The heavy hydraulic door of the private jet lowered, kissing the tarmac with a menacing hiss. On Tyler’s phone screen, thousands of his followers were still spamming laughing emojis—until a sudden, localized EMP jammed the signal. The livestream cut to dead black.
Six men in unmarked, matte-black tactical gear swarmed down the ramp. They didn’t shout. They moved with terrifying, dead-silent precision. Before Tyler’s entourage could even process what was happening, blinding red laser sights painted their chests. Smartphones clattered to the concrete as the hype-house crew dropped to the ground, whimpering.
Tyler stood paralyzed, his breath caught in his throat. His designer sunglasses felt heavy on his face; his silver necklace suddenly felt like a noose.
Finally, the man in the tailored dark suit—the one waiting by the stairs—approached. He had cold, reptilian eyes. He didn’t draw a weapon. He didn’t even look at Tyler. Instead, he stopped directly in front of the twelve-year-old boy in the gray tee and gave a deep, strictly disciplined bow.
“The cargo is secured, Boss,” the suited man said. “No federal tails.”
Tyler’s jaw unhinged. *Boss?*
There was no father on that plane. “Dad” was a distress code.
The boy pocketed his encrypted phone, the innocent childhood facade melting into a chilling, dead-eyed smirk. He stepped up to Tyler, reaching out to tap the influencer’s pale, sweating cheek with one finger.
“You lost the bet, Tyler,” the boy whispered, his voice dripping with a lethal authority that didn’t belong to a child. “Kneel.”
Tyler’s legs instantly gave out, his kneecaps slamming into the unforgiving concrete.
“Good boy,” the kid sneered. He picked up Tyler’s dropped phone, flipped the camera, and hit record. “Now… tell the world why you’re disappearing from the internet. Forever.”