Story code: ST-001919
Part 1: The Setup
“Thirty seconds to live,” the broadcast director’s voice buzzed in my earpiece, leaving me just enough time to crawl under the glass desk and scrub a scuff mark off Chase’s pristine white sneakers. The Austin mega-mansion was so over-conditioned my sweat felt like ice against my neck, but the high-definition lenses caught every flaw, and Chase did not tolerate flaws. I scrambled backward on my hands and knees, dragging the damp microfiber cloth over the polished concrete floor so I wouldn’t leave footprints in the dust.
The countdown clock on the primary monitor ticked down in harsh red digits. Ten seconds. Chase adjusted his posture, shrugging off the custom silk robe I was waiting to catch. I bundled the heavy fabric against my chest and ducked behind the camera array, safely out of the broadcast frame. The red light on camera one blinked alive.
Chase’s face shifted instantly from a tight scowl into his trademark, million-dollar smile. He leaned into the microphone, pitching his voice down to that gravelly, earnest tone his millions of followers loved.
He told them about the grind. He spoke about building his empire from the dirt up, starting with nothing but a rusted bicycle and a pocketful of maxed-out credit cards. I stood in the shadows, holding his discarded robe in one hand and a clipboard in the other, listening to the words I had typed into the teleprompter at two in the morning.
The studio was an absolute illusion. Just beyond the tight shot of the exposed-brick backdrop, the room opened up to a massive infinity pool overlooking Lake Travis. I had spent the entire morning hauling heavy blackout curtains across the floor-to-ceiling windows to hide the sprawling estate, ensuring the background looked like a gritty, stripped-down startup garage. My back throbbed from dragging the industrial lighting rigs into place. My fingertips were raw from taping down miles of thick black cables to keep the floors clear for Chase’s dramatic pacing.
Chase moved across the floor now, delivering the story with perfect, rehearsed pauses. He described the nights he spent freezing in a broken-down sedan, eating dry cereal out of the box because he could not afford milk. He described the exact smell of the mold in that car. The damp upholstery. The desperate, heavy feeling in his chest.
My hands tightened around the clipboard. I knew that smell. I knew that exact feeling, down to the aching cold in my joints, because I had lived it. I had made the mistake of telling Chase that story during a late-night drive three months ago when I was too exhausted to keep my guard up. Now, it was the cornerstone of his massive financial webinar launch. He had taken the darkest year of my life, polished it, and packaged it as his own origin story to sell a five-thousand-dollar online course.
The subscriber count on the monitor surged past fifty thousand viewers. The chat rolled so fast it was just a blur of text. People were pouring in, captivated by the raw, gritty hustle of a man who currently had a private chef preparing sushi in the kitchen upstairs.
Chase hit the emotional climax of his script. He walked back to the desk, his eyes locked on the camera lens. He was supposed to reach down and pull out the prop. The visual anchor of the whole broadcast. It was a faded, grease-stained mechanic’s jacket. The jacket I wore when I was actually sleeping in that sedan. He had demanded I bring it in today to use as his ultimate symbol of the struggle.
He reached under the desk. His hand grabbed empty air.
I realized with a jolt that the jacket was still slung over my shoulder, hidden under the folds of his silk robe. I had moved it when I crawled under the desk to clean his shoes and forgot to put it back.
Chase’s smile remained fixed for the camera, but his eyes darted to me. The warmth vanished from his expression, replaced by a cold, furious demand. He gave a subtle, frantic wave of his fingers, signaling me to toss it to him. But the cameras were positioned too closely together, and the lighting grid blocked any clear path to throw it without it casting a massive, ruinous shadow across the backdrop.
He kept talking, stretching his sentence, stalling for time. He needed the jacket. The entire script hinged on him holding it up to the light, showing the frayed cuffs to prove he had done hard labor.
I took a step forward, intending to crouch low and slide it across the floor.
Chase did not wait for me to fix the problem quietly. Instead of letting me pass it out of sight, he stepped out of his mark, reached past the ring light, and grabbed my wrist. He yanked me hard into the harsh glare of the broadcast. The millions of viewers watching saw me stumble into the frame, a pale, exhausted assistant clutching a crumpled, grease-stained jacket. Chase clamped his heavy hand onto my shoulder, digging his fingers into my collarbone, and turned me toward the flashing red light of the main camera.
