Chapter 149: The Nepo Baby Sabotage

The Nepo Baby Sabotage

Mid-August 1993. The Los Angeles sun was a relentless, searing spotlight beating down on the asphalt of Sovereign Studios. It was the second week of principal photography for Se7en, and the indie production was running on a cocktail of cinematic adrenaline, extreme sleep deprivation, and heavily rationed craft services.

Near the massive aluminum doors of Soundstage 4, Paul Rudd and Owen Wilson were currently engaged in a bitter, sweaty struggle against a monstrous, two-hundred-pound spool of industrial electrical cable.

"Pull, Owen! Pull!" Paul wheezed, his face bright red, his flannel shirt entirely soaked through. He dug his sneakers into the asphalt, hauling the thick black cord like a desperate tug-of-war anchor. "If we don’t get this power line to the rain machines in five minutes, Fincher is going to legally execute us in front of the crew!"

Owen, wearing a Hawaiian shirt and looking incredibly zen despite the physical labor, casually leaned his weight back against the cable. "You have to flow with the rubber, Paul. Don’t fight the cable. Become the cable. It’s all about the distribution of kinetic energy."

"I don’t want to be the cable!" Paul shrieked, wiping sweat from his eyes. "I want to be an executive assistant! We shouldn’t even be doing this! Elias is a multi-millionaire on paper! Why couldn’t he just hire two union grips to move this stuff?!"

Standing in the shaded doorway of the soundstage, Elias van Kempen was sipping a perfectly pulled espresso from a porcelain cup. He wore a crisp, immaculate white dress shirt tucked into tailored charcoal trousers, looking like a European prince observing a peasant uprising.

"Because union grips cost forty-five dollars an hour, Paul," Elias murmured smoothly, his baritone voice carrying effortlessly over the hum of the generators. "Whereas you and Owen represent a fixed, sunk cost. Utilizing your dormant physical potential to facilitate logistical transport is simply an efficient allocation of corporate resources. Consider it a free gym membership."

"I am going to put rat poison in your espresso," Paul whimpered, giving the cable one last, violent heave.

Before Elias could offer a shamelessly logical rebuttal about the high cost of rat poison, a deafening, obnoxious roar shattered the focused atmosphere of the studio lot.

A bright red, convertible Porsche 911 tore through the studio gates. The driver didn’t slow down for the speed bumps. He revved the engine aggressively, the heavy, thumping bass of a generic hip-hop beat rattling the windows of the nearby production trailers.

The Porsche swerved violently, its tires screeching against the hot asphalt, and parked diagonally—completely, perfectly blocking the ramp to the production’s primary catering truck.

The engine died, but the loud music kept playing.

The driver’s side door swung open, and Mark Wahlberg stepped out.

In 1993, ’Marky Mark’ was riding the absolute peak of his Calvin Klein underwear campaign fame. He was practically vibrating with Boston street-kid arrogance, fueled by a dangerous cocktail of sudden wealth, massive billboards, and a deep-seated insecurity about his actual acting talent. He wore baggy, low-slung jeans that prominently displayed his branded waistband, a tight white ribbed tank top, and a backward baseball cap.

Three large, equally obnoxious guys—his personal entourage—piled out of the car behind him, laughing loudly and adjusting their gold chains.

Mark looked around the busy, gritty studio lot with an expression of profound disgust. He spotted Paul and Owen panting next to the giant cable spool.

"Yo!" Mark shouted, strutting over with a heavy, exaggerated swagger. He pointed a finger at Paul. "Where’s the pretty boy? Where’s the Dutch kid?"

Paul blinked, completely caught off guard by the sudden influx of hostility. "Uh... Elias? He’s..."

"Yeah, Elias," Mark sneered, stepping aggressively into Paul’s personal space. The three goons fanned out behind him, crossing their massive arms. "Tell him Marky’s here. I heard he was shooting some cheap, depressing indie movie in this dump. Thought I’d come down and see what a real downgrade looks like."

Owen stood up straight, his chill demeanor shifting slightly. "Hey, man. You can’t park your car there. You’re blocking the food truck. The crew has to eat."

Mark turned his gaze to Owen, letting out a loud, mocking laugh. "Are you a grip, bro? You look like a grip. Or are you just the pretty boy’s baggage handlers? Listen to me, surfer dude. I park my hundred-thousand-dollar Porsche wherever the hell I want. I pull down two million a year standing in my underwear. What do you pull down? Cable?"

Paul shrank back, intimidated by the sheer, aggressive street-thug energy radiating from the actor.

