlier that month, FTX, one of the world’s largest crypto exchanges, had collapsed after fears about its financial health triggered billions of dollars in customer withdrawals. Eli assured viewers that he and Kaitlyn were working to ensure that they had sufficient reserves and that “there isn’t going to be some FTX meltdown.”

Months later, when the Regalados sent their business plan and white paper to an INDXcoin investor who worked as a financial consultant, he cautioned that “the project is seriously undercapitalized” and wrote in an email, “Projected annual revenues look like they were just plucked from the air.” 

And when Roger Gauthier, another investor who referred people to INDXcoin, asked Eli whether he had set aside funds for purchasers who wanted out, Eli said no. “That was my first flag of warning,” Gauthier says.

Dan Wheeler, a crypto influencer known as 360Trader who advised the Regalados on INDXcoin, says he repeatedly warned Eli that the couple needed hundreds of millions of dollars to back the stated value of coins sold and given away. “If there’s no money there,” Wheeler says, “it’s worthless.” 

By April 2023, Eli was growing more frustrated: Kingdom Wealth Exchange was nearly six months behind schedule, and payments to the developers in India had ballooned to more than $50,000. People were bombarding him with messages asking when the platform would open. “There’s this humiliation—no one likes failing,” Eli told me. “I succumbed to that pressure.” 

The Regalados were staying at a luxury resort in the Florida Keys dotted with palm trees and bougainvillea. One day, Eli was praying on a wicker couch in an open-air tiki hut when he heard God tell him it was time to launch the exchange. He found Kaitlyn and told her, “We’re live on April 11.” 

Kaitlyn objected. During testing, the platform still had bugs, including trouble verifying users’ identities. The Regalados hadn’t been able to open a bank account for the exchange, which meant users could transact only in bitcoin and ether, not US dollars and other fiat currencies. And the Regalados hadn’t gotten far in building the community space they’d discussed with their lawyer, having launched just one course. 

“We don’t have to have it perfect,” Eli told Kaitlyn. “Let’s just rock and roll. Let’s just get money in. Let’s get these people off our back.” 

In the days leading up to the launch, the Regalados discussed limiting sales, a practice crypto platforms sometimes use to manage liquidity and volatility. If INDXcoin holders dumped all the currency they’d bought or gotten for free, it would take over $300 million to fulfill sales orders. But Eli kept hearing God say, “Don’t limit me.” He pushed back: “Then we can basically have what’s called a run on the bank, right?” The evening before the launch, the couple prayed again. “Kait + I got the same verse,” Eli wrote in his journal. “Don’t turn selling off.” 

On the morning of April 11, Kaitlyn was beginning to feel optimistic, and Eli was buzzing. “This thing’s gonna explode,” he thought. At 11 a.m., Eli appeared on a livestream. A print of a gray wolf loomed over his shoulder. “Hello INDXcoin family,” he began, clapping for emphasis. “We are live!” 

For investors, returns finally seemed within reach. The exchange initially showed INDXcoin trading at around 10 times what people had paid for it, based on how the crypto market was performing overall; the Bonillas’ $70,000 investment looked to be worth more than $716,000. 

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But nearly an hour into the broadcast—after slides of Bible verses and rosy projections—a viewer posted a complaint in the chat: “Exchange says I can’t sell INDX.” “It’s probably just because the liquidity isn’t there right now,” Eli explained calmly. “Just wait a little bit.” Ten minutes later, someone else wrote that his sale wasn’t going through. “Just be patient,” Eli said. “The Lord will provide for Himself.”

Over the next few hours, the Regalados kept checking the exchange’s dashboard. Dozens of transactions were rolling in, but the problem was obvious: Sales were dwarfing purchases. By the afternoon, the $30,000 they’d put in to facilitate trades had been drained. They decided to add another $100,000 to the pot. 

A couple hours later, Eli was out getting coffee when he called Kaitlyn to check in. She was crying. “All the liquidity is gone,” she said. 

The next day, the Regalados announced that they were suspending sales. “That was when we saw that we could be in trouble,” Jose Bonilla says. 

Eli told me that after the launch failed, he felt “crushing anxiety” but heard God remind him, “It’s impossible to mess this up.” He and Kaitlyn took steps they hoped would salvage the project, but months passed, and they kept sales on hold.

In June, Jose emailed the Regalados, explaining that he needed to withdraw half of his investment to fund a community development initiative he’d founded in his native Colombia. Eli replied that they had just reopened sales—limited to one coin per day and 10 per month. When they did so, the exchange had around $20,000 available to fulfill sales orders. “Liquidating HALF of your coins is not probable at this juncture,” Eli wrote. Three days after sales resumed, the Regalados halted them again, blaming a technical glitch. 

When Jose followed up a few months later about pulling out half of his investment, Eli replied, “At this time there is zero funds to do that.” In November 2023, the Regalados shut down the exchange and took INDXcoin’s blockchain offline. 

