Chapter 94: The Weight of the Crown
Saturday, February 27, 2016
3:45 AM
The interior of the Prevost felt solid. There was no creaking of cheap plastics like in budget vans; at 70 miles per hour, the tour bus emitted only a low hum that vibrated slightly through the dark hardwood floor. The air conditioning was set at 68 degrees, keeping the atmosphere dry with that characteristic smell of new leather and clean carpet that freshly rented luxury vehicles have.
Michael sat in his private suite at the back of the trailer. There was no trace of the maniac who hours earlier had been jumping on a Lamborghini. He had removed the heavy chains that had left red marks on his neck and had washed the dye from his hair until it returned to its natural tone.
He was dressed as functionally as possible for a long trip: an oversized black cotton hoodie, gray athletic shorts, and a pair of Jordan 4 sneakers that were very comfortable. He wore no watch, no rings, nothing that shone. In the bluish glow of the ceiling LEDs, he looked exactly like what he legally was: a sixteen-year-old teenager waiting for the hours to pass.
On the worktable of his portable studio, Michael's iPhone kept vibrating. He had the notifications on silent, but the screen lit up every few seconds.
He opened Instagram. The algorithm was already doing its job. Several extras from the Gucci Gang video had posted stories and blurry photos from the set. On Twitter, his name was already trending in industry circles. The comments were a mix of confusion and amazement over the Bengal tiger. On Snapchat, leaked clips of him dancing on the Aventador were being shared by thousands of accounts.
Michael scrolled through the screen with his thumb, reading some comments on Twitter: "Is that a real tiger?", "This kid is either crazy or has too much money", "Rap is dead."
He locked the phone and set it on the table. He wasn't surprised by the reaction—it was exactly what he had planned with Cole Bennett—but seeing how people swallowed the eccentric drug addict persona while he sat there drinking mineral water and reading about investments gave him a strange feeling.
He got up from the leather seat and walked the two steps that separated him from the sliding door of his suite. He opened it slightly to observe the rest of the bus.
In the bunk area, the curtains were closed. Karl and T-Roc were completely knocked out; the day of shooting had left them exhausted. At the front, Big Rob's massive silhouette stood out against the windshield, seated next to the driver who kept his eyes fixed on the road to Phoenix. There were no conversations, only the sound of the engine and the hiss of the air.
Michael returned to his chair and sighed. The $50,000 trailer was comfortable, but the space still felt small when you had to make decisions that affected millions of dollars. He looked at his two phones.
He knew he couldn't go to sleep without first sorting out his situation with the only two people who knew his reality: the woman who helped him keep his body in shape and the man who tried to keep his empire legal without knowing the whole truth.
4:00 AM
Michael picked up his iPhone and searched for Amy's contact. He knew she usually woke up early for her own training routines, so he didn't feel too bad about calling her at that hour. He placed the phone on an aluminum stand on his production desk, facing him, and pressed the video call icon.
Amy answered on the fourth ring. She appeared on screen with her hair pulled back in a high ponytail, wearing a gray technical shirt. She seemed to be in her kitchen, probably preparing some smoothie before going to the gym. When she saw Michael's face, she frowned and crossed her arms.
"I woke up to three text messages asking if I knew my star client had gone on a national tour at three in the morning," Amy said. She didn't sound furious, but her tone was sharp. "We had a strength session scheduled for Monday, Michael."
Michael leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. His black hoodie bunched up around his neck.
"I know. It was a last-minute decision. The Gucci Gang video finished shooting yesterday and Karl already had the venue contracts signed. There wasn't time to notify you personally," Michael replied. His voice was flat and honest. "Sorry about that."
Amy sighed and took a sip from a water bottle. She stared at the background of Michael's image, analyzing the padded walls and blue LED lights of the portable studio.
"Are you on the bus?" she asked.
"Yes. It's a Prevost. We have plenty of space." Michael turned the phone slightly to show her the hallway and the improvised gym he had set up near his suite. There was a set of adjustable dumbbells, a yoga mat, and a couple of resistance bands hanging from a hook. "I'm not going to skip training, Amy. I promised you."
"That space is small, Michael. You're going to have to get creative with bodyweight and bands if you don't want to lose the muscle mass we gained in January," Amy commented, now in a more professional tone. "Diet on the road is what worries me. You can't live on gas station fast food."
