Light began to assert its dominion over nature as the storm arrived.
Not rain, nor wind, but a roar that shook the world of imagination.
In an instant, the words long imprisoned in darkness shattered, scattering, slipping into the cracks of human consciousness.
Trending. Viral. Uproar.
Rodney stared at his phone, watching the screen tremble beneath a flood of notifications. The world had seen the truth.
In the corner, Zeanna scrolled through the cascade of posts flashing across her laptop screen.
Hashtags bloomed like thorns piercing the flesh of the guilty.
#WordMafia
#PlagiarismExposed
#JusticeForTheLastInk
Zeice stood still in the middle of the room, his face expressionless, yet his eyes burned, like a fire freshly kindled.
The truth surged like a tidal wave, sweeping away the lies that had long stood tall upon the foundations of deceit.
Comments poured in from across the divide.
"I always suspected this person! Finally, the truth is out!"
"Unbelievable, turns out they've been stealing all along! This is more than plagiarism. It's a crime!"
"People like this deserve punishment! They've been living off stolen words!"
In the corner, Nicko chuckled softly, cold and cynical.
He tossed his phone onto the sofa and fixed his gaze on Zeice, "Just a few minutes, and it's already a tsunami."
Rodney leaned back in his chair, a knowing smirk curling at his lips, "They won't escape this time. Once the truth is out, there's no way to erase it."
Zeanna's fingers flew across the keyboard, digital footprints were a game she mastered with ease.
"Some anonymous accounts are starting to panic. A few are deleting posts, others are locking their profiles."
Zeice exhaled slowly, his fists clenched at his sides, "Too late. Their footprints will remain like blood that cannot be wiped from a blade."
*****
(10:57 am, Zeanna's House)
A message flashed on Zeice's phone screen. An unknown number.
"We need to talk. This isn't what you think it is."
Zeice stared at the message, sensing the unease carefully hidden beneath the words.
He held up the screen for the others to see.
Rodney clicked his tongue, "Of course, they're trying to regain control. They know that once we speak, the world will demand justice."
Zeanna's fingers danced swiftly over her keyboard, her eyes narrowing, "I'll trace where this message came from."
"If they want to play, they have no idea we've already laid the trap."
Nicko crossed his arms, a sly smile curling at the corners of his mouth, "They might try to bargain… or threaten."
Zeice drew in a deep breath. His fingers hovered over the screen before typing a reply.
"Talk? After everything you've done? There's no room left for negotiation."
Message sent.
The phone remained silent. No reply. No sign of life from the other side.
But this was not the silence of fear. It was the silence that heralds a storm.
And the storm was already watching, hidden within their gaze.
*****
(Elsewhere)…
Someone stared at the screen, their gaze heavy with devastation.
Fingers trembled, beads of sweat tracing down their temple.
"This can't be happening…" He whispered.
They tried to erase the traces, to cover up what they had long stolen.
But digital footprints are etched in stone, not written in sand.
And now, that stone had been cast into the vast ocean.
The waves it created would destroy everything. There was no place left to hide.
Before them stretched a long table.
Around it sat people who, for the most part, were untouchable by the laws of words.
These weren't just thieves or plagiarists.
They were the architects of deceit, the word-grafters, operating from the shadows, weaving stories that were never theirs to tell.
Now, they were all gathered, waiting for the voice that would dictate their next move.
At the head of the table, one person tapped their fingertips against the polished surface, steady, rhythmic, deliberate, crafting a soundless melody.
"The sea has turned dark," their voice was quiet, yet it echoed through the room.
"And the waves… they grow wilder… But remember! In every storm, some survive, some drown, and others… learn to tame the tide."
Eyes shifted, glances exchanged, unease hanging heavy in the air.
"Are you afraid?" the voice asked again, this time sharper, cutting through the silence.
"Afraid of something that should never have been able to shake us?"
One person swallowed hard, "The traces… they've found too many traces…"
A faint smile curled the lips of the figure at the head of the table, a shadow of mockery.
"Traces? Since when has a trace been beyond manipulation? Since when does a shadow have only one side?"
They leaned back, scanning the room with cold precision.
"We've crafted stories, shaped narratives, built worlds. Why should we now fail to do the same for ourselves?"
A murmur stirred from the far end of the table.
"They have evidence…"
"Evidence is nothing but fragments of reality," came the reply, as their fingers traced unseen patterns across the surface.
"And reality… is whatever we choose to control."
They stood, their presence cutting through the cold air like a blade.
"Do you want to escape this hole? Then… make them sink deeper."
Silence thickened, chilling and heavy with intent.
"How?" someone asked.
A smirk curved across their lips.
"We rewrite the story."
Stepping forward, they lifted a crystal wine glass, the deep red liquid reflecting the light like a fresh wound.
"A story isn't about who's right or wrong. A story is about who tells it first."
"And a story… is about who plants the seed of doubt in the minds of the world."
They scanned the faces around the table, faces that had hidden behind screens for so long, now looking back with fading hope.
"We plant a new narrative. We turn the accusers into the accused."
Someone leaned back, stroking their chin thoughtfully.
"You mean… we make them the plagiarists? Again?"
"More than that," the voice slithered through the room, dark and deliberate.
"We make it seem as though they planned this from the beginning. That the ones accusing us… are the true masterminds behind it all."
"We don't deny the truth, we poison it with doubt."
A man in glasses sipped his coffee, his gaze sharp and calculating.
"It's risky. But… it could work."
The figure at the head of the table smiled coldly.
"Anything can work. The world doesn't care about the truth. The world only cares about the story it hears the most."
Setting the wine glass back on the table, they looked each one in the eye.
"Let's rewrite destiny."
In that room, a new plan began to take shape, one born not to resist the storm, but to become it.
The silence that followed wasn't one of surrender. It was a silence steeped in calculation.
They began to envision the scenario they would craft, the seeds of doubt they would sow.
"What's the first move?" a voice finally broke through the hush.
Leaning back, the leader resumed their rhythmic tapping, steady as a heartbeat.
"We blur the line between truth and lies," He said.
"We create counter-evidence. We find cracks in their words, expose flaws in their history, and plant something that looks like a mistake."
They lifted their chin, their gaze sharp and unyielding.
"And after that, we let the public do the rest. The world doesn't crave certainty, it only needs a reason to doubt."
Around the table, subtle, knowing smiles began to emerge.
"A new narrative is already in motion," He declared.