“Shame, condemnation, suicidal thoughts have just been pouring in hot and heavy on me,” Eli shared in a video update, standing before an image of a swirling purple cosmos. “Where did I get this wrong?”

Two months later, the Regalados learned that Colorado’s securities regulator was accusing them of committing fraud and selling unregistered securities. The state soon added to the suit 12 defendants it said had received commissions for selling INDXcoin, alleging that they had also sold unregistered securities. Among them were Eli’s brother-in-law, Daniel Applegate, and a company associated with Gauthier, the INDXcoin investor. A judge entered a default judgment after they failed to respond and ordered them to pay judgments of $15,000 and $34,400, respectively. Eli’s father, Eligio Regalado Sr., who was also accused of securities fraud, agreed to refund $122,000 to friends, relatives, and colleagues without admitting or denying liability. (Gauthier denied wrongdoing; Eli’s father, through his attorney, declined to comment. Daniel denied being a part of INDXcoin and, despite being named in the lawsuit, claims that it has nothing to do with him and his wife.) 

“I really can’t speak to whether or not he heard God tell him to do it,” Chan, the Colorado securities commissioner who filed the suit, told me. “Even if [the Regalados] meant it from the goodness of their heart, the problem is, it’s not fair to the investors … They lied and omitted key things.”

I spoke with 20 INDXcoin investors, and nearly all had heard about the coin from a trusted friend, relative, or faith leader. Most had little or no experience with crypto. They funded their purchases by raiding retirement funds, cashing out a pension, using proceeds from selling a small business, or taking out a home equity line of credit they’re still paying interest on. One buyer, a disabled veteran in his 70s, hoped profits from his investment would help him recover financially after he accrued debt while being treated for cancer. Another, who had retired, was forced to get a job at Home Depot in his late 60s. “It’s a gut-wrenching, horrible, helpless feeling,” he says. 

Investors are divided on whether they were conned. Jose Bonilla, who reported the Regalados to authorities, believes that their actions were “totally intentional.” “They are using a spiritual excuse to defraud,” he says. His wife, Debbie, disagrees and thinks that the Regalados simply “got in way over their heads.” 

A number of people who bought in still support the Regalados. “They’re hearing God’s voice and trying their best to follow it,” says Troy Bramblet, a former pastor who lost more than $18,000 on INDXcoin. “It doesn’t guarantee success.” 

Wheeler, the crypto influencer who advised the Regalados, also alerted authorities about INDXcoin but remains unsure whether the couple set out to fleece people. “They are zealots—they are literally blinded,” he says. “If you believe God is going to do a thing, then are you scamming people? No. But look how they spent their money.” 

In a video posted days after the case was filed, Eli admitted that he and Kaitlyn had in fact “sold a cryptocurrency with no clear exit.” He acknowledged that they had pocketed $1.3 million—including money spent on “a home remodel that the Lord told us to do.”

Last November, I visited the Regalados in the three-bedroom townhouse they rent in a Denver suburb dominated by office parks and cookie-cutter condos. The house they own is uninhabitable—renovations stopped halfway through the project, after they stopped making payments. 

In person, Eli is friendly and charming, with a restless energy and subterranean intensity occasionally betrayed by his stare. He is prone to lengthy monologues delivered with such conviction they make you second-guess bald facts. Kaitlyn, who comes across as reserved yet frank, has “Believe” tattooed on her wrist. They told me that they argued frequently after INDXcoin collapsed, but when I was there, Kaitlyn listened to her husband attentively and always laughed at his jokes. 

On a sunny Thursday afternoon, I followed the Regalados upstairs to a corner of their bedroom containing a tiny desk and a whiteboard. The room was modestly furnished with what they said were secondhand finds. The bed was unmade, and a Bible lay on the floor. 

Eli was preparing to address members of INDXcoin’s private forum in his first live call in nearly two months. He closed his eyes and prayed. “Just allow me to speak simply,” he said, like a teenager asking a parent for a favor. “Just be able to use analogies, to be able to bring it down to their level of understanding.” “Amen,” Kaitlyn said. 

After hunting breathlessly for a laptop stand, Eli grabbed a stack of journals—full of divine revelations—and plopped his computer on top. He switched on the camera, and his image appeared before a faux backdrop of potted plants. Eli had a receding hairline and stubbly beard, and he wore a black T-shirt and a silver cross on a thick chain. Before letting callers in, he ran his fingers through his hair and his tongue over his teeth—now perfect, thanks to cosmetic dental work paid for with proceeds from coin sales.  

“Okay. Awesome. All right. So hey, good afternoon, INDXcoin community!” Eli began, flashing a smile. “We’ve got some exciting updates.” Then, in the tone of a tech founder reporting on a strong quarter, he shared the news: Two months earlier, a judge had ruled against the Regalados in their civil case, and they were now facing criminal charges from the district attorney’s office. 