“Thirty seconds to live,” the broadcast director’s voice buzzed in my earpiece, leaving me just enough time to crawl under the glass desk and scrub a scuff mark off Chase’s pristine white sneakers. The Austin mega-mansion was so over-conditioned my sweat felt like ice against my neck, but the high-definition lenses caught every flaw, and Chase did not tolerate flaws. I scrambled backward on my hands and knees, dragging the damp microfiber cloth over the polished concrete floor so I wouldn’t leave footprints in the dust.
The countdown clock on the primary monitor ticked down in harsh red digits. Ten seconds. Chase adjusted his posture, shrugging off the custom silk robe I was waiting to catch. I bundled the heavy fabric against my chest and ducked behind the camera array, safely out of the broadcast frame. The red light on camera one blinked alive.
Chase’s face shifted instantly from a tight scowl into his trademark, million-dollar smile. He leaned into the microphone, pitching his voice down to that gravelly, earnest tone his millions of followers loved.
He told them about the grind. He spoke about building his empire from the dirt up, starting with nothing but a rusted bicycle and a pocketful of maxed-out credit cards. I stood in the shadows, holding his discarded robe in one hand and a clipboard in the other, listening to the words I had typed into the teleprompter at two in the morning.
The studio was an absolute illusion. Just beyond the tight shot of the exposed-brick backdrop, the room opened up to a massive infinity pool overlooking Lake Travis. I had spent the entire morning hauling heavy blackout curtains across the floor-to-ceiling windows to hide the sprawling estate, ensuring the background looked like a gritty, stripped-down startup garage. My back throbbed from dragging the industrial lighting rigs into place. My fingertips were raw from taping down miles of thick black cables to keep the floors clear for Chase’s dramatic pacing.
Chase moved across the floor now, delivering the story with perfect, rehearsed pauses. He described the nights he spent freezing in a broken-down sedan, eating dry cereal out of the box because he could not afford milk. He described the exact smell of the mold in that car. The damp upholstery. The desperate, heavy feeling in his chest.
My hands tightened around the clipboard. I knew that smell. I knew that exact feeling, down to the aching cold in my joints, because I had lived it. I had made the mistake of telling Chase that story during a late-night drive three months ago when I was too exhausted to keep my guard up. Now, it was the cornerstone of his massive financial webinar launch. He had taken the darkest year of my life, polished it, and packaged it as his own origin story to sell a five-thousand-dollar online course.
The subscriber count on the monitor surged past fifty thousand viewers. The chat rolled so fast it was just a blur of text. People were pouring in, captivated by the raw, gritty hustle of a man who currently had a private chef preparing sushi in the kitchen upstairs.
Chase hit the emotional climax of his script. He walked back to the desk, his eyes locked on the camera lens. He was supposed to reach down and pull out the prop. The visual anchor of the whole broadcast. It was a faded, grease-stained mechanic’s jacket. The jacket I wore when I was actually sleeping in that sedan. He had demanded I bring it in today to use as his ultimate symbol of the struggle.
He reached under the desk. His hand grabbed empty air.
I realized with a jolt that the jacket was still slung over my shoulder, hidden under the folds of his silk robe. I had moved it when I crawled under the desk to clean his shoes and forgot to put it back.
Chase’s smile remained fixed for the camera, but his eyes darted to me. The warmth vanished from his expression, replaced by a cold, furious demand. He gave a subtle, frantic wave of his fingers, signaling me to toss it to him. But the cameras were positioned too closely together, and the lighting grid blocked any clear path to throw it without it casting a massive, ruinous shadow across the backdrop.
He kept talking, stretching his sentence, stalling for time. He needed the jacket. The entire script hinged on him holding it up to the light, showing the frayed cuffs to prove he had done hard labor.
I took a step forward, intending to crouch low and slide it across the floor.
Chase did not wait for me to fix the problem quietly. Instead of letting me pass it out of sight, he stepped out of his mark, reached past the ring light, and grabbed my wrist. He yanked me hard into the harsh glare of the broadcast. The millions of viewers watching saw me stumble into the frame, a pale, exhausted assistant clutching a crumpled, grease-stained jacket. Chase clamped his heavy hand onto my shoulder, digging his fingers into my collarbone, and turned me toward the flashing red light of the main camera.