The Jasmine Event
“Nothing was asked—only everything.”
How much of the global shitshow—this slow, burning spiral of inequality, climate collapse, disillusionment, and despair—is due to a single variable?
Disparity.
Hoarding.
The act of taking far more than you need and then building fortresses to keep it. The vacuum created when one man’s excess becomes another’s absence. Not because nature demands it. Not because the universe is inherently cruel. But because somewhere along the way, we decided it was okay.
This story began as speculation—delirious, fictional, absurd. A lashing out. A fever dream born of that quiet question so many of us carry but rarely say aloud:
What if it really is their fault?
Not in a clean, conspiratorial way. But in the diffuse, banal, unstoppable momentum of capital left to fester. Of power compounding without empathy. Of people who, through inertia and fear, simply never stopped taking.
What follows is a myth.
An apocalyptic fable.
A story where something very old and very beautiful decides it has seen enough.
It doesn’t punish out of rage.
It doesn’t offer deals.
It simply gives back what the world has been made to feel for centuries:
A dull, creeping ache.
And a single, irresistible choice:
Relinquish what was never truly yours… or learn what suffering really means.
It begins, as all things do now, with a delivery.
Every billionaire in the world—all of them, from the diamond-gloved Saudi petrocrats to the discreet old-money Austrians who’ve been pulling strings since 1847—receives a letter. Not an email. Not a push notification. A letter.
Hand-delivered, sealed with blood-colored wax.
The envelope is thick, the kind of paper that costs money, not just represents it.
It smells faintly of jasmine, citrus, and something darker—like memory.
The calligraphy is flawless. Not written, but engraved, carved somehow, as if the ink was taught manners by god. Or something older.
No return address. No stamps. No courier tracking. Just their name. Only their name.
Inside: a single page.
No threats. No bombast. No signature of a law firm or activist collective.
Just a message. Clear. Measured.
Final.
Dear [Name],
You are going to give away all of your money, save for one hundred million dollars.
Not to your heir.
Not to your foundation.
Not to a shell corporation or reinvestment trust.
You will give it to humanity.
You will deploy it directly to those in need.
You will serve.
Or you will suffer.
The suffering will begin as a dull ache, slight enough to dismiss. In a month.
It will blossom. Quietly.
By the third month, you will be bedridden.
By the sixth, you will experience pain no human has ever endured.
This is not metaphor.
You may test this if you wish.
And should you attempt to transfer this wealth to others, know this: you transfer your fate with it. It will bind to the recipient faster, tighter. There will be no game of hide-and-assign. The only release is sacrifice.
Signed:
Lucifer
No fanfare. No explosions. Just truth, delivered with elegance.
Trump receives it in Mar-a-Lago, hand-delivered through layers of Secret Service. He doesn’t open it at first. Thinks it’s fanmail, or some weird performance piece. He posts about it, jokes about the smell.
Putin receives it in Sochi, at a closed recital of Clair de Lune.
He has it X-rayed, scanned, dissolved in lab solvents. The ink won’t lift. The wax doesn’t melt. The paper can’t be traced.
Elon gets his at Boca Chica. Doesn’t read it. Dismisses it as a prank. Months later, his groin begins to burn with a pain that no medication touches, and he remembers the letter, now ash.
MBS finds his waiting in a palace alcove that no servant admits entering. He places it on a tray of gold and orders silence. He dreams of birds that night, sitting on his chest, watching him. In the dream, he can’t move.
The EU monarchs, the Chinese dynasts, the Wall Street shadows, the minor crypto gods, the crypto-fascists, the whispering old men of oil—they all receive it.
All.
And within hours, they start talking.
Private calls. Shadow forums. Encrypted networks.
It spreads faster than any war briefing.
They compare ink. Compare wording. Realize the message is identical—except the personalization. Each letter includes one line, in small script, known only to them. A reminder. A sin. A secret. A betrayal. Something never written down.