“Someone asked me, ‘Are you going to do a plea?’” He paused to sip water. “Short answer is no … We haven’t done anything wrong.” 

The Regalados deny orchestrating a scam. “If you’re giving massive amounts of money away at the expense of your own self and family, that doesn’t hold up,” Eli says. The couple estimate that they’ve gifted $300,000 in cash, plus a Harley-Davidson motorcycle, a BMW, and a Louis Vuitton bag, to churches and individuals through sowing. They also gave away millions of INDXcoin—90% of the supply. (Eli told me, “No one sows without expecting something in return,” though not necessarily from the recipient.) 

In their civil case, the Regalados represented themselves because they couldn’t afford lawyers. They argued that INDXcoin wasn’t a security because it was a utility coin and that the price was set by “immutable algorithm.” They claimed that their technology provider had caused the exchange to fail, consultants had led them astray on compliance, and attorneys had said they didn’t need to maintain liquidity or disclose spending. (Benemerito, the lawyer the Regalados had retained, told me, “Our firm does not advise clients to violate the law.”)

The judge disagreed, finding that INDXcoin was a security and that the Regalados had misled investors about its true value and risks, where their funds went, how many coins had been given away, and more. Noting a “lack of understanding of the harm they have caused,” she ordered them to pay nearly $3.4 million in damages—the amount of money they’d raised. “Ascribing an algorithmic value to a coin does not make it ‘worth’ that amount,” the judge wrote. “In reality, INDXcoin was worthless because no one wanted to buy it.”

When I visited, two months had passed since the ruling. The Regalados still hadn’t read the judge’s opinion in full but had decided to appeal. Later, they would draft briefs with help from Google Scholar and AI. (The case is still pending.) 

Besides filing court documents and preparing for their criminal case, the couple spend their days like typical suburban parents: taking their kids to playgrounds, walking their chiweenie, working out. They still host biweekly Bible studies. Sometimes they ride their Harley to Palmer Lake or the Rocky Mountain foothills. (“We only wear helmets when it’s windy or cold,” Kaitlyn says.) Their assets were frozen soon after the civil case was filed; Eli had found work selling roofs but says he was fired when his employer learned about his legal troubles. He declines to disclose his current gig. “It’s not related to marketing and not related to crypto,” he says.

After they were sued over INDXcoin, Eli wondered, “Did I just make this up? Am I crazy?” But he and Kaitlyn concluded that the divine signs they’d received were unmistakable. They believe that INDXcoin will eventually gain traction among world leaders losing faith in the US dollar. “We are privately making preparations,” Eli told me.

“God already saw this coming,” he assured viewers during the November video update. “He’s looking at us and saying, ‘Are you willing to believe me no matter what you see?’”

After the call ended, Eli began leafing through his journals and reading sections aloud. Since our first conversation months earlier, the Regalados had been remarkably amenable reporting subjects. They told me that their criminal defense attorneys had advised them against talking to reporters, but they sat for more than a dozen interviews with me. They provided access to INDXcoin’s private forum and supplied emails, photos, and spreadsheets—even though some documents don’t paint their decision-making in a favorable light. Once, Eli emailed to “come clean” that an anecdote he’d told had been slightly embellished. He apologized and assured me, “Everything else I have said is 100% in line with no stretches or exaggeration.” 

The Regalados told me they trusted me in part because God had signed off: Not long after I’d first contacted them, they’d walked into a room with a TV playing Family Feud, and the answer displayed on the screen was “MIT.” Their approach highlighted how they had won over buyers so effectively: They were likable, shared vulnerable details, and telegraphed transparency.  

Still, the Regalados didn’t appear to be feeding me an act they’d just cooked up. Instead, they seemed fully committed to their own narrative: one that paints them as righteous underdogs fulfilling a holy mission, no matter the cost. To let their faith waver would mean that everything they had lost—friends, their home, their reputations—had been in vain. It would mean admitting that they had failed. It would mean that no one was coming to save them. 

Even ending up in prison wouldn’t persuade the Regalados that they’d misheard God. “He’s going to deliver you from everything, so you won’t be there forever,” Kaitlyn says, “and it might just be part of the story.”

During my visit, the Regalados agreed to show me an earlier chapter. We piled into their Ford Raptor truck, their kids in the back, and drove 20 minutes north to a quiet cul-de-sac in a leafy residential neighborhood. 

We slowed near a hulking structure of rotting wooden boards. Red and brown weeds engulfed the lot and threatened to swallow the sidewalk. Out front, a tattered mattress was slumped on its side. Neighbors had sighted squatters and, as winter approached, feared fires. The Regalados still owed their contractor nearly $110,000 for work completed. 