"I have a full kitchen here and T-Roc knows how to prepare the basics if I ask him. I'm going to follow the plan," Michael assured her. He adjusted his white leather sneakers, stretching his legs under the table. "I'll send you videos of my sets every morning before the bus gets moving. If I see that I'm failing at something, I'll call you to correct my form."
Amy nodded, looking more satisfied.
"Alright. If you skip more than two days, I'll come find you in whatever state you're in," she joked, though Michael knew she was serious. "How are you? Not the rapper who jumps on cars, but you."
Michael looked at his laptop screen for a second, where the production software showed a complex sound wave.
"I'm tired, but focused. This is what I wanted, right? Being on the road," he answered. He didn't want to delve too deeply into his feelings. "I'll let you get to the gym. I'll send you the report tomorrow from Phoenix."
"Take care of yourself, Michael. And don't break anything on stage," Amy said before hanging up.
The screen went black. Michael set the phone aside and exhaled a long sigh. That part was resolved. Now came the call that would really determine whether his financial empire remained a secret or whether Harris would start to suspect too much.
4:15 AM
Michael set the water bottle on the desk. Condensation was starting to wet the wooden surface, but he didn't care. He looked at the Ethereum chart on his laptop; the price was fluctuating, but the trend was clear. He knew this conversation with Harris was the most important financial move of his career so far.
He dialed the number. On the third ring, Harris's voice answered, laden with a weariness he was trying to disguise.
"Michael? What's going on? It's four in the morning; you should be resting to get to Phoenix," Harris said. The sound of a switch and the movement of sheets could be heard.
"I'm fine, Harris. Nobody's died and the bus is still on the road," Michael said, leaning back in his chair. His white sneakers rested on the edge of the desk. "I need to talk to you about the royalty money and the distribution advance. The four hundred thousand I asked you to move into government bonds."
"Yes, the bonds. It's the most sensible option, Michael. Low interest, but absolute security for your assets," Harris replied with the protective tone of a legal guardian.
Michael exhaled a slow sigh and looked at the blue light of his audio interface.
"I didn't buy them. As soon as we hung up that time, I canceled the order through the digital broker. I moved all that capital, and almost everything I made from the house sale, into Ethereum."
The silence that followed was dense. Michael could imagine Harris sitting on the edge of his bed, rubbing his temples in frustration.
"Ethereum? Michael, that thing is a gamble. It's code on a screen that nobody regulates," Harris's voice rose in pitch, losing its calm. "You lied to me. You told me we were going to play it safe. How much money do you have in that wallet?"
"I have four hundred and fifty thousand ETH, Harris. I've been accumulating them since they were worth pennies. At today's price, I have millions of dollars in there. And I don't plan to sell a single coin until the price reaches the stratosphere," Michael spoke with a technical coldness that left Harris speechless for a moment. "The problem is that when that happens, I don't want the IRS to take half in capital gains taxes. I need an exit."
"Millions…" Harris whispered. A deep sigh could be heard. "Michael, you're sixteen years old. You can't hide that amount of money from the United States government. If you sold today, the IRS would demand an accounting of every cent. In fact, with what you've legally earned from Lucid Dreams and YouTube plays, we already owe tens if not hundreds of thousands in taxes for this fiscal cycle."
"I know. We'll pay that, Harris. I don't want problems now. Take the money from the checking account and pay whatever the IRS asks for this year. I want to be clean," Michael said with determination. "But for what comes next, I need you to create a company in Dubai. An LLC that doesn't have to report on personal or capital taxes."
"Dubai isn't like opening an account at the corner bank, Michael," Harris replied, now in lawyer mode. "Creating a legitimate offshore structure, with commercial licenses and corporate accounts in the Emirates, is going to take us weeks, maybe months. We have to travel, sign documents before a notary, validate your identity as a minor with a legal guardian… it's a long process."
"Start today," Michael ordered. "I don't care how long it takes or how much the process costs. I want that company in Dubai to end up absorbing my assets here. I want my investments to legally belong to that foreign entity before Ethereum really explodes."
Harris was silent for almost a minute. Michael heard the tick-tock of a clock in the background.
"You lied to me, Michael. I asked you for transparency and you turned around to play Wolf of Wall Street with cryptocurrencies," Harris sounded disappointed but resigned. "I'm going to start the paperwork for Dubai. I'm going to pull strings to protect you, but this is the last time. Don't hide another move of this magnitude from me again. If I'm going to be your shield, I need to know what I'm protecting."