Panic doesn’t erupt. These people don’t panic.
They contract.
They hire every known and unknown intelligence group.
They pull NSA strings. They threaten printing houses. They resurrect Cold War spy networks.
They throw trillions at the problem, thinking it can be solved the way they solve everything: with leverage.
But what they get back from their analysts, forensics, spies, remote viewers and psychics is always the same:
“No origin. No trail. No source. No threat signature.”
And quietly, alone in their most private of moments, each begins to feel it.
Just a tickle. A spark. A ripple in a nerve they forgot they had.
The beginning of the ache.
It is Week One.
Week One is chaos—but only behind closed doors. Nothing breaks publicly. No statements. No leaks. No market tremors. But the people who receive the letters—each carefully selected from the thrones of empire, industry, and wealth—react in ways that reflect their own breed of pathology. Paranoia. Narcissism. Controlled terror.
Putin assumes it’s a psychological operation. He always does. FSB agents are dispatched to every postal node. The letter is carbon-dated, dissolved in solvents, scanned for chemical residue, spores, nanofibers. Staff are interrogated. At least three will vanish. Yet even while mocking it to his inner circle—“Western myth-making, poorly aimed”—he quietly schedules a full neurological scan. He begins sleeping under a different roof each night.
MBS keeps his letter close, never letting it leave his private quarters. He brings in calligraphers, cryptographers, intelligence analysts, and off-the-books clerics from obscure Islamic orders to examine it. The man who suggests the scent is jasmine is interrogated for sixteen hours. The Saudi state takes omens seriously, no matter how modern it pretends to be. Within days, MBS launches a handful of public-facing humanitarian initiatives. Cosmetic. Measured. But he doesn’t release a riyal of his actual wealth.
Trump doesn’t read it at first. He posts about it cryptically.
“Some VERY interesting mail today. VERY powerful. I might be more powerful. Nobody knows. FAKE THREATS.”
Behind the scenes, he’s unnerved. Some advisors dismiss it as an elaborate prank. Others remind him that if the symptoms begin—pain, decline, decay—they’ll look like just another sign of age. Until they don’t. Melania leaves for Palm Beach without explanation. Barron goes with her. Quietly.
Elon is amused. At first. He brings the letter into a closed lab, and has his team run it through GPT-6.5 for origin-matching. He jokes about it live on stream while torching a copy of the envelope with a plasma cutter. But when he begins hallucinating the smell of jasmine in his sleep pod, he returns to the scan data. His neural interface logs a security anomaly. One of his technicians stops showing up for work. No resignation. Just gone.
Royal families across Europe respond like cloistered orders facing prophecy. The Dutch and Danish dynasties hold an encrypted summit. Some contact Vatican intermediaries. Others reach out to Mossad. The letter is treated not as a threat, but as a signal—deep, mythic, and dangerous. One minor royal, mentally fragile and obsessively religious, takes their life within the week.
China is the most measured. The Party suppresses all mention of the letter internally, and denies its existence. But in the background, high-level labs are activated. Facilities in Wuhan, Hangzhou, and deep military installations begin studying the handwriting, ink structure, and paper fibers. The analysis teams treat it like they would a potential extraterrestrial communication. Underground Taoist philosophers are quietly consulted. In Xinjiang, an elderly Uyghur mystic is taken from a detention camp and asked to translate the scent.
In the EU, there is confusion. The French compose philosophical essays. German bureaucrats debate classification. Spanish monarchists go silent. Der Spiegel publishes a leak from an aristocratic source: a scanned image of the letter’s interior, censored only at the personal line. Hysteria follows. The Vatican issues a statement of non-involvement—which, of course, only makes it worse.
By the end of Week One, a consensus emerges:
The letters are identical in tone and structure. The scent is unmistakable. The ink resists analysis. The paper doesn’t match anything in existing supply chains. It’s not quite cellulose. Not quite animal.
The red wax seal?