MATT NAGER

I asked whether we could get out, but Eli and Kaitlyn didn’t want to run into anyone. “I just don’t want to have a conversation of like, ‘When are you gonna cut your grass?’” Eli said. (The city had sent them violation notices the previous year for not maintaining the property.)

As we drove away, I asked how it felt to see the ghost of their dream home. 

“It used to hurt,” Kaitlyn said. 

“Here’s this unfulfilled promise,” Eli added.

But it didn’t bother them anymore. 

“If we lose the house,” Kaitlyn said, “that means we’re getting something way bigger and way better.” 

They made a U-turn at the end of the street and, seat belts unbuckled, rounded the corner without looking back.

Katia Savchuk is an independent journalist based in the San Francisco Bay Area. Her work has appeared in the New Yorker, Forbes, Mother Jones, and many other publications.

After operating in secrecy for years, a startup company called R3 Bio, in Richmond, California, suddenly shared details about its work last week—saying it had raised money to create nonsentient monkey “organ sacks” as an alternative to animal testing.

In an interview with Wired, R3 listed three investors: billionaire Tim Draper, the Singapore-based fund Immortal Dragons, and life-extension investors LongGame Ventures.

But there is more to the story. And R3 doesn’t want that story told.

MIT Technology Review discovered that the stealth startup’s founder John Schloendorn also pitched a startling, medically graphic, and ethically charged vision for what he’s called “brainless clones” to serve the role of backup human bodies.

Imagine it like this: a baby version of yourself with only enough of a brain structure to be alive in case you ever need a new kidney or liver.

Or, alternatively, he has speculated, you might one day get your brain placed into a younger clone. That could be a way to gain a second lifespan through a still hypothetical procedure known as a body transplant.

The fuller context of R3’s proposals, as well as activities of another stealth startup with related goals, have not previously been reported. They’ve been kept secret by a circle of extreme life-extension proponents who fear that their plans for immortality could be derailed by clickbait headlines and public backlash.

And that’s because the idea can sound like something straight from a creepy science fiction film. One person who heard R3’s clone presentation, and spoke on the condition of anonymity, was left reeling by its implications and shaken by Schloendorn’s enthusiastic delivery. The briefing, this person said, was like a “close encounter of the third kind” with “Dr. Strangelove.”

A key inspiration for Schloendorn is a birth defect in which children are born missing most of their cortical hemispheres; he’s shown people medical scans of these kids’ nearly empty skulls as evidence that a body can live without much of a brain. 

And he’s talked about how to grow a clone. Since artificial wombs don’t exist yet, brainless bodies can’t be grown in a lab. So he’s said the first batch of brainless clones would have to be carried by women paid to do the job. In the future, though, one brainless clone could give birth to another.

Last Monday, the same day it announced itself to the world in Wired, R3 sent us a sweeping disavowal of our findings. It said Schloendorn “never made any statement regarding hypothetical ‘non-sentient human clones’ [that] would be carried by surrogates.” The most overarching of these challenges was its insistence that “any allegations of intent or conspiracy to create human clones or humans with brain damage are categorically false.”

But even Schloendorn and his cofounder, Alice Gilman, can’t seem to keep away from the topic. Just last September, the pair presented at Abundance Longevity, a $70,000-per-ticket event in Boston organized by the anti-aging promoter Peter Diamandis. Although the presentation to about 40 people was not recorded and was meant to be confidential, a copy of the agenda for the event shows that Schloendorn was there to outline his “final bid to defeat aging” in a session called “Full Body Replacement.”

According to a person who was there, both animal research and personal clones for spare organs were discussed. During the presentation, Gilman and Schloendorn even stood in front of an image of a cloning needle. Pressed on whether this was a talk about brainless clones, Gilman told us that while R3’s current business is replacing animal models, “the team reserves the right to hold hypothetical futuristic discussions.”

MIT Technology Review found no evidence that R3 has cloned anyone, or even any animal bigger than a rodent. What we did find were documents, additional meeting agendas, and other sources outlining a technical road map for what R3 called “body replacement cloning” in a 2023 letter to supporters. That road map involved improvements to the cloning process and genetic wiring diagrams for how to create animals without complete brains. 

DIMITRI AGAMANOLIS, M.D. VIA WIKIPEDIA

A main purpose of the fundraising, investors say, was to support efforts to try these techniques in monkeys from a base in the Caribbean. That offered a path to a nearer-term business plan for more ethical medical experiments and toxicology testing—if the company could develop what it now calls monkey “organ sacks.” However, this work would clearly inform any possible human version. 

Though he holds a PhD, Schloendorn is a biotech outsider who has published little and is best known for having once outfitted a DIY lab in his Bay Area garage. Still, his ties to the experimental fringe of longevity science have earned him a network in Silicon Valley and allies at a risk-taking US health innovation agency, ARPA-H. Together with his success at raising money from investors, this signals that the brainless-clone concept should be taken seriously by a wider community of scientists, doctors, and ethicists, some of whom expressed grave concerns. 

