Chapter 112: The Debt Assassin Hack

The Debt Assassin Hack

Early January of 1993 brought a rare, crisp clarity to the Los Angeles skyline, but the atmosphere outside the Beverly Hilton was thick with a blinding, manufactured luminescence. The Golden Globes red carpet was a chaotic, glittering gauntlet of flashing cameras, screaming fans, and the absolute apex of Hollywood royalty.

Elias van Kempen stepped out of the hired town car, his tall, 189-centimeter frame draped in a flawlessly tailored, midnight-black tuxedo. He did not wave to the crowds. He did not offer a wide, eager smile to the wall of photographers. He projected the cold, untouchable gravity of a European aristocrat who found the entire spectacle profoundly tedious.

He turned and offered his hand.

Charlize Theron emerged from the car, and the entire red carpet seemed to collectively stop breathing.

She wore a minimalist, bias-cut silver gown that clung to her statuesque frame like liquid metal. But it wasn’t the dress that caused the photographers to frantically reload their film. Resting against her collarbone, catching the strobe lights and throwing fractured rainbows across the velvet ropes, was the Panthère de Cartier diamond necklace.

It was a half-million-dollar masterpiece of white gold and flawless stones. On anyone else, it would look like a borrowed accessory. On Charlize, paired with her fierce, unbothered South African gaze and Elias’s dark, predatory presence, it looked like the crown jewels of a new, invading empire.

As they began their slow, methodical walk down the carpet, Elias’s mind was not on the glamour. It was on the mathematics of the exposure.

Somewhere in Beverly Hills, Pierre, the boutique manager of Cartier, was undoubtedly watching the E! News live broadcast. Pierre was likely weeping over the loss of his inventory, but the corporate executives in Paris were currently watching their brand equity skyrocket in the crucial eighteen-to-twenty-five demographic. The unofficial product placement extortion was a flawless success.

Deep within Elias’s cerebral cortex, the digital loan shark interrupted the triumph to collect its daily rent.

[CHA-CHING!][SYSTEM WARNING: DAILY MAINTENANCE FEE DEDUCTION INITIATED.][DEDUCTING -$50.00 USD FROM LIQUID CASH RESERVE.]

Elias’s jaw tightened imperceptibly as his liquid cash ticked down to $3,201,403.00. The mechanical bleeding was a constant, irritating reminder that he was not yet a billionaire.

"Elias, I can’t breathe," Paul Rudd whimpered, trailing a few steps behind them, clutching a Sovereign Media clipboard to his chest like a bulletproof vest. Paul was sweating profusely in a rented tuxedo. "There are too many famous people. Al Pacino just looked at me. I think I forgot how to walk normally."

"Maintain your posture, Paul," Elias murmured smoothly, not breaking his stride. "You are not a fan. You are the Executive Assistant to a corporate monopoly. Act as though you own the ground they are walking on."

They approached the primary media platform, where an E! News reporter was frantically waving them over.

"Charlize! Elias! Over here!" the reporter called out, thrusting a microphone forward. "Charlize, you look absolutely stunning tonight! The buzz around your upcoming role in Lethal Weapon 3 is deafening. And Elias, the Calvin Klein billboards are literally stopping traffic in Times Square. Who are you wearing tonight?"

Charlize offered a cool, composed smile. "The dress is vintage. But the diamonds," she reached up, lightly tracing the flawless necklace, "are Cartier. They understand the necessity of a sharp edge."

It was the perfect, contractually obligated namedrop.

Before Elias could deliver a devastatingly charismatic soundbite to accompany it, a large, aggressive presence shoved its way onto the interview platform.

It was Alec Baldwin.

In early 1993, Baldwin was riding the massive, arrogant high of his leading-man status. He was handsome, heavily gelled, and radiated the toxic, try-hard confidence of a traditional Hollywood alpha who desperately needed everyone in the room to acknowledge his superiority.

Alec completely ignored Elias, stepping directly into his personal space to flash a blinding, movie-star smile at Charlize.

"Charlize, darling," Alec purred, his voice dripping with condescension. "Looking beautiful. Though I have to say, it’s a shame you’re wasting your talent on a minor action sequel. You need real material. I just launched my own independent production company, El Dorado Entertainment. We’re developing a gritty, character-driven drama. Real art. You should have your people call my people."

Charlize’s eyes turned to ice, but before she could eviscerate him, Alec finally turned his attention to Elias.