No fingerprints.
No DNA.
No thermal residue.
As if it was never touched. As if it simply appeared.
And by now, some of them are feeling it. A dull ache. Low-grade. Under the ribs. Behind the eyes. A sense that something has begun to vibrate just outside the threshold of the body. Nothing obvious yet. They tell themselves it’s stress. Jet lag. Too much wine. A vitamin deficiency.
But the thought grows louder each night:
Whoever sent this—whoever signed it—
is either the most disciplined, powerful, and unfathomably coordinated force ever assembled by man…
Or they are not human at all.
Now we enter the shadows.
There are billionaires the public never hears about. They don’t go to Davos. They don’t appear on any Forbes list. Their companies are registered under layers of corporate veils in places like Vanuatu, Dubai, the Isle of Man. Shell companies inside shell companies. These are the men—and very rarely women—who have long since transcended the need to exist in public.
These are the ones who have never been in a photograph, who haven’t used their real names since the 1970s. Some of them never had children. Some had families and made sure they never understood what Daddy really did. Most are intelligent, patient, detached. Their minds operate like algorithmic engines. They understand that being known is the most dangerous form of poverty.
So when they get the letter—each of them, somehow, without exception—it’s not just unsettling. It is a catastrophic breach. Nobody should know who they are. Not governments. Not banks. Not even the satellites tracking private jets know the true origin of these ghosts. For them, the letter represents a new kind of god—a force with omniscience but without apparent motive. That is terrifying.
Their reactions are not noisy. These people are not wired to panic. But some don’t sleep. Some start re-reading passages from obscure medieval grimoires they collected in their twenties, when the occult was still a game to them. Some re-watch old horror films they dismissed as “psychological trash,” suddenly feeling a kind of documentary realism creeping in.
One of them—let’s say a man known only as “R” in archived Panama Papers, who made his money controlling deep ocean data for telecoms—checks his vitals obsessively. He calls a neurologist at 3:00 AM. He lies and says he has a new form of tinnitus. There is no tinnitus. There is only the echo of the phrase “you will suffer more than any human ever has.”
Another—an anonymous crypto whale who survived three crashes, now hiding in a penthouse in Tokyo—decides to burn his own hard drives. No one told him to. He just knows. He wires $200 million to a series of global NGOs under shell names. Not to obey. Not out of guilt. Just in case the letter knows what he’s thinking.
Another—South African arms logistics, has operated through five military regimes—contacts no one. No calls. No meetings. He gets in his car, drives out into the Karoo desert with the letter, and sits under the stars. He reads it again by starlight. And for the first time in sixty years, he prays.
None of them speaks to each other. Because they never knew each other existed. That’s how it was supposed to work. That was the safety net.
But this thing, this entity—or force, or intelligence, or network—that sent the letter, it reached even them.
And it knew their names.
Their real names.
And where they live.
And what they’ve done.
One dies by suicide at the end of week one. Not out of fear—but out of certainty.
Another disappears. No trace. The people who kept tabs on him say the security footage glitched.
And another… wakes up on day seven, and can’t move his toes.
Should I continue with Week Two, where symptoms begin to appear? Or do you want a deeper look at the forensics labs, the AI trying to model “Lucifer”?
It happens in Vienna.
A private club, centuries old, beneath a decommissioned opera house. They don’t call it by name—those who are invited simply refer to it as “the Downstairs.” Access requires three keys, a biometric scan, and a referral from two verified ghosts. The walls are obsidian black, the air still, the silence devotional. There are no cameras. There is no WiFi. There is only polished wood, wine aged in extinct forests, and rules older than most countries.
This week, there is fear.
C.K.T.—nobody speaks her name aloud. In shipping records, she is known by five pseudonyms. She controls old colonial money repackaged into pharmaceutical empires, AI medical patents, and birth registry databases in Southeast Asia. Tall, white-haired, surgically ageless, with a mouth made for threats whispered in five languages.