“It sounds crazy, in my opinion,” said Jose Cibelli, a researcher at Michigan State University, after MIT Technology Review described R3’s brainless-clone idea to him. “How do you demonstrate safety? What is safety when you’re trying to create an abnormal human?”

Twenty-five years ago, Cibelli was among the first scientists to try to clone human embryos, but he was trying to obtain matched stem cells, not make a baby. “There is no limit to human imagination and ways to make money, but there have to be boundaries,” he says. “And this is the boundary of making a human being who is not a human being.” 

“Feasibility research”

Since Dolly the sheep was born in 1996, researchers have cloned dogs, cats, camels, horses, cattle, ferrets, and other species of mammal. Injecting a cell from an existing animal into an egg creates a carbon-copy embryo that can develop, although not always without problems. Defects, deformities, and stillbirths remain common. 

Those grave risks are why we’ve never heard of a human clone, even though it’s theoretically possible to create one. 

But brainless clones flip the script. That’s because the ultimate aim is to create not a healthy person but an unconscious body that would probably need life support, like a feeding tube, to stay alive. Because this body would share the DNA of the person being copied, its organs would be a near-perfect immunological match. 

Backers of this broad concept argue that a nonsentient body would be ethically acceptable to harvest organs from. Some also believe that swapping in fresh, young body parts—known as “replacement”—is the likeliest path to life extension, since so far no drug can reverse aging. 

And then there’s the idea of a complete body transplant. “Certainly, for the cryonics patients, that sounds like something really promising,” says Anders Sandberg, a prominent Swedish transhumanist and expert in the ethics of future technologies. He notes that many people who opt to be stored in cryonic chambers after death choose the less expensive “head only” option, so “there might be a market for having an extra cloned body.”

MIT Technology Review first approached Schloendorn two years ago after learning he’d led a confidential online seminar called the Body Replacement Mini Conference, in which he presented “recent lab progress towards making replacement bodies.” 

According to a copy of the agenda, that 2023 session also included a presentation by a cloning expert, Young Gie Chung. And there was another from Jean Hébert, who was then a professor at the Albert Einstein College of Medicine and is now a program manager at ARPA-H, where he oversees a project to use stem cells to restore damaged brain tissue. Hébert popularized the so-called replacement solution to avoiding death in a 2020 book called Replacing Aging. 

In an interview prior to joining the government in 2024, Hébert described an informal but “very collaborative” relationship with Schloendorn. The overall idea was that to stop aging, one of them would determine how to repair a brain, while the other would figure out how to create a body without one. “It’s a perfect match, right? Body, brain,” Hébert told MIT Technology Review at the time. 

Schloendorn, by working outside the mainstream, had the huge advantage of “not being bound by getting the next paper out, or the next grant,” Hébert said, adding, “It’s such a wonderful way of doing research. It’s just clean and pure.” R3 now appears on the ARPA-H website on a list of prospective partners for Hébert’s program.

In a LinkedIn message exchanged with Schloendorn that same year, he described his work as “feasibility research in body replacement.”

“We will try to do it in a way that produces defined societal benefits early on, and we need to be prepared to take no for an answer, if it turns out that this cannot be done safely,” Schloendorn wrote at the time. He declined an interview then, saying that before exiting stealth mode, he wants to be sure the benefits are “reasonably grounded in reality.”

That could prove challenging. While body-part replacement sounds logical, like swapping the timing belt on an old car, in reality there’s scant evidence that receiving organs from a younger twin would make you live any longer. 

A complete body transplant, meanwhile, would probably be fatal, at least with current techniques. In the latest test of the concept, published last July, Russian surgeons removed a pig’s head and then sewed it back on. The animal did live—breathing weakly and lapping water from a syringe. But because its spinal cord had been cut, it was otherwise totally paralyzed. (As yet, there’s no proven method to rejoin a severed spinal cord.) In an act of mercy, the doctors ended the pig’s life after about 12 hours. 

Even some of R3’s investors say the endeavor is a risky, low-odds project, on par with colonizing Mars. Boyang Wang, head of Immortal Dragons, has spoken at longevity conferences about body-swapping technology, referring to the chance that “when the time comes, you can transplant your brain into a new body.” Wang confirmed in a January Zoom call that he’d been referring to R3 and that he invested $500,000 in the company during a 2024 fundraising round.

But since making his investment, Wang says, he’s become less bullish. He now views whole-body transplant as “very infeasible, not even very scientific” and “far away from hope for any realistic application.” 

Still, he says, the investment in R3 fits with his philosophy of making unorthodox bets that could be breakthroughs against aging. “What can really move the needle?” he asks. “Because time is running out.”

