My Secret TikTok Life: Family Disgrace to Global Kingmaker

Chapter 15: The Modeling Gaffe

The world had changed by four points.

That was the only way I could describe it. Since waking up on that park bench and seeing the 500,000 views, the air felt less like a physical weight on my shoulders. My Influence Level sat at -45. I was still a "Ghost," but I was no longer a "Pariah." When I walked past a hot dog vendor this morning, he didn't look through me with the vacant stare of a man avoiding a corpse; he gave me a curt, suspicious nod.

It wasn't respect, but it was acknowledgment. I existed again.

My stomach, however, didn't care about digital metrics. It was a screaming, acidic pit. I had found a discarded, half-full bottle of orange juice in a trash can near the library—a "find" that would have made the old Salim vomit, but which the new Salim consumed with the mechanical efficiency of a machine taking on fuel.

I needed to find Elara. But more importantly, I needed a location for the follow-up. The first video was the "Incident." The second video had to be the "Identity."

Guided by the Viral Foresight, I followed a golden thread of light toward the Meatpacking District. The System was highlighting a specific alleyway—one with rusted fire escapes and a brick wall covered in faded, layered street art. It was the perfect visual metaphor for Elara: raw, resilient, and beautiful despite the decay.

[Location Analysis: High Aesthetic Resonance.] [Potential Viral Multiplier: 2.5x.]

As I rounded the corner of 14th Street, the quiet, gritty atmosphere I was expecting was shattered by the rhythmic thump-thump-thump of heavy bass and the blinding glare of industrial-grade reflectors.

Large black Mercedes vans lined the curb. Cables thick as pythons snaked across the sidewalk, taped down with professional precision. A crew of at least fifty people—gaffers, stylists, and security guards with earpieces—swarmed around a cordoned-off section of the cobblestone street.

I stopped, my heart sinking. The golden thread of the System didn't end at the alley. It pointed directly into the center of the production.

I leaned against a brick wall, keeping my distance. I raised my phone, the screen flickering on its last 3% of battery. Through the camera lens, the System tagged the equipment.

Arri Alexa 35 Camera System. $80,000. K5600 Lighting Rig. $15,000. And then, the "Target" tag appeared, glowing a sickening, oily purple.

[Entity Detected: Marcus Bakar.] [Status: Peak Arrogance.]

Marcus was standing in the center of the street, draped in a cream-colored linen suit that probably cost more than a mid-sized sedan. He was holding a flute of champagne, laughing with a blonde model who was shivering in a silk slip dress. Behind them, a massive velvet banner was being unfurled against the rusted brick wall I had intended to use for Elara.

It read: BAKAR LUXURY SUITES: THE HEIGHT OF EXCLUSIVITY.

They were filming a commercial. My father’s latest vanity project—a high-end residential tower that was essentially a vertical cage for the world's wealthiest 1%.

"Alright, people! From the top!" a director screamed into a megaphone. "Marcus, give me the 'Legacy' look. You're the prince of the city. Everything you see, you own!"

Marcus adjusted his cuffs, his face settling into that practiced, bored expression of superiority that I had seen in our family portraits for twenty years. He looked perfect. He looked clean. He looked like he had never known a day of hunger in his life.

I felt a surge of pure, freezing spite. The Heart of Ice hummed, turning the heat of my anger into a sharp, focused chill. I looked down at my own clothes. My hoodie was stained with salt and grease. My jeans were torn at the knee from when I’d been thrown out of the library. And the neon green shoes... they were a vibrant, glowing neon sign of my failure.

I should have turned around. I should have walked away before they saw me. But the System gave a sharp, crystalline ping.

[Scenario Detected: The Gaffe.] [Opportunity: Contrast the 'Fake' with the 'Real.']