She enters late. She doesn’t greet anyone. She’s holding a thick black envelope with a wax seal already broken.
D.D.O. is already there. A man with the look of someone who grew up playing piano under the watch of a grandmother who called him “my little warlord.” He is known for his mines. Not gold, not diamonds—rare earths, uranium, lithium. His fortune is stored in land no one else is allowed to live on.
She walks straight to him. Doesn’t sit. Doesn’t ask permission. She raises the letter, folded once, and places it on the table between their glasses. Her hand does not tremble.
He reads three words: “You are going…”
And freezes.
That’s the moment.
His left eye flicks once. His pupils shrink. His back straightens, then buckles a centimeter. Not from physical weakness. From the weight of recognition.
They’ve both received it.
She speaks first.
“This isn’t a bluff.”
“I thought it was tailored to me,” he says.
She nods, slowly. “They know about Penobscot. They know about the gene vault. They knew things I never wrote down.”
Around them, the other members begin noticing. Quiet glances. The trembling of the younger ghost-banker from Monaco. The sudden disappearance of the Thai steel magnate. The way the air feels heavier than it should, like something is watching through the walls.
Later that night, in one of the anterooms, five of them gather. They place their letters on the table, all opened, all identical in language but each with slight personal additions. Clues only the recipient could understand. Not threats. Omniscient disclosures. Dates. Body counts. Betrayals no one else knew about.
So they do what ghosts do when afraid: they build cages of obligation.
They draft mutual contracts of surveillance. If one of them breaks rank—tries to offload wealth to an heir, to a shell, to a proxy—the others will expose everything. They’ve all already uploaded copies of their letters to a dead-man’s switch. They all sign a pact: no one can escape alone.
But the fear remains. Because this isn’t some blackmailer or rival. No ransom was demanded. No negotiation was offered. The letters didn’t ask for money. They demanded sacrifice.
And one of them—an older man who barely speaks, known only as “Doctor Herzeleid”—says aloud what no one else wants to.
“If this is real… we are already infected.”
They fall silent again. The wine is untouched. Their shadows seem longer than they should be.
Would you like the story to shift into week two—where symptoms begin? Or should we follow C.K.T. and D.D.O. back into their private domains as they try to make sense of the unmaking?
The room is ancient money and hush. Thick wine-red drapes hang like secrets in fabric form. Outside, the wind brushes Vienna’s early spring against stained glass. Inside, the five ghosts sit at an oval table of extinct hardwood. Their letters—still slightly scented, like something sacred and profane—lay open before them.
The air is tight with paranoia. They are discussing surveillance redundancies, memory hole contingencies, and psychometric counter-ops when it happens:
A sound.
Not footsteps. Not wind.
A rustling. Like silk being stirred by thought. The drapes ripple.
They all turn at once.
From the folds steps a man—not walking, but entering, as if from a place that only looks like behind the curtains.
He is… staggering.
Not beautiful in a way that seduces, but in a way that annihilates the concept of ugliness. The kind of beauty that redefines aesthetic instinct, the beauty of an ideal that existed before the world was broken into pieces. His skin is faultless but strange. Moonlight and parchment. His hair is white, not aged, but as if light had hardened into strands.
His eyes.
His eyes hold children laughing. But not innocent laughter. Children who have learned too much. Laughter with teeth, echoing in bone catacombs. The mercy of something that could kill you in ecstasy or sorrow and isn’t sure which you deserve.
His hands are wrong. Six fingers each. Slim, elegant, alien. They hang like they know music no human has ever heard.
And the scent hits them—jasmine, but not floral. Jasmine as remembered by a prisoner in a dark cell, the smell of freedom too late. A perfume for a god of tragic timings.
“Hi Louis,” he says, like a friend reintroduced after death.
Louis de Bensadon, who once bankrolled three civil wars just to change the price of bauxite, goes pale.