"You guys are pathetic," Mark scoffed, shaking his head. He looked around the lot again, raising his voice so the passing crew members could hear him. "This whole place is a joke! Van Kempen thinks he’s hot shit because he stole a couple of runway shows? He’s a fluke! A European tourist! He doesn’t know how the real streets work. He doesn’t have the muscle to survive in this town!"

"My survival in this town," a dark, silken voice echoed across the asphalt, "is entirely reliant on my ability to monetize loud, insecure liabilities."

Mark spun around.

Elias van Kempen stepped out of the shadows of the soundstage. He didn’t walk fast. He didn’t look angry. He glided across the hot pavement with the slow, terrifying elegance of a black panther cornering a very loud, very stupid dog.

Mark puffed out his chest, stepping forward to meet Elias. He was shorter than Elias’s towering 189-centimeter frame, which only seemed to fuel his aggressive Napoleon complex.

"There he is," Mark sneered, looking Elias up and down, taking in the bespoke trousers and the expensive leather shoes. "The runway princess. You look like a damn banker, Elias. What’s the matter? Did you run out of hair gel in Paris? You think you can play producer because you have a pretty face? I own the billboards in this city, man. I own the streets."

Elias stopped three feet away. He looked at Mark’s baggy jeans and the visible Calvin Klein waistband.

He didn’t lecture the street kid about market capitalization. He didn’t use big corporate words. He simply looked at Mark with an expression of sheer, aristocratic boredom.

"Move your car," Elias commanded softly. It wasn’t a request. It was a fact.

Mark’s face flushed red. In front of his entourage, being ordered around like a valet was the ultimate insult. His Boston street temper flared violently.

"Make me, pretty boy," Mark spat.

Without warning, Mark lunged forward. He didn’t throw a professional punch; he threw a wild, heavy street-brawler right hook aimed directly at Elias’s jaw, fully intending to knock the "arrogant model" unconscious in front of his own crew.

Paul Rudd screamed.

Elias did not blink.

Deep within his neural pathways, the digital system flared to life.

[SYSTEM SHOP ACCESSED.][ACTIVATING: REFLEKS MIKE TYSON & DAGU BAJA (TYSON REFLEXES & IRON CHIN)][COST: -15 CP][CURRENT BALANCE: 340 CP]

[CHA-CHING!]

Time seemed to slow down for Elias. He saw the telegraphed punch moving through the air with agonizing lethargy.

Elias didn’t block it. He simply tilted his head two millimeters to the left.

The heavy fist sliced through empty air, brushing harmlessly past Elias’s ear. Mark stumbled forward, completely thrown off balance by the missed momentum.

With mechanical, terrifying precision, Elias’s right hand shot out. He didn’t punch. He grabbed Mark’s extended wrist, twisted his hips, and applied a flawless, agonizing joint lock. Using Mark’s own forward momentum against him, Elias swept his right leg.

SLAM.

The sound of Mark Wahlberg hitting the scorching asphalt echoed like a gunshot across the studio lot.

It took exactly 1.8 seconds.

Elias hadn’t broken a sweat. His breathing hadn’t elevated. The crisp white fabric of his shirt didn’t have a single wrinkle. He stood over the actor, casually holding Mark’s arm pinned painfully behind his back, keeping him pressed face-down against the hot pavement.

The three goons from the entourage froze in absolute shock. Their boss, the tough street kid from Boston, had just been effortlessly dismantled by a guy who looked like he was on his way to a yacht club.

"Hey! Let him go!" one of the goons yelled, taking a hesitant step forward.

Elias slowly lifted his dark, dead eyes to the entourage. He didn’t say a word. He just stared at them with the sheer, unadulterated coldness of a cartel executioner.

The goons instantly stopped. None of them wanted to touch him.

Off to the side, the doors of the production trailer swung open. Brad Pitt, wearing his bloody detective shirt and holding a half-eaten green apple, stepped out. He took one look at Mark Wahlberg groaning face-down on the asphalt, and Elias standing over him like an elegant statue.

Brad took a loud bite of his apple and burst into a fit of genuine, booming laughter.

"Damn, Elias," Brad chuckled, leaning against the trailer. "You didn’t even spill your coffee."

Elias ignored the actor. He crouched down slightly, bringing his face close to Mark’s ear. The street kid was gritting his teeth, his face pressed against the dirty asphalt, his ego completely and utterly shattered.

It was time for the Street Justice Trash-Talk. No complex ledgers. No corporate jargon. Just raw, capitalist dominance.