I moved closer, hugging the shadows of the catering tent. I held up my phone, my fingers trembling slightly. I wasn't recording Marcus. I was recording the waste. I filmed the three crates of untouched lobster tails on the catering table. I filmed the stylist using a lint roller on a suit that cost thirty thousand dollars while a homeless man sat two feet away on the other side of the security tape, ignored by everyone.

"Cut! Cut!" the director yelled. "The lighting is off. Marcus, your shadow is hitting the logo. Someone fix the bounce!"

Marcus sighed, an exaggerated sound of annoyance. He began to pace the cobblestones, his eyes wandering toward the edges of the set, looking for someone to blame for the delay.

I tried to pull back, to slip behind a stack of equipment cases, but a gust of wind caught the flap of the catering tent, swinging it wide. The mid-morning sun hit the neon green of my shoes. They practically hummed with color against the grey pavement.

Marcus stopped. His eyes tracked the color. Then they traveled up. Past my grime-streaked jeans. Past my hollowed-out chest and my bruised jaw.

His eyes locked onto mine.

For a second, the entire set went silent. The bass music from the speakers seemed to fade into a dull hum. Marcus didn't look angry. He didn't look shocked.

He looked delighted.

"No... way," Marcus whispered, a slow, predatory grin spreading across his face.

He didn't just walk toward me; he strolled, projecting his voice so that every crew member, every model, and every passing pedestrian could hear him. He raised his champagne flute in a mock toast.

"Director! Stop the lights!" Marcus shouted, his voice echoing off the high-rise buildings. "We have a guest! A very... special... guest."

The crew turned. Fifty pairs of eyes landed on me. The blonde model giggled, whispering something to the stylist next to her. The director looked annoyed, but he didn't stop Marcus. No one stopped a Bakar.

Marcus stopped three feet from me, the smell of his expensive cologne—the same one I used to wear—hitting me like a physical blow. He looked me up and down, his eyes lingering on the split in my lip and the dirt under my fingernails.

"Look at you," Marcus said, his voice dripping with a sickly sweet pity. "I thought I smelled something foul over by the lobster. I should have known it was just my darling brother."

"I'm just passing through, Marcus," I said, my voice sounding like gravel.

"Passing through? Oh, Salim. You’re doing much more than that. You’re providing a public service," Marcus laughed, turning back to the crew. "Hey, everyone! This is the guy who thought he could manage the Bakar legacy! Look at him now! He’s the new face of our 'Exclusivity' campaign—as in, he’s excluded from everything!"

The crew erupted into a chorus of sycophantic laughter. A cameraman leaned in, pointed a sixty-thousand-dollar lens at my face, and zoomed in on my bruised jaw.

"The shoes really make the outfit, Salim," Marcus continued, pointing his flute at my feet. "What are those? 'Homeless Chic'? Did you find them in a dumpster, or did you have to fight a stray dog for them?"

He stepped closer, his voice dropping to a low, vicious hiss that only I could hear.

"I saw that little video you posted, Salim. The subway girl. Very cute. A nice little hobby for a beggar. But you forgot one thing: in this city, nobody cares about the dirt. They only care about the gold. And I have all of it."

He straightened up, his face breaking into a wide, theatrical smile for the cameras.

"Give him a hand, everyone! It’s not every day you get to see a prince turn into a peasant in real-time!"

I stood there, frozen in the glare of the production lights. I was a "Gaffe." I was a punchline. I was the "beggar" brother, caught in the headlights of a multi-million dollar lie. My Influence Level flickered, the -45 dropping toward -50 as the collective mockery of the crowd began to sap my resolve.

But behind the cracked screen of my phone, the System was doing something different. It wasn't showing me my failure. It was showing me a "Sync Rate" that was climbing toward 100%.

[Condition Met: Maximum Public Humiliation.] [Skill 'Algorithm Sabotage' - Ready for Activation.]

Marcus laughed one last time, turned his back on me, and walked back toward his throne.

"Alright, get this trash off my set!" he yelled to the security guards. "We have a legacy to film!"