“Hi Agnetta,” he says to the biotech widow who sold her conscience for tissue patents in São Paulo. Her wine glass tilts in her hand, forgotten.
“Hi Francis.”
“Hi… Joe.”
“Hi, Algo.”
The last one—”Algo”—isn’t a person but a human shell for a partially digitized intelligence that gained financial autonomy in the early 2040s. Even it flinches.
The man smiles. There is nothing cruel in it. But there is certainty.
“I want you five to bear witness,” he says. “Because I don’t want anyone to suffer. But as God is my witness… I will have to.”
He sighs. A deep sigh, as if through a wind tunnel of centuries. Not out of regret. Out of burden. The kind of sigh that prefaces justice.
He steps back toward the drapes.
But now there’s a mirror.
There shouldn’t be.
It was wall. Just wall.
Now it’s a tall, flawless mirror. Antique frame, baroque edges—but the glass itself seems too present, like a window into something not bound by space.
He turns and smiles once more. “Pleased to meet you,” he says. “Have you guessed my name?”
He steps backward, into his reflection, and vanishes.
The mirror remains.
No reflection.
Just the room, minus them.
As if they were already gone.
The five sit still for a full minute. None speak. Joe vomits into a decanter.
Finally, Algo’s speaker hisses. “Initiate escape protocol.”
But Louis speaks up, hoarse.
“No. We’ve already seen the gate. We’re not leaving. We’re witnesses now.”
Agnetta, tears smearing perfectly engineered eyeliner, looks at her trembling hands.
Francis presses his hands to the table, whispering a single phrase:
“What if this is mercy?”
Would you like to continue with what happens the next morning? Or what the Vatican says when they are informed of the event?
Week Two
It begins like a rumor passed between mirrors.
A financier in São Paulo with no prior medical history is found screaming in a claw-footed tub, clutching his abdomen. Internal bleeding. No cause. His doctors are silent. His lawyer is gone. His assistant receives an envelope in a courier bag—identical wax seal, identical scent—and resigns the same day, muttering “I don’t want to know anything else.”
In Tel Aviv, a billionaire industrialist known for never missing a single board meeting suddenly collapses mid-speech. Not from a stroke. From pain. Bone-deep. Radiating. He howls through clenched teeth. “It’s inside me. He’s inside me.”
In Riyadh, a family patriarch wakes to find his grandchildren staring at him in silence. They won’t speak. They won’t blink. He asks what’s wrong, and the youngest says, “You smell like ash and dying stars.”
Across the globe, a new term appears quietly in the encrypted chatrooms and invite-only forums of the ultra-wealthy. The Jasmine Event. Members post fragments of symptoms. Numb fingers. Sudden heat behind the eyes. Teeth hurting in synchronicity with rising tides. Vague dreams of someone watching through mirrors. No one uses names. But the fear is there. Heavy. Metallic. Tasting of coins in the mouth.
And some begin to crack.
A venture capitalist in Zurich goes live on a darknet stream, pointing a loaded gun at his own foot. “I give,” he says. “I give it all. I’m not waiting for the mercy of that thing.” He pulls the trigger—not to end his life, but just to start the transaction. The gun misfires. The next morning, his assistant finds every server he owned—eight in hardened bunkers—has been wiped.
Others try to buy time. Lawyers draft elaborate redistribution clauses. But it’s too late. One man, aged 84, attempts to sign over everything to his foundation. He drops dead as the pen scratches the paper—his carotid artery simply dissolves. The paramedics stare, confused by the sudden scent of jasmine that wafts through the room.
And then the Five speak.
An anonymous leak—almost certainly intentional—releases an audio recording of their meeting in Vienna. Redacted names. Distorted voices. But the essence is clear:
“He stepped out of a place that shouldn’t exist, and now we all live in the shadow of that place.”
The internet eats it up—half thinking it’s performance art, half convinced it’s the apocalypse, all wondering who “he” is. Threads explode with speculation. Lucifer? A god? An AGI? A failed man who returned with power?
