The world is nothing but a mere drama, like puppets controlled freely by the master puppeteer.
Above it all, the puppeteers play with invisible strings, moving the characters without their awareness.
But this time, Zeice and her three friends are no longer just puppets in this game.
They are the architects of narrative, carving out the truth with a sharp blade, waiting for the right moment to strike with reality.
They know their enemies are not just mere word thieves. It has escalated into a syndicate of creative theft.
These adversaries are the masters of deception, skilful sculptors of public opinion who can twist the truth into a weapon.
Yet, isn't the game only thrilling when someone can turn the board around? And that is precisely what they intend to do.
(Night, Zeanna's House)
The glow of the rectangular screen reflected on Zeanna's face, casting her shadow across the room.
Her fingers danced swiftly over the keyboard, weaving the hook they had prepared with the perfect bait.
In the corner, Rodney lounged with his feet propped up on the table, eyes fixed on his phone, a faint smirk curling his lips.
Nicko, with a glass of dark wine in his hand, gazed at the glowing screen with the look of an artist admiring his masterpiece.
At the centre of them all, Zeice stood still, silent, but her eyes held a storm brewing beneath the calm.
"They've taken the bait," Zeanna murmured, her voice as steady as the sea before a tempest.
Rodney chuckled softly, scrolling through his phone, "These old players never change. They think… they can shape the narrative without resistance."
"But they don't realise," he added, "this time… we're the ones writing the script."
Nicko's smile curved into something colder, "It's a beautiful irony, really. They're trying to bury us, but they don't realise. They're the ones digging their own grave."
Zeice's gaze remained fixed on the screen, filled with a flood of comments and wild speculation.
One hashtag began to creep towards the top of the trending list, seeping into public consciousness like an unstoppable whisper.
#JusticeForTheAccused
A sharp irony. A hashtag they had crafted, not to defend their enemies, but to expose the truth that had long been hidden behind a veil of manipulation.
"They want to play the victim," Zeice whispered, her fingers tapping rhythmically against the table.
"So, we'll let them… until the world sees who the real puppeteer is."
Zeanna adjusted the algorithm, allowing the false truth they had engineered to spread, only to shatter it when the moment was right.
Because in a world that no longer cares about the truth, victory does not belong to those who are right.
It belongs to those who can convince the world with the sharpest narrative.
And they had been writing this script from the very beginning.
*****
(Elsewhere, in the Darkness Woven by Lies…)
In a dimly lit room, heavy with lung-corrupting smoke, they gathered.
The people who had long operated behind the scenes now shared their quiet anxiety.
"We need to turn the tide before it's too late," a voice broke the silence.
"Our narrative is beginning to crumble. We should be more aggressive."
At the end of the table, someone tapped their rectangular screen, watching as public opinion began to shift.
Their eyes narrowed, fixed on the hashtag now dominating the digital world.
#JusticeForTheAccused
They smiled, "No matter. We'll use this to our advantage."
But there was something they did not realise.
They were the puppeteers, but this time, they were playing a script that was not their own.
They had walked straight into the trap crafted by Zeice and his friends.
And in this trap… there was no way out.
(Back to Zeice's Side…)
Rodney whistled softly, his eyes fixed on the screen of his phone, flooded with public reactions.
A notification popped up.
A faint smile curled on his lips, "They think they can control the tide?" he chuckled.
"When we're the ones creating the waves," he added, laughing.
Nicko raised his glass in a silent toast to the game they were playing.
Zeanna's gaze sharpened as she observed their plan unfolding flawlessly.
Zeice tapped his phone once more, and a message was sent.
At that very moment, the wheels of fate began to turn faster.
This was no longer just a battle of words, nor a fight over narrative.
This… was war.
And only those who understood the meaning of a single piece of wood could survive the flames.
Zeanna closed her laptop slowly, as if she were shutting the pages of a history book.
Yet, every story in history requires a moment of pause.
Even the fiercest wars need silence to ignite the next battle.
"That's enough for tonight," she whispered, almost like a prayer sent to the sky.
"Let the waves we've created swallow them first."
Rodney stretched his body, glancing out the window where the city lights flickered like lost stars.
"Tomorrow will be even more exciting," he murmured. "They'll try to fight the current. But they don't realise… we're the ones who created it."
Nicko sipped the last of his wine, savouring the final moments of the still-young night.
"And the most beautiful thing about all of this..." he said softly, "…is how they're digging their own graves without even realising it."
Zeice remained silent, his gaze fixed on his phone screen, an expression unreadable.
The night breeze crept through the slightly open window, brushing against his face with a silence heavy with meaning.
And finally, after a long sigh, he closed her screen.
"Letsl' go home," he said quietly, but with unwavering resolve. "Let the night do the work for us."
Without another word, they rose one by one.
Their footsteps were almost soundless, like shadows leaving traces in unseen places.
Beyond their world, the universe still rumbled, drowned in the digital dance they had orchestrated.
The hashtag continued to spread, like fire sweeping across dry fields.
Conversations clashed, attacking, defending, forming two opposing sides in a carefully crafted narrative.
And in the depth of the night, as human awareness faded into exhaustion, the world began to bite the bait they had cast.
Rodney and Nicko had already left, rowing the boat they had prepared long before.
Zeice… He tried to reach the boat at Zeanna's dock, before a hand caught his step.
"Leave your body here... tonight," Zeanna said meaningfully, her gaze locked onto the green glint in Zeice's eyes.
Zeice smiled faintly, "My universe isn't here. My angel... is waiting for me…," he replied.
Zeanna let out a slow sigh, her eyes never leaving that emerald glow.
"I offer you another angel... in my universe," she whispered.
"She may not be as graceful as yours... but at least, her love rivals that of your angel."
The soothing cadence of Zeanna's words stirred a small flame within Zeice.
He wasn't afraid of being swept away by the storm.
But… he feared that Zeanna's fate would march forward, just like Daniella's.