My Secret TikTok Life: Family Disgrace to Global Kingmaker

Chapter 4: The Blacklist

The walk from the Bakar gates to the main road felt like a descent into a different dimension. In the back of a luxury car, the distance to the city center took ten minutes of mindless scrolling. On foot, in shoes that pinched my toes and offered the structural support of wet cardboard, it felt like an odyssey.

The rain hadn't let up. By the time I reached a brightly lit ATM vestibule near the edge of the high-end district, I was shivering so violently I could barely keep my balance. My white shirt was a second skin, translucent and cold, and my hair was plastered to my forehead.

I stepped into the small, glass-walled booth. The warmth of the indoor air felt like a miracle, even if it smelled like ozone and stale cigarettes. I pulled my wallet out of my back pocket. It was a slim, designer leather piece—another "Bakar asset" Zara had surprisingly missed—but the leather was bloated with rainwater.

I pulled out my private black card. This wasn't the corporate account. This was my personal savings, the money I’d tucked away from small independent consulting gigs and the few digital marketing "wins" I’d managed to hide from my father’s accountants. It wasn't millions, but it was enough to get a hotel room and a decent meal while I figured out my next move.

I slid the card into the machine.

Please enter your PIN.

My fingers were numb, but I punched in the numbers with muscle memory. I selected 'Withdrawal,' then 'Checking.' I only asked for two hundred dollars. Just enough for a cab and a night at a generic Marriott.

The machine whirred. A small clock icon spun on the screen. I held my breath, watching the glass doors as a gust of wind sent a spray of rain against them.

Transaction Declined. Please contact your financial institution.

I frowned. Maybe I’d hit a daily limit? I tried again, asking for a hundred.

Transaction Declined. Error Code: 104 – Account Restricted.

A cold knot formed in my stomach, one that had nothing to do with the weather. Account restricted? This was my private money. I pulled out my phone—the burner—and checked the banking app.

The balance read: $0.00.

Beside the number was a small, red flag icon. I clicked it.

“Account frozen per legal injunction: Bakar v. Salim (Civil Debt Recovery).”

I leaned my forehead against the cold plastic of the ATM. He’d done it. My father hadn't even waited for me to leave the property before his legal team moved. By signing that "Debt of Upbringing" contract, I had acknowledged a massive liability. They had used that signature to immediately petition a friendly judge—likely one who sat at my father’s dinner table last month—to freeze every asset associated with my name to "secure the debt."

I didn't even have enough for a bus ticket.

"Fine," I whispered, the sound of my own voice flat and desperate in the tiny booth. "I still have the apartment."

The apartment was my sanctuary. It was a loft downtown, technically leased under a subsidiary of the Bakar Group, but I’d lived there for three years. It held my high-end computer, my clothes, and my hard drives—the archives of every influencer I’d ever managed. If I could just get inside, I could sell some gear, grab my backup cash, and disappear.

I didn't have money for a cab, so I walked.

It took two hours. By the time the sleek, charcoal-colored facade of the 'Aegis Lofts' came into view, the sun was still hours away from rising. The lobby was glowing with a soft, inviting light. I looked like a drowned rat, but the doorman, Arthur, knew me. He’d seen me every day for years.

I reached the glass entrance and pulled on the handle. It didn't budge. My key fob—the one on my keychain—was dead. The little light didn't even blink.

I tapped on the glass. Arthur looked up from his desk. He saw me, and for a second, I saw the recognition in his eyes. But then, he looked at a memo on his computer screen. He didn't stand up. He didn't come to open the door. He just shook his head slowly, his face tight with an expression that looked like a mix of shame and fear.

"Arthur!" I shouted, my voice muffled by the thick glass. "It’s me! Salim! My fob isn't working!"

He picked up a desk phone and spoke into it. A moment later, two burly private security guards—men I didn't recognize—stepped out of the elevator. They didn't come to help. They stood behind the glass, their hands on their belts, watching me like I was a vagrant trying to break in.

Arthur pointed toward the side of the building, near the service entrance.

I got the message.

I stumbled toward the alleyway. There, sitting next to a row of overflowing industrial dumpsters, were three heavy-duty black trash bags. They were piled haphazardly on the wet pavement.

I didn't need to open them to know what was inside.

I knelt in the dirty, oil-slicked water of the alley and ripped the top of the first bag. My Italian silk ties. My sneakers. My hoodies. They were all shoved in there, wrinkled and damp. I reached deeper, searching for my laptop. My hands hit something cold and metallic.

It was my custom-built PC tower. Or what was left of it.

The side panel had been ripped off. The internal components—the GPU, the RAM, the hard drives—had been systematically smashed or removed. My father hadn't just taken my home; he’d destroyed my tools. He knew exactly what was on those drives. He knew that without my data, I was just a guy with a cracked phone.

I sat back on my heels, the rain mixing with the tears I finally couldn't hold back. I was in the middle of a city I had lived in my entire life, standing next to a pile of my own garbage, and I had nowhere to go.

The "Bakar Blacklist" was absolute. In this city, my father was the weather; he decided who stayed dry and who got soaked. He had turned me into a pariah in less than four hours.

I pulled out my burner phone. The battery was at 2%. The gold light of the System was still there, pulsing slowly like a heartbeat.

[Initialization: 0.9%...] [Warning: User Vital Signs Low. Core Temperature Dropping.] [Suggestion: Seek Shelter. Probability of Survival without Shelter: 14%.]

"Thanks for the tip," I muttered, my teeth chattering so hard it hurt.

I looked at the trash bags. I couldn't carry three of them. I grabbed a single backpack that had been shoved into the bottom of one bag. I stuffed a dry-ish hoodie inside and a pair of socks. Everything else—the remnants of my "Bakar" life—I left in the alley for the scavengers.

I stood up, my legs shaking. I had no money, no home, and my "friends" were likely receiving the same memo Arthur had received.

I began to walk toward the subway. It was the only place that would be open, the only place where a guy in neon green shoes and a soaked hoodie might be able to hide in the shadows for a few hours.

The "Golden Cage" was gone. The apartment was gone. The money was gone.

All I had left was 2% battery and a System that wouldn't even tell me its name.