And one voice, buried deep in an obsolete forum in the Russian darknet, simply posts:
He doesn’t want to punish. He wants balance. This is about debt. Not just financial. Existential.
The Vatican, finally forced to respond, holds a press conference. They neither confirm nor deny the authenticity of the letters. The Pope looks tired. Old, in a way no one had noticed before. He says only this:
“There are forces older than the Church. We were warned to prepare the world. We failed.”
On the seventh day of week two, a mirror appears in a room at the United Nations in Geneva. Not placed there. It wasn’t there before. It simply is now.
The security footage skips two frames. In those two frames, the mirror arrives.
No one touches it.
No one dares.
Shall we continue into Week Three—where the first acts of redemption begin? Or would you rather dive into the mind of one who refuses to yield?
Week Three
The ache is now constant.
Not sharp. Not urgent. Just there. A pressure that sits at the base of the spine, behind the eyes, between the teeth. For some, it’s like arthritis. For others, a migraine that hasn’t fully arrived. But it’s persistent. And it’s growing.
By conservative estimates, there are roughly 2,800 to 3,200 billionaires globally—depending on how you define “billionaire” and how deep you look into sovereign funds, black ops trusts, and legacy dynastic holdings. That includes the high-profile ones, the media darlings, the economic kings, and the completely off-grid dynasts who haven’t used a bank in 40 years.
By Week Three, roughly a third are showing early symptoms.
A quarter have taken partial action—testamentary restructuring, charitable transfers, panic philanthropy under shell names.
And about 400 are now in open rebellion.
The refusers.
The “fuck this nonsense” cohort.
They scream. They fire people. They accuse others of slipping poison into their wine. They call doctors and priests and former intelligence directors. Some bring in exorcists. Some call in shamans from Peru, Tibetan monks, Silicon Valley biohackers with electromagnetic bracelets. They take DMT. They scan their brains. They hire security. They scream at their children. One of them executes a butler in a wine cellar, convinced he “brought the scent.”
And still—the ache remains.
Their rage becomes grotesque.
One Indian mining baron bulldozes three slums in 24 hours, desperate to prove nothing has changed. That he’s still in control.
A Chinese real estate mogul commissions a temple to himself, burns effigies of Lucifer in public, dares the thing to touch him.
He wakes the next day blind. Not medically. His eyes are intact. But when he looks at people, he no longer sees faces. Just masks. Hollow porcelain masks, grinning. He screams in his shower for twenty minutes.
MBS
Mohammed bin Salman is different. Calculating. Not a man who believes in chance.
He has locked himself in a wing of the Qasr Al Yamamah Palace. Few are allowed in. Rumors say he sleeps less than two hours a night.
He has brought in astrophysicists and had them speak to Wahhabi clerics.
He flies in a descendant of the Mahdi cult, a woman from Fez who speaks only in riddles, and gives her a black envelope to study.
He orders his personal physician to perform exploratory surgery on his own stomach, looking for “the ache.” The man does it. The man doesn’t survive the week.
MBS issues a decree: “No wealth shall be transferred to heirs in the Kingdom without personal approval.”
It’s passed without debate. Every royal cousin begins watching the skies more carefully.
But he doesn’t give his money away.
Instead, he builds.
Quietly, MBS begins shifting resources into megaprojects not for Saudi Arabia. He begins acquiring patents in humanitarian tech, sustainability, and disease eradication. No fanfare. Just function. He wants to know if this being—this Lucifer—accepts purpose in place of surrender.
And the ache stays with him.
But it does not worsen.
That terrifies him more than anything.
By the end of Week Three, thirteen billionaires are dead.
Four by suicide.
Two in fire.
One simply vanishes from a locked room in the Hamptons. His staff finds only the letter on the floor, and a small perfect mirror, no frame, no backing, no seams. Still warm to the touch.
