Promo Code Genius

The code works for exactly twelve minutes, and my phone starts vibrating like it’s trying to escape my hand.

I’m standing in the strip mall outside Kumo Tea, under the flickering sign that makes everyone look a little seasick. The air smells like burnt sugar and fryer oil from the place next door. My ring light—thrifted, slightly bent, held up by a laundry basket because I’m a professional—turns the sidewalk into a tiny stage.

On my screen, the comments are stacking so fast they blur into each other.

“NO WAY IT WORKED.”

“BRO I GOT THEM FOR $9???”

“DROP ANOTHER ONE.”

My voice on the video is calm, which is hilarious, because my hand is shaking so hard the camera keeps trying to focus on my thumb. I’m not doing anything illegal. I’m not hacking. I’m doing what I always do—finding promo codes like they’re hidden doors in plain sight, the kind you only see if you look from the right angle.

Except this one isn’t mine.

The DM came an hour ago from an account with no profile picture, just a username made of random letters like someone smashed their forehead onto a keyboard. Message: EMPLOYEE FRIENDS & FAMILY. 90% OFF. POST BEFORE MIDNIGHT.

That’s the whole thing. No “hey,” no explanation, no “please.” Just a code that feels too clean, too sharp, like a blade.

I told myself I’d test it once. If it didn’t work, I’d delete the DM, laugh at myself, and go back to my usual grind. If it did work… well. I guess we’re here.

A car door slams behind me. Mina appears at my shoulder like she got summoned by my stress sweat.

“You’re doing the face,” she says.

“I’m not doing a face.”

“You’re doing the face you do when you think you’re about to get away with something and also maybe ruin your life.” She flicks her eyes to my screen. “Jae. That discount is insane.”

“It’s helping people,” I say, and even to me it sounds like a defense attorney.

My phone buzzes again. New DM. Same account.

POST THE FULL VIDEO. TAG VALEDEALS. NOW.

My stomach tightens like someone pulled a drawstring. ValeDeals. Trent Vale. The guy who makes “deal” content with perfect lighting and perfect teeth, the kind of creator brands actually answer.

Mina’s already shaking her head, like she can read the DM off my expression. “Don’t,” she says, softer this time. “If this is stolen, you’re the one whose name gets glued to it.”

Across the parking lot, the sneaker store’s security guard is staring right at me, one hand on his radio, like he’s deciding whether I’m a kid filming a harmless video or a problem.

My notifications keep detonating, my follower count ticking up in real time, and the DM sits there like a lit match over spilled gasoline.