My Secret TikTok Life: Family Disgrace to Global Kingmaker

Chapter 12: The Editing Room (The Library)

The steps of the Central Library were made of cold, uncompromising granite. I sat on the edge of the highest tier, huddled in the shadow of a stone lion, waiting for the clock to hit 9:00 AM. The morning air was damp and biting, but the rain had finally stopped, leaving the city draped in a grey, metallic light.

I was shaking. It wasn't just the cold; it was the biological bill of the last thirty-six hours coming due. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw phantom images of the Bakar gala—the marbled steaks, the towers of champagne, the casual waste of a thousand-dollar appetizer. My stomach didn't even growl anymore; it had moved past sound into a deep, hollow ache that felt like a physical void in my center.

[Physical Integrity: 12%] [Warning: Sync Stability Dropping. Immediate Glucose Intake Recommended.]

"Shut up," I whispered to the screen. "Just stay on."

When the massive bronze doors finally groaned open, I was the first in line. I tried to smooth my hair and pull my hood up to hide the dried blood on my lip, but I knew I looked like a nightmare. My white dress shirt was a wrinkled, grey rag beneath my hoodie, and the neon green shoes were caked in subway grime.

"Hold on there," a voice barked.

I stopped. A librarian with sharp, cat-eye glasses and a name tag that read Mrs. Gable stood behind the security desk, her nose wrinkling in immediate distaste. She looked at me the way my father looked at a bad quarterly report.

"This is a place of study, not a shelter," she said, her voice loud enough to make the other early-morning patrons turn their heads. "We have a policy about hygiene and... presentation."

I felt the familiar heat of shame prickle my skin, but the Heart of Ice surged, cooling the blood before it could reach my face. I looked her in the eye. I didn't beg. I didn't look down. I used the "Bakar Stare"—that look of absolute, unearned confidence I had watched my father use on mayors and senators.

"I am here to use the digital archives for a media project," I said, my voice low and steady despite my dry throat. "I’ve had a long night of field recording. Is there a rule against being tired, or is this library only for people who look like they’ve just stepped out of a salon?"

She hesitated. The "Pariah" debuff made her want to throw me out, but the residual authority in my voice confused her. She looked at my cracked phone, then at my face.

"Computers are in the back," she muttered, pointing a stiff finger. "Two-hour limit. If you fall asleep at the desk, I’m calling security."

"Understood," I said.

I walked toward the back of the library, the scent of old paper and floor wax acting as a temporary balm. I found a terminal in a corner, shielded by a tall bookshelf. I didn't use the library’s computer—the hardware was too slow. I just needed the Wi-Fi.

I sat down, pulled the cheap, five-dollar tripod from my bag, and mounted my phone. As soon as the device connected to the network, the System interface flared to life, more vibrant than I had ever seen it.

[Network Detected: High-Speed Fiber.] [System-Integrated Editor: Initializing...] [Note: Using 100% of User’s remaining 'Creative Focus' for Render Optimization.]

The screen split. On one side was the raw footage of Elara—her singing, the bullies' arrival, the moment Jaximus struck me. On the other side was a stream of metadata: Human Sympathy Index, Rage-Bait Probability, Sonic Resonance.

I began to cut.

I didn't need a mouse or a keyboard. My fingers danced over the cracked glass, guided by the Viral Foresight. The System showed me the "Pulse" of the video. It told me where to slow down the frame to capture the exact moment the light hit the birthmark on Elara’s face. It told me where to mute the subway noise so her voice sounded like a haunting whisper in the viewer's ear.

This isn't a video, I realized. It’s an emotional heist.

I was halfway through the edit when my vision flickered. I reached for the desk to steady myself, my head spinning. To distract myself from the nausea, I swiped a thumb across the "Global Trends" tab.

And there he was.

A "Recommended for You" post sat at the top of the feed. It was Marcus.

The photo was high-resolution, perfectly lit, and dripping with the kind of casual arrogance that only the Bakars could manage. He was sitting at an outdoor table at L’Oiseau, the city’s most exclusive breakfast spot. In front of him was a plate of Wagyu steak and eggs, garnished with shaved truffles. A glass of fresh-squeezed blood orange juice sat sweatily in the sun.

The caption read: “The only way to start a Tuesday. Pruning the garden was hard work, but the view is better without the weeds. #BakarLegacy #BreakfastOfChampions #SuccessIsClean”

I stared at the steak. I could almost taste the salt, the fat, the richness of it. Marcus looked tan, rested, and victorious. He had taken my car, my watch, and my home, and now he was eating my share of the inheritance while I sat in a library corner with twelve percent physical integrity.

Weeds. That’s what he called me.

I looked back at the footage of Elara. She was singing about the people the city had broken. She was singing for the "weeds."

A cold, dark fire ignited in the pit of my empty stomach. It wasn't hunger anymore; it was a pure, concentrated 'spite' that the Heart of Ice refined into a weapon.

"You want to talk about the view, Marcus?" I whispered, my fingers flying across the screen.

I didn't just edit the video for Elara anymore. I began to weave in a secondary layer. I used the System to pull the public data of Marcus’s post—the geo-tag, the timestamp—and I embedded a "Contrast Filter" into the metadata.

I made Elara’s video feel like the antidote to Marcus’s steak. I timed the "drop" of her chorus to hit at the exact frequency that would trigger a psychological "rejection" of luxury content. I was building a viral masterpiece that would act like a virus, specifically targeted at the world the Bakars lived in.

[Warning: Creative Focus at 100%.] [User Condition: Fainting Imminent.] [Final Render: Ready for Upload.]

I looked at Marcus’s smiling face on the screen one last time. He thought he was the champion. He thought the game was over because he had the steak and I had the sidewalk.

"Enjoy your breakfast, brother," I rasped, my thumb hovering over the 'Publish' button. "It’s the last peaceful meal you’re going to have for a long, long time."

I hit the button.

[Uploading... 1%... 12%...]

My head hit the library desk before the bar reached twenty.