Stealth mode

Clonal bodies sit at the extreme frontier of an advancing cluster of technologies all aimed at growing spare parts. Researchers are exploring stem cells, synthetic embryos, and blob-like organoids, and some companies are cloning genetically engineered pigs whose kidneys and hearts have already been transplanted into a few patients. Each of these methods seeks to harness development—the process by which animal bodies naturally form in the womb—to grow fully functional organs. 

There’s even a growing cadre of mainstream scientists who say nonsentient bodies could solve the organ shortage, if they could be grown through artificial means. Two Stanford University professors, calling these structures “bodyoids,” published an editorial in favor of manufacturing spare human bodies in MIT Technology Review last year. While that editorial left many details to the imagination, they called the idea “at least plausible—and possibly revolutionary.” 

“There are a lot of variations on this where they’re trying to find a socially acceptable form,” says George Church, a Harvard University professor who advises startups in the field. But Church says gestating an entire body is probably taking things too far, especially since nearly all patients on transplant lists are waiting for just a single organ, like a heart or kidney. 

“There’s almost no scenario where you need a whole body,” he says. “I just think even if it’s someday acceptable, it’s not a good place to start.” For the moment, Church says, brainless human bodies are “not very useful, in addition to being repulsive.”

That’s arguably why body replacement technology still feels risky to talk about, even among life-extension enthusiasts who are otherwise ready to inject Chinese peptides or have their bodies cryogenically frozen. “I think it’s exciting or interesting from a scientific perspective, but I think the world is not fully ready for it yet,” says Emil Kendziorra, CEO of Tomorrow Bio, a company in Berlin that stores bodies at -196 °C in the hope they can be restored to life in the future. 

“Everybody’s like, yeah, you know, cryopreservation makes total sense,” he says. “And then you talk about total body replacement. And then everybody’s like, Whoa, whoa, whoa.”

Even so, “replacement” technology has found a fervent base of support among a group of self-described “hardcore” longevity adherents who follow a philosophy called Vitalism, which holds that society should redirect resources toward achieving unlimited lifespans. The growing influence of this movement, achieved through lobbying, investment, recruiting, and public messaging, was detailed earlier this year in MIT Technology Review.

Last spring, during a meetup for this community, Kendziorra was among the attendees at an invite-only “Replacement Day” gathering that took place off the public schedule. It was where more radical ideas could be discussed freely, since to some in the Vitalist circle, replacing body parts has emerged as the most plausible, least expensive way to beat death. 

At least that was the conclusion of a road map for anti-aging technology produced by one Vitalist group, the Longevity Biotech Fellowship, which reckoned that a proof-of-concept human clone lacking a neocortex would cost $40 million to create—a tiny amount, relatively speaking. 

Its report cited the existence of two stealth companies working on cloning whole nonsentient bodies, although it took care not to name them. If these companies’ activities become public, “there will be a huge backlash—people will hate it,” the entrepreneur Kris Borer said while presenting the road map at a French resort last August. 

“There are a ton of dystopian movies and novels about this kind of stuff. That is why I didn’t talk about any of the companies working on it. They are trying to hide from public attention,” he said. “We have to have the angel investors and other people invest kind of in secret until things are ready.” 

Borer did say what he sees as the best way to go public: first, to slowly ease body replacement into society’s awareness by disclosing more limited aims, which will be palatable. “We are not going to start with Let’s clone you and give you a body. We are going to start with Let’s solve the organ shortage,” he said. “Eventually people will warm up to it, and then we can go to the more hardcore stuff.”

In an interview earlier this month, Borer declined to name the companies involved in his immortality road map, or to say if R3 is one of them. But we did identify one additional stealthy startup, this one focused on replacing a person’s internal organs, not the whole body. Called Kind Biotechnology, it is a New Hampshire–based company headed by the anti-aging researcher Justin Rebo, a sometime collaborator of Schloendorn’s.

WO2025260099 VIA WIPO

According to patent applications filed by the company, Rebo’s team is working to create animals with a “complete lack of ability to feel, think, or sense the environment.” Images included in the patents show mice the company produced that lack a complete brain, and others that don’t have faces or limbs. They did that by deleting genes in embryos using the gene-editing technology CRISPR with the goal of creating a “sack of organs that grows mostly on its own,” with only a minimal nervous system. A cartoon rendering submitted to the patent office shows what looks like a fleshy duffel bag connected to life support tubes. 

In an email, Rebo said his company is working on an “ethical and scalable” way to create animal organs for experimental transplant to humans. He notes that “thousands die while waiting” for an organ. 

Some of Kind’s patent applications do cover the possibility of producing these organ sacks from human cells. Rebo says that’s more of a speculative possibility. But he does see his work as part of the “replacement” approach to longevity. Firstly, that’s because a “scalable production of young, high-quality organs” would let surgeons try transplants in more types of patients, including many with heart disease in old age who aren’t candidates for a transplant now. 