Alec looked Elias up and down, a mocking, dismissive sneer crossing his face. He leaned into the E! News microphone.

"And you must be the boy carrying her bags," Alec laughed loudly, ensuring the surrounding reporters caught the insult. "Kau cuma parasit yang membawakan tas aktrismu, Van Kempen! Perusahaanku memproduksi seni yang nyata!" (You’re just a parasite carrying your actress’s bags, Van Kempen! My company produces real art!)

Alec puffed out his chest, completely reveling in his own perceived dominance. "Stick to posing in your underwear, kid. Leave the real business of Hollywood to the producers."

Paul Rudd let out a quiet, terrified squeal in the background. Charlize tensed, ready to go to war.

Elias van Kempen did not flinch. He did not blush in humiliation.

He looked at Alec Baldwin with the profound, clinical boredom of a forensic auditor examining a bankrupt grocery store.

Elias had not come to the Golden Globes to drink champagne. He had come because his Wall Street broker had alerted him to a massive, highly unstable vulnerability in the indie production market. He mentally engaged the digital loan shark to verify the kill shot.

[SYSTEM SHOP ACCESSED.][ACTIVATING: CORPORATE X-RAY SCAN][COST: -10 CP][CURRENT BALANCE: 130 CP]

[CHA-CHING!]

A translucent, glowing red grid snapped over Alec Baldwin’s bespoke tuxedo. It bypassed the fabric and locked directly onto the corporate entity the actor had just so proudly boasted about. The system ripped through El Dorado Entertainment’s hidden ledgers.

Blocks of blinding, neon-red text scrolled rapidly beside Elias’s vision.

[SCAN COMPLETE. THREAT ANALYSIS: THE TARGET’S EGO IS VASTLY OVERLEVERAGED.][VULNERABILITY 1: EL DORADO ENTERTAINMENT HAS DEFAULTED ON THREE CONSECUTIVE EQUIPMENT RENTAL LEASES.][VULNERABILITY 2: THE COMPANY’S PRIMARY PROMISSORY NOTES WERE CLASSIFIED AS TOXIC DEBT BY PACIFIC BANK AND SOLD TO A SHADOW CREDITOR.]

Elias let the overlay fade. The dark, bottomless voids of his eyes locked onto the arrogant actor.

Elias reached out with slow, terrifying elegance and casually adjusted his own bow tie. He unleashed a smile of such pure, unadulterated, shameless sociopathy that the E! News reporter actually took a physical step backward.

"Seni yang nyata tampaknya sangat buruk dalam membayar tagihan listrik, kawan," Elias purred, his baritone voice a smooth, lethal blade that sliced cleanly through the noise of the red carpet. (Real art seems to be remarkably poor at paying the electric bill, my friend.)

Alec’s smug grin faltered. "Excuse me?"

Elias stepped closer, invading the actor’s space, the sheer, crushing weight of his capitalist aura driving the older man back half an inch.

"Kemarin siang, aku membeli wesel tagih rumah produksimu dari Pacific Bank seharga lima puluh ribu dolar," Elias stated flawlessly, delivering the financial decapitation on live television. (Yesterday afternoon, I purchased the promissory notes for your production company from Pacific Bank for fifty thousand dollars.)

Deep in his mind, the system silently verified the transaction his broker had executed the day prior.

[DEDUCTING -$50,000.00 USD FOR DISTRESSED DEBT ACQUISITION.]

Elias ignored the capital expenditure. He leaned in, ensuring the microphone caught every single word.

"Secara teknis, setiap kali kau menyewa kamera, kau menyewanya dariku," Elias whispered, twisting the psychological knife with elegant brutality. (Technically, every time you rent a camera, you are renting it from me.)

Alec Baldwin stopped breathing. The color drained entirely from his face, leaving him looking like a wax statue that had been left in the sun. A massive, comical sweatdrop formed on his hairline, rolling rapidly down his temple and dripping onto his expensive collar.

The paparazzi stopped yelling. The reporter stared at Elias, her jaw hanging open.

Alec tried to speak, but his voice cracked. His production company was his pride and joy, a vanity project he had heavily leveraged against his own house. If Pacific Bank had truly sold the debt, and this teenager now held the lien... he was ruined.

"You... you’re lying," Alec choked out, his arrogance completely annihilated. "Pacific Bank wouldn’t sell my paper to a kid."

