My Secret TikTok Life: Family Disgrace to Global Kingmaker

Chapter 16: The Humiliation Tax

The laughter of the film crew felt like a physical assault, a wave of noise that echoed off the polished glass of the Meatpacking District’s boutiques. I stood at the edge of the set, my feet burning in those neon green shoes, the glare of the industrial reflectors making my eyes water. Marcus was halfway back to his director’s chair, but he stopped, a sudden, "generous" thought seemingly crossing his mind.

"Wait, wait," Marcus called out, turning back with a flourish. "I'm being rude. I forgot that the Bakar family is known for its philanthropy."

He reached into the pocket of his cream-colored trousers and pulled out a designer wallet. With two fingers, he extracted a crisp, twenty-dollar bill. He held it up, letting the morning sun catch the green ink. The crew went silent, sensing another performance.

"You look like you haven't eaten since the day you were born, Salim," Marcus said, his voice carrying that practiced, melodic lilt of the upper class. "And honestly, having a brother who looks like a walking corpse is bad for the family brand. It’s a messy look."

He walked toward me, but he didn't hand me the money. He stopped five feet away, right where a broken water main had created a thick, oily puddle of mud between the cobblestones.

"Here," Marcus said.

He didn't drop the bill. He flicked it.

The twenty-dollar bill fluttered through the air like a dying butterfly before landing face-down in the center of the muddy pool. It soaked up the grey, grimy water instantly, the edges curling as it settled into the filth.

"Buy yourself a sandwich, Salim," Marcus sneered, his eyes dancing with a cruel, bright light. "Consider it a tax on my patience. Now, be a good little beggar and pick it up. The camera loves a rags-to-riches story, even if you’re stuck firmly in the 'rags' part."

The blonde model let out a sharp, bird-like chirp of laughter. A few of the grips shared a look—some of them looked uncomfortable, but none of them spoke. In this world, you didn't bite the hand that signed the paychecks.

I looked down at the bill.

The hunger in my stomach was no longer a dull ache; it was a screaming, predatory animal. Twenty dollars was a fortune. It was five meals. It was a clean shirt from a thrift store. It was the difference between another night of shivering and a warm bed in a cheap hostel. My hand actually twitched, a reflexive movement born of pure, biological desperation.

[Condition Detected: Extreme Hunger.] [System Note: Physical Integrity at 8%. Vital systems failing.] [Influence Warning: Picking up the 'Tax' will reset Influence Level to -100 (Beggarly Status).]

I looked at Marcus. He was waiting. He had his phone out now, his thumb hovering over the record button, waiting for the "heir to the Bakar fortune" to kneel in the mud for twenty bucks. He wanted that footage. He wanted to show Father. He wanted to show the world.

The Heart of Ice surged. It didn't just cool my emotions this time; it froze the very air in my lungs. I felt a strange, crystalline clarity. I looked at Marcus’s $30,000 suit, the $80,000 camera, and the velvet banner proclaiming "Exclusivity."

I realized then that Marcus wasn't just my brother. He was a product. He was a carefully curated image built on the labor of people he didn't see. And every product has a flaw.

I didn't reach for the money. I didn't even look at it again.

I raised my cracked burner phone. The battery was at 1%. The screen was a spiderweb of light. Through the lens, the System began to analyze the set. I saw the "Flow of Attention" in real-time. I saw the digital metadata of the commercial they were filming—the tags, the keywords, the specific "Luxury" algorithm they were aiming for.

"I don't want your money, Marcus," I said. My voice was low, but in the sudden silence of the set, it carried like a bell.

Marcus’s smile faltered. "Oh? You’ve found some pride in that dumpster you’re living in? That’s adorable. But pride doesn't buy calories, little brother."

"You're right," I said, my fingers dancing across the shattered screen. "It doesn't. But neither does an ad campaign that nobody sees."

Marcus laughed, a loud, forced sound. "Nobody sees? Salim, we have a ten-million-dollar ad buy. We’re going to be on every screen from here to Tokyo by tomorrow morning."

"Are you?" I asked.

I navigated to the System’s hidden sub-menu. The gold light of the interface began to pulse in sync with the heavy bass of the set’s music. I felt a strange heat emanating from the phone, a digital friction as the System began to interface with the local network the production was using to upload their "Daily Rushes" to the cloud.

[Skill Activation: Algorithm Sabotage (Level 1)] [Description: Redirect the 'Breath' of the Internet. Turn the spotlight into a shadow.] [Target: Bakar Luxury Suites Ad Campaign.] [Cost: All remaining 'Creative Focus'.]

I saw the "Digital Aura" of the commercial—a bright, artificial purple. Using the skill, I began to "wrap" that aura in a layer of "Negative Resonance." I wasn't deleting their ad. I was making it invisible. I was tagging it with the digital equivalent of a "Bore" and "Out of Touch" virus. Whenever the algorithm looked for a "Luxury" video to show a user, the System would nudge it away from Marcus and toward something... rawer.

"What are you doing, you freak?" Marcus asked, stepping forward, his brow furrowed as he saw the strange, rhythmic golden light reflecting off my face. "Are you trying to call a cab with a broken phone?"

I looked up at him. I could feel my body beginning to shut down. My vision was tunneling, the edges of the street turning black. But the "Heart of Ice" held me steady for one last second.

I leaned toward the phone’s microphone, my voice a mere whisper that the System captured and translated into a digital command.

"System," I breathed. "Activate Algorithm Sabotage. Kill the light."

[Command Received.] [Execution: 100%.] [The 'Ghost' has entered the machine.]

The phone screen went black. The battery was finally, truly dead.

I looked at Marcus. He was still standing there, looking confused, his $20 bill still rotting in the mud. He didn't feel it yet. He didn't know that the ten million dollars his father had spent on this morning’s production had just been rendered worthless. He didn't know that in the digital world, he had just been erased.

"You missed a spot on your shoe, Marcus," I rasped, my legs finally giving way.

I didn't fall into the mud. I stepped back, my heels catching on the cobblestones as I retreated into the dark alley I had scouted. I let the shadows swallow me.

Behind me, I heard Marcus’s voice rising in a frustrated shout. "Security! Get him out of here! And get someone to clean up this mess! We’re losing the light!"

He didn't know the light was already gone.

I slumped against the damp brick wall of the alley, hidden from view. My vision was dark, and my heart was beating a slow, panicked rhythm. I was starving, I was penniless, and I was miles from anyone who cared if I lived or died.

But as I felt the darkness take me, I knew one thing.

The "Humiliation Tax" had been paid. And the receipt was going to burn the Bakar Group to the ground.