“With abundant high-quality organs, replacement could become a direct form of rejuvenation by replacement of failing parts,” he says. 

And Rebo imagines that simultaneously replacing multiple internal organs (grown together in the sack) could have even broader rejuvenating effects. “Ultimately, replacing failing parts is a direct path to extending healthy human lifespan,” he says. 

Church, who agreed earlier this year to advise Kind Bio, sees this work as part of an effort to “nudge” these technologies “toward something that is more useful and more acceptable from the get-go,” he says. “And then let’s see how society responds to that—rather than jumping to the most repulsive and most useless form, which some of them seem to be aiming for.” 

“There’s one way to find out”

People who know Schloendorn describe a dynamo-like presence who is “100% dedicated” to the goal of extreme life extension. In 2006, he penned a paper in a bioethics journal outlining why the “desire to live forever” is rational, and his doctoral research at the University of Arizona was sponsored by a longevity research organization called the SENS Foundation.  

He’s also well connected. In an interview, Aubrey de Grey, the influential and controversial fundraiser and prognosticator who cofounded SENS, called Schloendorn “one of my protégés.” And around 2010, Peter Thiel reportedly invested $1.5 million in ImmunePath, a company started by Schloendorn to develop stem-cell treatments, though it soon failed. (A representative for Thiel did not respond to a request to confirm the figure.)

By 2021, Schloendorn had moved on, founding R3 Biotechnologies. He began to circulate the body replacement idea and discuss a step-by-step scheme to get there: assess techniques in the lab first, then in monkeys, and maybe eventually in humans. 

A 2023 “letter to stakeholders” signed by Schloendorn begins by saying that “body replacement cloning will require multicomponent genetic engineering on a scale that has never been attempted in primates.” Fortunately, it adds, molecular techniques for “brain knockout” are well known in mice and should also be expected to function in “birthing whole primates,” a class that includes both monkeys and humans. 

Would it work? “There’s one way to find out,” the letter says. 

Wang, the investor at Immortal Dragons, says he put money into R3 after it showed him it is possible to create mice without complete brains. “There were imperfections, but the resulting mice survived, grew up, and to me, that is a pretty strong experiment,” he says; it was evidence enough for him to fund R3’s attempt to “replicate the result in primates.” 

(In its emailed statement, R3 said the company and its founders “never produced any degree of brain alterations in any species, did not attempt to do so, did not hire another party to do so, and have no specific plans to do so in the future.” It added: “We do not work with live non-human primates.”) 

The bigger technical obstacle, though, remains the cloning. Out of 100 attempts to clone an animal, only a few typically succeed. That fact alone makes cloning a human—or a monkey—almost infeasible.

But R3 does seem to have made an effort to tackle the efficiency problem. In one document reviewed by MIT Technology Review, it claims to have implemented improvements to the basic procedure in rodents, referencing a protein, called a histone demethylase, that helps erase a cell’s genetic memory. Adding it can greatly increase the chance that the cell will form a cloned embryo after being injected into an egg in the lab.

Those molecules were used in the first successful cloning of a monkey, which occurred in 2018 in China. But it still wasn’t easy—in fact, it was a huge and costly effort to handle a crowd of monkeys in estrus and perform IVF on them. According to Michigan State’s Cibelli, monkey cloning remains nearly impossible, at least on US territory, just because it’s “unaffordable.”

Nevertheless, success in monkeys did help prove, at least biologically, that human reproductive cloning could be possible. 

The company may also have tried to tackle a second long-standing obstacle to cloning: defects in how the placenta works. Because of such problems, some cloned animals die quickly after birth.

The R3 document refers to a “birthing fix” it developed to further improve the cloning success rate. While MIT Technology Review didn’t learn what R3’s process entails, we found a reference to it on the LinkedIn page of Maitriyee Mahanta, a scientist who cosigned the 2023 letter to R3 stakeholders and is a former research assistant to Hébert. (We were unable to reach Mahanta for comment.)

Her page described her current role as “molecular lead” studying cloning, “birth rate fixing,” and cortical development using cells from nonhuman primates. Her job affiliation is given as the Longevity Escape Velocity Foundation, a nonprofit where de Grey is the president and chief science officer. But de Grey says his foundation only arranged a work visa for Mahanta as part of a partnership “with the company she actually spends her time at.”

Like several other people interviewed for this article, de Grey made a resourceful effort to avoid directly confirming the existence of R3 when we spoke, while at the same time freely discussing theoretical aspects of body cloning technology. For instance, he talked about ways to shorten the wait for your double to grow up to a size suitable for organ harvesting; a further genetic mutation could be added to cause “central precocious puberty” in the clone, he said. This condition causes a growth spurt, even pubic hair, in a toddler. 