"Kau suka memamerkan celana dalam itu, Mark?" Elias whispered casually, his voice devoid of any anger, which made it infinitely more terrifying. (You like showing off that underwear, Mark?)

Mark grunted in pain, unable to move.

"Kau pikir kau adalah bos karena wajahmu ada di papan reklame," Elias continued, his tone conversational, almost gentle. "Tapi biar kuberi tahu sebuah rahasia kecil. Kau tahu siapa yang memiliki lima belas persen saham pabrik garmen yang menjahit kapas untuk celana dalam Calvin Klein yang sedang kau pakai itu?" (You think you’re a boss because your face is on a billboard. But let me tell you a little secret. Do you know who owns fifteen percent of the garment factory that stitches the cotton for those Calvin Klein underwear you’re wearing?)

Mark’s eyes widened slightly in confusion and dawning horror.

"Aku," Elias stated simply. (I do.)

Elias tightened the lock just a fraction of an inch, making Mark wince.

"Setiap kali kau berdiri setengah telanjang di depan kamera, berpose seperti orang bodoh, kau secara harfiah sedang bekerja mempromosikan perusahaanku," Elias mocked, his street-smart cruelty shining through. "Kau bukan sainganku, Mark. Kau adalah manekin kerjaku. Kau adalah pegawaiku yang paling berisik. Teruslah pamer, karena setiap kali celana dalam itu terjual, kau baru saja membantuku membayar tagihan katering di studio ini." (Every time you stand half-naked in front of a camera, posing like a fool, you are literally working to promote my company. You are not my rival, Mark. You are my work mannequin. You are my loudest employee. Keep showing off, because every time that underwear sells, you just helped me pay the catering bill at this studio.)

The absolute humiliation hit Mark harder than the physical slam. He wasn’t a gangster. He wasn’t a boss. He was just a highly paid clown generating passive income for the teenager currently pinning him to the ground.

"Now," Elias murmured smoothly, releasing Mark’s arm and standing up in one fluid motion. "Get off my asphalt. And move your little toy car before I have it crushed and sold for scrap."

Mark scrambled to his feet. His white tank top was covered in dirt. His face was a mask of sheer panic, embarrassment, and deep, profound sweatdropping. He didn’t try to throw another punch. He didn’t say a word.

He practically sprinted back to his Porsche, his entourage silently piling in behind him.

The engine roared, the tires squealed, and the sports car fled the Sovereign Studios lot as fast as it had arrived.

The silence that followed was broken only by the sound of Brad Pitt taking another loud bite of his apple. "That was the most entertaining thing I’ve seen all week," Brad grinned. "You’re a terrifying dude, Elias."

Elias smoothly dusted off his hands, though there was no dirt on them.

Paul and Owen ran forward.

"Elias!" Paul screamed, tears of sheer, unadulterated joy streaming down his face behind his sunglasses. He threw his arms around Elias’s waist in a tight, desperate hug. "You beat him! You beat up Marky Mark! You are a god of war! You didn’t even drop your espresso!"

"Personal space, Paul," Elias sighed, though he didn’t push his deeply traumatized assistant away.

Owen slapped Elias on the shoulder, looking at him with profound reverence. "Man, the way you bypassed his aggressive chakra and redirected his kinetic ego into the pavement... that was beautiful. You’re like a capitalist ninja."

Deep within his mind, the digital system celebrated the absolute dominance of its host.

[CHA-CHING!][SYSTEM NOTIFICATION: THE MINION HUMILIATION EXECUTED WITH FLAWLESS STREET JUSTICE!][EVALUATION: YOU DODGED A STREET PUNCH, EXECUTED A PERFECT TAKEDOWN, AND SHATTERED A NEPO-RIVAL’S EGO BY REMINDING HIM HE IS LITERALLY A MANNEQUIN FOR YOUR SUPPLY CHAIN. NO JARGON. JUST RAW, SHAMELESS OWNERSHIP. THE SYSTEM IS CHEERING FROM THE BLEACHERS.][REWARD: +15 SHAMELESS POINTS (CP) DEPOSITED.]

Elias smiled. His CP balanced out flawlessly.

Just as the notification cleared, the daily ledger finalized its automated deduction.

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

His liquid cash settled at $497,900.00. The empire was safe. The hierarchy of the studio lot was absolute.

"Come along, gentlemen," Elias ordered smoothly, turning his back on the studio gates. "We have a cable to move, and I refuse to pay overtime."