"Understood, Harris. There won't be any more secrets with the accounts," Michael agreed.
"Good. We'll pay that million to the IRS so they don't suspect anything for now. Rest, kid. You've got a tour to win," Harris said before hanging up.
Michael set the phone on the table. His pulse was calm. He knew that losing one or two million now was the price of admission to save billions in the future. He stretched in the chair, feeling the exhaustion from the tiger shoot finally weighing on his eyelids.
4:30 AM
Michael remained seated in front of his laptop screen, but he wasn't looking at the audio files or social media. His eyes were fixed on the void, focusing on the System interface that floated in his field of vision. The Impact Points (IP) counter glowed with an intensity that seemed to illuminate the inside of his eyelids.
[IMPACT POINTS: 1,645,200 IP]
It was an absurd figure for someone who had barely been in the industry for a few months. It was the direct result of having infected the algorithm with Lucid Dreams, of the millions of plays on his videos, and of the constant controversy his image generated. Every hate comment, every obsessed fan, and every press article had translated into this digital currency.
Michael rubbed his hands together. His fingers were slightly cold from the trailer's air conditioning. He knew that for the tour to be a success and to establish himself as the sole leader of the movement he was creating, he needed more than a couple of viral hits. He needed an arsenal.
"System, open the Elite Production Roulette," Michael said in a low voice. No one was awake to hear him, but he preferred to vocalize his commands.
Before his eyes, the System menu changed. A massive wheel, composed of fragments of golden and purple light, began to materialize. It wasn't a static image; Michael felt a subtle vibration at the base of his skull, an electric hum that accompanied the presence of the interface.
[COST PER ELITE SPIN: 1,000,000 IP]
[WARNING: THIS ACTION WILL CONSUME MOST OF YOUR CURRENT BALANCE. DO YOU WISH TO CONTINUE?]
Michael didn't hesitate. He sighed deeply, adjusting his black hoodie. "Yes. Spend the million."
In that instant, the private studio of the Prevost seemed to disappear. The physical reality of the trailer was replaced by a vortex of data. Michael felt pressure in his temples as the roulette began to spin at a dizzying speed. It wasn't just a random selection; he felt how the System scanned future trends, frequencies that hadn't yet been invented, and feelings the world was about to experience.
Neon colors exploded in his vision. Purple, lime green, and a blinding gold mixed together as the buzzing in his ears increased in volume, becoming a pure, sustained musical note.
Click. Click. Click.
The roulette began to slow. Michael held his breath, hands clenched on the thighs of his shorts. The first fragment of light stopped and a massive notification appeared in the center of his vision, blocking everything else.
[PRODUCTION JACKPOT!]
[COMPLETE PROJECT UNLOCKED: "DIAMONDS"]
Michael felt an electric discharge run down his spine. It wasn't just a song; it was an entire album. In his mind, fragments of brilliant melodies, processed guitars, and lyrics that spoke of love, drugs, and the emptiness of fame began to play. It was a perfect fusion of pop and trap that no one in 2016 was ready to hear.
But the System didn't stop there. Having spent a million points at once, the roulette activated a cascade effect.
[ADDITIONAL REWARDS FOR MASSIVE INVESTMENT:]
[UNLOCKING MASTER FILES…]
Michael watched as other golden lights began to blink, revealing names that were familiar to him from his knowledge of the future. He saw the audio guides appear for what would be his next big singles. The files began downloading directly into the System's mental hard drive, ready for him to work on them in his portable studio during the trip.
"Shit…" Michael whispered, overwhelmed by the amount of sensory information he was receiving.
He felt the weight of the new songs: the bass structures, the exact autotune adjustments, and the lyrics that were destined to be tattooed on the skin of thousands of young people. The list kept growing, illuminating his mind with titles that promised to destroy the charts.
Just as Michael tried to focus his vision to read the rest of the additional song names, the interface began to emit a blinding white glow, signaling that the transfer process was reaching its climax. The chapter of being a simple viral artist was closing at that very second, in the middle of a California highway.
Michael closed his eyes tightly as the final burst of data hit his brain, leaving the final result in suspense as the trailer continued advancing toward the darkness of Phoenix.
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