"I am a corporate entity, Alec. I do not have an age. I have liquidity," Elias corrected, his voice devoid of any mercy. He reached into the inner pocket of his tuxedo and pulled out a folded, watermarked legal document. He didn’t hand it over; he simply flashed the Pacific Bank transfer seal.

Alec’s knees visibly buckled.

"Sekarang," Elias commanded, his voice ringing with absolute, dictatorial authority, "tulis cek seratus lima puluh ribu dolar untuk biaya perpanjangan utangmu, atau aku akan menyita propertimu saat kau sedang duduk di dalam acara ini." (Now, write a check for one hundred and fifty thousand dollars for your debt extension fee, or I will foreclose on your property while you are sitting inside this ceremony.)

The silence on the red carpet was absolute.

A-List actors, directors, and producers walking past stopped dead in their tracks, watching in sheer horror as one of the biggest leading men in Hollywood was publicly, brutally shaken down for cash by a sixteen-year-old boy in a tuxedo.

"One hundred and fifty thousand?" Alec gasped, his chest heaving as if he couldn’t pull oxygen into his lungs. "That’s three times what you paid for it! That’s extortion!"

"It is a PR Bailout Fee," Elias smiled, a dark, empty expression. "If I foreclose on El Dorado Entertainment tomorrow morning, the trades will print the bankruptcy. Your reputation as a visionary producer will be liquidated. You are paying me to save your ego. Write the check, Alec. Or the cameras here will film you weeping when the foreclosure notice hits the fax machine."

Alec looked at the E! News camera. He looked at Charlize, who was watching him with a fierce, highly entertained smirk. He was trapped. The kid had mathematically cornered him on the most public stage in the world.

With a tragic, pathetic groan of a man surrendering his soul to a superior predator, Alec frantically reached into his tuxedo jacket. He pulled out a leather-bound checkbook and a gold pen.

His hands were shaking so violently he dropped the pen twice. He pressed the checkbook against the back of his terrified publicist and hastily scrawled out a check for $150,000.

He ripped the check free and practically shoved it into Elias’s hands.

"Take it," Alec hissed, his eyes burning with humiliated rage. "You’re a sociopath. You’re a monster."

"I am your senior creditor," Elias murmured politely, inspecting the signature. "Enjoy the awards ceremony. Try not to focus on your overhead expenses."

Alec Baldwin turned on his heel and fled down the red carpet, completely abandoning his interview, desperate to escape the terrifying gravitational pull of the teenager.

Elias smoothly folded the check and slipped it into his pocket.

Behind the velvet ropes, hidden in the shadows of the media tent, Paul Rudd was quietly, genuinely weeping.

"He did it again," Paul sobbed into his hands, rocking back and forth. "We came to the Golden Globes. The most glamorous night in Hollywood. And he used it as an excuse to act like a mafia debt collector. He’s going to make us repossess someone’s house at the Oscars. I know it."

Charlize stepped close to Elias, her blue eyes shining with a mixture of absolute disbelief and profound, undeniable attraction to his sheer ruthlessness.

"You didn’t even care about the insult, did you?" Charlize whispered. "You planned that before we even got out of the car."

"Ego is a highly predictable vulnerability, Charlize," Elias replied, offering her his arm. "Now. Let us go inside. I believe they are serving free lobster, and I refuse to pay for dinner tonight."

As they walked past the stunned reporter and into the Beverly Hilton, the digital loan shark inside his cerebral cortex erupted in a symphony of glorious, golden triumph.

[CHA-CHING!][SYSTEM NOTIFICATION: THE DEBT ASSASSIN HACK EXECUTED WITH FLAWLESS SOCIOPATHY!][EVALUATION: YOU HIJACKED A GLOBAL RED CARPET BROADCAST, PUBLICLY HUMILIATED AN A-LIST ACTOR, AND EXTORTED A $150,000 BAILOUT FEE WHILE WEARING A TUXEDO. YOUR SHAMELESSNESS TRANSCENDS HUMAN LOGIC. THE SYSTEM BOWS.][REWARD: +20 SHAMELESS POINTS (CP) DEPOSITED.]

Elias felt the warm surge of digital capital flood his system. His CP balance settled at a highly secure 150. He was heavily armed.

His liquid cash, bolstered by the massive ransom check, had successfully eclipsed the three-point-three million dollar mark.

The industry thought they could intimidate him with flashing lights and celebrity status. They were wrong. Sovereign Media was not participating in the Hollywood hierarchy. It was actively acquiring the deeds to the kingdom.