My Secret TikTok Life: Family Disgrace to Global Kingmaker

Chapter 25: The Vessel

The monitors cast a cool, sterile glow over the basement, a sharp contrast to the warmth of the electric heater Elara had bought. The hum of the new servers was a constant reminder that we were no longer just running. We had spent the money, we had the gear, and for the first time, we had a sense of permanence. But as I watched the data streams, I knew we were missing the most critical piece of the puzzle.

"We can't scale if I’m the one doing the talking," I said, leaning back in my chair. "Every time I reach out to someone, there’s a risk. If a eighteen-year-old kid in a hoodie tries to sign a contract with a major label or a tech firm, they’re going to look for a parent or a lawyer. They won't see a partner; they'll see a target."

Kaelen looked up from his keyboard. "You need a front man. A suit."

"A CEO," I corrected. "Someone the world would believe is running a multi-million dollar tech-media hybrid. I’ve been running the numbers through the System all morning. I’m looking for 'The Vessel.' Someone with gravitas, someone who knows the corporate world, but someone who has been chewed up and spat out by it."

I looked at the Ghost Interface. It was filtering through thousands of public records, looking for a very specific type of failure.

[System Analysis: Search Parameters — High Competency / Blacklisted / Anti-Establishment Sentiment] [Target Found: Mahjid Seaman]

"Mahjid Seaman," I read aloud.

Kaelen pulled up the dossier on the main monitor. "Used to be the COO of Global Maritime Logistics. This guy was a titan. He managed a fleet of ships and a workforce of five thousand. Then, three years ago, he tried to blow the whistle on a massive embezzlement scheme involving the board. They didn't just fire him; they erased him. He’s been blacklisted from every major firm in the city."

"What’s he doing now?" Elara asked, walking over with a plate of toast.

"Living in a rent-controlled apartment in Queens," Kaelen said, his voice dropping. "He’s been doing freelance consulting for pennies under a pseudonym just to keep his lights on. The industry turned him into a pariah."

I studied the recent photo Kaelen found from a local news clip about a tenant dispute. Mahjid looked haggard, his expensive suit replaced by a threadbare coat, but the posture was still there. He didn't look like a victim; he looked like a king in exile. He had the corporate vocabulary, the presence of a man who managed empires, and most importantly, a burning reason to want to see the old guard burn.

"He's perfect," I said. "He knows how they think because he was one of them. And he hates them because they took everything from him."

"How do we approach him?" Kaelen asked. "A guy like this doesn't just join a 'Ghost' company because he gets a weird email in his spam folder."

"We don't email him," I said. "We show him the future. Kaelen, I want you to send a courier to his apartment. No letter. Just one of the tablets we bought. Pre-load it with Elara’s analytics from the last forty-eight hours and the transaction log from the 'Wraith-Boost' we just ran. Let him see the numbers. A man like Mahjid understands that numbers don't lie."

The next morning, we waited. I had spent the last of my physical energy cleaning up the basement. I wore one of the new black hoodies Elara had bought, the fabric thick and clean. I needed to feel like a professional, even if my office was a subterranean bunker.

[Physical Integrity: 60% (Stable)] [Liquidity: $1,800.00 (After Gear and Courier Costs)]

At 2:00 PM, a notification pinged on Kaelen’s laptop. The tablet had been turned on in Queens.

"He's looking at the file," Kaelen whispered.

We watched the internal tracker. Mahjid spent forty minutes on the analytics page. He scrolled through the "Digital Eraser" bypass logs. He saw how we had turned a viral singer into a localized economic force with zero marketing spend. Then, he opened the video call app we had pre-installed.

The screen on our center monitor flickered to life. Mahjid Seaman sat in a dimly lit kitchen. He was wearing a crisp white shirt—probably the last good one he owned—and his back was perfectly straight.

"I don't know who you are," Mahjid said. His voice was a deep, resonant baritone. It was the kind of voice that demanded attention without ever needing to shout. "But I know these numbers. This isn't the work of a standard marketing firm. This is surgical. It’s aggressive. And it’s bypassing protocols that the platforms swear are impenetrable."

"It's nice to meet you, Mr. Seaman," I said, stepping into the frame of our camera, though I kept the lighting dim so my face remained a bit of a mystery. "I’m the Manager."

"You're a kid," Mahjid said, his eyes scanning what he could see of the basement background. "A kid with a server rack and a very talented singer."

"I'm the person who’s going to make you the most powerful CEO in the city again," I replied. "I’ve seen your file, Mahjid. You tried to fix a broken system from the inside, and they crushed you for it. I’m building a new system from the outside. I have the tech, I have the talent, and I have the momentum. What I don't have is a face. I don't have a man who can walk into a bank or a boardroom and demand respect without being laughed at."

Mahjid leaned forward, his hands clasped on the table. "You want me to be a puppet. A suit for hire."

"I want you to be a Vessel," I corrected. "You run the front. You handle the legalities, the contracts, and the growth. You’ll be the face of Wraith Media. In return, you get 5% equity in a company that is going to dismantle the people who blacklisted you. You get your name back. And you get to be the one who signs the eviction notice for the Old Money."

There was a long silence. I could see the gears turning. He wasn't looking at me; he was looking at the data we had sent him. He was a shark who had been out of the water for three years, and he could finally smell blood in the water.

"The Bakar Group," Mahjid said suddenly. "I saw their digital signatures in your bypass logs. You’re targeting them specifically."

"They're the first hurdle," I said. "Nothing more."

Mahjid let out a short, sharp breath that might have been a laugh. "They’re not a hurdle, kid. They’re a mountain. But I’ve always wanted to see a mountain fall."

"Then get in the car," I said. "There’s a car waiting outside your building right now. It’ll bring you to a neutral location where we can talk face-to-face."

I closed the laptop before he could answer.

"You're taking a big risk," Elara said, coming to stand beside me. "What if he goes to the authorities? Or the Bakars?"

"He won't," I said, feeling the Heart of Ice settle. "The Bakars represent the world that destroyed him. People like Mahjid don't want protection. They want a comeback. And I’m the only one offering him a way to do it that actually works."

Two hours later, a heavy knock sounded on the laundromat’s service door upstairs. Kaelen checked the cameras.

"He's here," Kaelen said, his voice trembling slightly. "He's actually here."

I walked up the stairs to meet him. When I opened the door, Mahjid Seaman stood in the rain, looking at the grimy Bronx street and then at me. He looked at my neon shoes, then at my eyes. He didn't see a kid; he saw a person who had seen the same darkness he had.

"You've got a lot of nerve, Salim," he said quietly. He didn't use my last name. He knew it didn't belong to me anymore.

"I don't have much else," I said. "Step inside."

Mahjid stepped into the laundromat, the smell of rain and expensive wool following him. He looked around at the spinning dryers, then down at the open basement door.

"Show me the infrastructure," he said.

As we descended into the Bunker, I knew the empire had just found its voice. We had the brain in Kaelen, the soul in Elara, and the muscle in the System. Now, we had the face.

[Recruitment Successful: Mahjid Seaman (CEO)] [Wraith Media Status: Operational] [Influence Level: -15 (Rising)]

The Ghost was no longer just a rumor. It had a name on the door.