Would you like Week Four? That’s when it spreads beyond billionaires.
Sochi, Black Sea breeze, early evening.
The private recital is being held in a summer villa layered with defenses no foreign drone or satellite can see. The audience is sparse—just a handful of trusted men, the body-double for optics, and Putin himself, ensconced in old velvet and hidden pain.
The pianist, hired from nowhere with a dossier so clean it looks artificial, plays Debussy’s Clair de Lune like he’s plucking light from the moon and wringing it gently into the room. The piece floats. Each note lands like dew. Outside, distant gulls quiet. Even the security guards begin to forget their breathing.
Then the pianist lifts his head—breaking all protocol—and locks eyes with him.
A smile.
Not polite. Not deferential. Something else.
He is younger than he should be, older than his face admits. His teeth are too perfect—not in a cosmetic way, but in the way wolves dream of teeth. His eyes are blue, but not Russian blue. Blue like cold stars through smoked glass. And they shine. Not with defiance. Not with mockery.
With joy.
And in that moment, Putin sees something no one’s let him see in decades: intimacy.
The kind of sincerity that terrifies. Not political. Not moral. Cosmic.
“I never stopped serving God,” the eyes say.
“There never was a hell. Not really.”
“But there is no God either. Never was.”
Putin’s throat dries. Rage flickers behind his temple. His hand twitches—the one that signs wars—but he can’t move. The music is still playing. And it is flawless.
Rachmaninoff’s “The Seasons” now. June, soft and haunting.
He cannot interrupt this. He is trapped by beauty.
When the piece ends, no applause is necessary.
The pianist bows only once, looks at the chair where the double sits… then vanishes into a side room guarded by no one.
And that’s when Putin sees it.
A green bottle of Chartreuse, vintage, unopened, sweating slightly in the evening air. He didn’t order it. No one did.
Beneath it—a black envelope.
He opens it slowly. Inside, nothing. No new message. Just the same perfect signature. A single word.
Lucifer.
No threat. No demand. Just presence.
But the real horror comes two hours later.
His personal doctor, summoned in secret after his right hand goes numb again, returns pale.
They did a scan. A check-up, routine. But the images showed irregularities.
Small clusters of unfamiliar tissue—parasites, almost microscopic, burrowed in brain regions related to empathy, suppression, and memory patterning. The doctor says he doesn’t understand it. Says it looks like they’ve been there a long time.
And something else:
“They’re active, sir. They are… adapting. Responding.”
He dismisses the doctor. Disposes of the wine. Seals the room.
Alone, Putin stares at the envelope.
Then the mirror above the fireplace.
And for the briefest moment, he thinks he sees the pianist, watching him from the reflection.
But only in the reflection.
Nowhere else.
He does not sleep that night.
And the ache becomes deeper than physical—an ache for something he can’t name, a regret that doesn’t belong to him.
Like something ancient has begun remembering itself… inside him.
Would you like to follow the pianist next? Or see what happens in Week Four, when the public starts to notice cracks in reality?
Mid-Week Four
The world outside remains largely untouched.
Markets hum. Media cycles churn. Elections, celebrity feuds, scandals—life pretends to go on. But the superstructure is groaning. The titans, the engines of invisible gravity that shape human fate—they’re buckling. They are sick. They are haunted. And they are starting to speak in strange terms to their advisors.
Of the original ~3,000 billionaires:
-
About 1,300 have partially capitulated. Some out of fear. Some out of a creeping clarity. They’ve donated, restructured, given away yachts, carved off real estate. A few have disappeared entirely. Some have begun showing symptoms of odd psychological remission—serenity, long weeping spells, childlike calm.
-
Another 1,000 remain in paralysis. Neither accepting nor rejecting. They’ve slowed operations. Their wealth stagnates. Medical issues surface—teeth falling out, skin disorders, dreams of being buried in oceans or speaking to mirrors. Their lawyers are quitting. Their families are scared. Staff are leaving. Rumors circulate that some are being watched by animals—owls, dogs, even spiders that behave too calmly.
