Rise of the Zillionaire Star

Chapter 64: Walk the Real Runway

The glittering spotlights cut through the midnight sky, bouncing off glass towers and shining over the boulevard outside Bishop’s Fashion Week venue.

What should have been a high-end runway closed to the world is now barricaded by traffic jams, honking cars, and flashing drones.

Hundreds of Jaylen’s fans are out there, claiming the street as their stage.

They wore Jaylen's modelled jackets and were persistently speaking outside. They had their faces covered with Graffiti-splattered hoodies. They had denim skirts which were carved from thrift bins. Neon LEDs strapped to their sneakers, and shown in the dark.

There are no velvet ropes, no guest lists and no glossy invitations. It was just raw and unfiltered creativity.

Jaylen stepped forward. He wore a hand-painted coat with brushstrokes which made the fabric beautiful. His mic glowed beneath the bright light.

“Welcome to the real runway.” he said in an amplified voice through the hacked street speakers. The crowd responded in very loud scream. They didn’t hesitate to lift their phones to sky to capture this wonder live.

The beat drops. Jaylen raps while his fans strut, turning the cracked road into a dance of fire. Every rhyme flows through the atmosphere. His bars were about scars, survival, being mocked, and rising higher.

Zee overlays holographic projections that sync with his words. When he sang about fire, flames ripple across jackets. When he raps of waves, blue tides crash digitally around his skirts. When he rhymes of flight, wings explode from sneakers in bursts of light.

Every bar transforms into a powerful movement.

Livestreams started moving across various platforms. TikTokers duet the walk, lipsyncing alongside strutting fans. I*******m reels roll like wildfire. Each of his clips was a story stitched from grit.

Hashtags changed in real time.

“#Freakwear changed to #Realwear.

#JaylenRunway changed to #DIYDrip.”

Zee’s voice chimed inside Jaylen’s ear, “Engagement: Viral. Trend velocity surpassing Bishop Lynx’s entire media catalog. Calculating trajectory: unstoppable.”

Jaylen smirks mid-verse. The excitement within him rose even more. He started spitting those bars harder, and sharper. He wasn’t just rapping rhyme, he was leading a movement.

From the marble steps of his luxury venue, Bishop Lynx walked out, his velvet robes dragged alongside with him. His mirrored glasses caught every spotlight. And cameras had to swing toward him instantly.

“This is not fashion!” Bishop shrieks. “This is chaos!”

But the world is watching. Side-by-side comparisons of the both of them surfaces on the feeds. Bishop’s stiff and recycled luxury gowns versus Jaylen’s raw firepower of the streets. Clips of Bishop sneering run alongside kids twirling in graffiti jackets that scream individuality.

The public laughs because the contrast was brutal.

Inside his own gala, sponsors’ phones buzz with texts. On Jaylen’s end, messages started pouring in mid-show,

“Would you like a Collab? Exclusive rights?”

“Can we license fan designs which will spark immediate interest?”

“Let's launch streetwear under the Jaylen brand.”

Zee’s monotone spoke of updates, “Bishop Lynx revenue collapse: minus sixty percent. His investors are exiting in real-time.”

Jaylen doesn’t even pause. He keeps rapping, keeps walking and he keeps igniting. The energy is more than a fire.

But vultures don’t die quietly.

Trevin, lurking in the background, smirks as he dials in fake reports. Police sirens scream from down the street. Blue and red lights swirl across skyscrapers. Police vans screech up with their presence sharp enough to split the crowd.

The public panic. Fans falter mid-walk, clutching their designs, unsure if they will be shoved off the street. Parents watched the livestream and sent frantic comments.

Jaylen grips the mi. His voice booms over the sirens, “They want to shut us down? Then every step is a protest. Every thread is rebellion. If they call us freaks, then let’s be the freaks who changed the game!”

The crowd roars back.

Instead of scattering, more fans flooded into the street and walked across it. Every step they made echoed protesters. The runway became a demonstration.

Police hesitated as drones went around in the sky recording every move. Cameras beam the protest worldwide. To shut this down would look like tyranny. The officers linger at the edges, caught in the storm of optics.

Jaylen’s gamble pays off. The fear transforms into fuel.

The beat fades and the silence thickens, but the crowd moves with a fierce energy.

Jaylen steps into the center of the street. His voice lowers to a growl and even carried more weight than any scream,

“They call me fake! They call me fake! They call me a freak. But look around. Do you see algorithms here? Do you see pity clicks? Or do you see us?”

The crowd howls. Jaylen pulls off his coat. Its painted wings spread wide in the air. He lays it down flat in the middle of the runway. His chest heaves. His voice went across from the street.

“This is me. No brands. No sponsors. Just raw.”

A hush falls. A young fan that was barely twelve years of age steps forward. Her handmade hoodie is stitched with uneven seams. Inscribed on the hoodie was, I survived too. She kneels, removes it, and places it beside his coat.

One by one, others follow. Hoodies, jackets, skirts, sneakers were laid bare on the road. Soon, the street is no longer just a runway.

The drones captured it. Global feeds exploded with the title, The Real Runway Revolution.

At that moment, Jaylen feels a surge burn through him. It was not from applause, not from sponsors. It was from something deeper.

A system message flashed across his face,

“Quest Complete: Walk the Real Runway

Rewards: +8 Fame

Unlock: Style Aura Module.”

His vision sharpens. The world bends. His aura moves like wildfire due to his level of confidence that people could see. When he moves, cameras crave to capture him. When he speaks, every eye clings to him. He isn’t borrowing fashion anymore. He is fashion.

Jaylen Cruz has arrived

News tickers published across the world within hours,

“Bishop Lynx loses dominance of fashion week.”

“Street kids overthrow gatekeepers with Jaylen Vale.”

“The Real Runway Revolution: DIY culture takes center stage.”

Influencers who once mocked him now rush to declare their allegiance, “Jaylen’s fans just ended gatekeeping forever.” “This isn’t a trend, it’s a movement.”

Even skeptics had to grudgingly admit that Jaylen Cruz isn’t fake.

Jaylen sits on the curb, sweat ran down his neck. His body ran along in exhaustion. Fans surrounded him, singing, chanting and crying. He smiles faintly.

………

….

Bishop Lynx stands alone in his dressing room. His mirrored glasses lie shattered on the floor. He stares into his reflection, fractured across shards of glass. His velvet robe is torn when he drag at it in rage.

He smashes his fist into the mirror, shattering it completely. Blood drips across his knuckles, but he doesn’t flinch.

“If the freak wants war,” he whispers through clenched teeth, “I’ll burn his aura down to ash.”

Far above, unseen in the shadows of a penthouse was Roman Vale who watches through encrypted feeds. His eyes gleam colder than Bishop’s rage.

“Good,” Roman murmurs. “Let them fight. Every battle fattens the feast.”