Cloning dictators

Who would clone a body and pay to keep it alive for years, until it’s needed? The first customers for this costly technology (if it ever proves feasible) would likely be the ultra-rich or the ultra-powerful. 

Indeed, somehow the world’s top dictators seem to have gotten the memo about replacement parts. In September, a hot mic picked up a conversation between Russian president Vladimir Putin and Chinese leader Xi Jinping as they walked through Beijing with North Korean autocrat Kim Jong Un; in the exchange, the Russian speculated on life extension.  

“Biotechnology is continuously developing. Human organs can be continuously transplanted. The longer you live, the younger you become, and [you can] even achieve immortality,” Putin said through an interpreter.

“Some predict that in this century, humans will live to 150 years old,” Xi responded agreeably.

How the leaders learned of these possibilities is unknown. But scenarios involving dictators are a constant topic among body replacement enthusiasts. 

“There are companies working on this. They are in stealth—we can’t reveal too much about them—but the general concept on this is if you didn’t have any ethical qualms, you could do most of it today,” Will Harborne, the chief investment officer of LongGame Advisors, said last year, during an interview with the podcaster Julian Issa. “If you were the dictator of some country and wanted a clone of yourself, you can already go grow one. You can create a cloned embryo of yourself, you can get a surrogate to carry it to term, and you can grow [a] body until age 18 with a brain, and eventually, if you were a dictator, you could kill them and try to transplant your head on their body.”

“And now no one is suggesting you do that—it’s very unethical—but most of the technology is there,” he said. He noted that the reason for removing the cortex of a clone created for such a purpose is that “we don’t want to kill other people to live forever.” 

Harborne subsequently confirmed to MIT Technology Review that the fund invested $1 million in R3 about a year and a half ago.

In order to make the body replacement process ethical, the clone’s brain needs to be stunted so it lacks consciousness. That is where the interest in birth defects comes in. Remarkable medical scans of kids with a rare condition, hydranencephaly, show a total absence of the cerebral hemispheres. Yet if they are cared for, they may be able to live into their 20s, even though they cannot speak or engage in purposeful movement. 

The technical question, then, is how to intentionally produce such a condition in a clone. Sandberg, the futurist, says he’s visited R3’s lab, talked to Gilman, and sat through a presentation about how genetic engineering can be used to shape brain growth. Previous work has shown that by adding a toxic gene, it is possible to kill specific cell types in a growing embryo but spare others, leading to a mouse without a neocortex.

While Sandberg isn’t an expert in biotechnology, he says R3’s theory looked sensible to him. “I think it’s possible to actually prevent the development of the brain well enough that you can say ‘Yeah, there is almost certainly no consciousness here,’” Sandberg says. “Hence, there can’t be any suffering, or any individual, in a practical sense.”

“I think the overall aim—actually, it looks ethically pretty good,” he says. 

QIANG SUN AND MU-MING POO/CHINESE ACADEMY OF SCIENCES VIA AP

Yet it could be difficult to really determine where consciousness starts and ends. Under current medical standards, taking the organs of people with hydranencephaly isn’t allowed because they don’t meet the standard of brain death: They have a functioning brain stem. An even more serious problem is evidence that the brain stem alone produces a basic form of consciousness. If that is so, says Bjorn Merker, a neuroscientist who surveyed caretakers of more than a hundred children with hydranencephaly, a plan “to harvest organs from organisms modeled on this condition would be unethical.”

Of course, the most extreme version of the replacement dream isn’t just to take organs. It’s to take over the body entirely. Sergio Canavero, a controversial Italian surgeon who has proposed head and brain transplants, says he was approached for advice by Schloendorn and others a few years ago. “They told me they were looking at a head transplant on a two- or three-year-old,” he says. “I stopped short. How could you even conceive of that? The biomechanical compatibility is not there. You have to wait until at least 14. And I would say 16. It was very clear to me these guys are not surgeons—they are biologists.” 

Canavero says he’s not opposed to cloning bodies for transplant—he thinks it could work. “But if you want to use a clone,” he says, “it must be a nonsentient clone. Otherwise it’s murder, a homicide.”    

MIT Technology Review has not found any evidence that R3 has yet created an “organ sack,” much less a brainless human clone. And there are many reasons to believe their hypothetical future of “full body replacement” will never come to pass—that it is just a live-forever fantasy.

“There are so many barriers,” says Cibelli. It’s a long list: Human cloning is illegal in many countries, it’s unsafe, and few competent experts would want, or dare, to participate. And then there’s the inconvenient fact that for now, there’s no way to grow a brainless clone to birth, except in a woman’s body. Think about it, Cibelli says: “You’d have to convince a woman to carry a fetus that is going to be abnormal.”

Sandberg agrees that is where things could start to get tricky. “The problem here, of course,” he says, “is that the yuck factor is magnificent.”