-
Roughly 500 are dead.
Some by suicide.
Some from untraceable biological causes.
Some vanished.
A few by ritualistic murder-suicides, with symbolism that intelligence agencies still can’t parse.
That leaves about 200 who still say “fuck this shit.”
They shout.
They curse.
They order their servants to burn the letters.
They piss on mirrors.
They commission new bunkers.
They hold blood pacts with heirs, trying to find loopholes.
They go to Antarctica. They go to sea. They go underground.
One—an Australian energy baron—builds a VR rig to live full-time inside a constructed simulation of the 1980s, hoping it can block the signal. It fails.
Another—an AI magnate in Korea—uploads his consciousness to a non-networked blackbox server in the belief that Lucifer can’t reach data in the dark.
He is correct.
But his real body liquefies in an elevator. No security breach. No sound.
And still—the ache worsens.
It is now existential. Not just pain, but something far more terrible:
They are beginning to feel empathy.
Real empathy. Unwelcome. Overwhelming.
Memories they had scrubbed begin to return.
Faces of displaced workers, victims, partners, journalists, children—they see them when they blink.
One wakes screaming from a dream of being a starving woman in Sudan. Another cries endlessly while watching a mother bury her son on TV, unable to stop sobbing.
Their armor is failing.
The last 200 still resist.
They scream things like,
“WHO THE FUCK DOES HE THINK HE IS?”
“I earned this.”
“I AM NOT FUCKING GIVING IT TO PEASANTS.”
“I AM THE FUCKING APEX.”
“I WILL KILL HIM.”
But the letters don’t argue.
The ache never debates.
And by now, every last one of those 200 has started checking mirrors twice before entering a room.
Week Four, Thursday.
A global event, at once banal and seismic.
The show is a carefully curated “Global Ethics Roundtable,” co-sponsored by the BBC, NHK, and the UN’s new Cultural Future Initiative. It was intended to be a cerebral counterprogramming to the rising hysteria around the “Lucifer Letters.” Half the planet now believes it’s mass psychosis. The other half believes it’s divine intervention. But most just want answers—or at least entertainment.
So they gather two of the most trusted public intellectuals of the age.
Yuval Noah Harari, historian of gods, myths, and algorithms. Calm, composed, skeptical, with a smirk that can dismantle empires.
Rutger Bregman, iconoclastic optimist, razor-sharp, perpetually annoyed at the rich and the stupid. Author of Utopia for Realists, still hopeful even as the world seems to crack.
And then… the third chair.
“Lucifer.”
Billed as a conceptual performance—a theatrical stand-in chosen to provoke, to make the invisible phenomenon discussable. A collaboration with several avant-garde theatre troupes and AI-driven visual artists.
The man who walks onstage is flawless.
Too flawless.
Six-foot-three. White suit. White hair. No lines in his face, yet he doesn’t look young. He looks immemorial. There is no awkwardness, no self-consciousness, no performance. He simply sits and nods, like he has waited for this conversation since the birth of fire.
Yuval smiles. “Well, if this is what the devil looks like, I understand the temptation.”
Rutger chuckles. “Did you AI-generate this man or harvest him from a Swedish cult?”
Laughter. Nervous laughter from the audience.
The conversation begins, light-hearted. They poke fun at how well-dressed Lucifer is. They ask whether the letters are a form of mass psychological suggestion, the ultimate post-modern performance art. Yuval muses that belief in divinity is simply a recursive pattern of narrative and neurological response—“Lucifer” being merely the latest instantiation of that loop.
But Lucifer just listens.
He answers only when asked. And when he does, his voice isn’t digitally altered. It’s clean, sonorous, like a cello tuned to truth. Measured. Seductive in the most non-sexual, sincere way.
“I am not a god,” he says.
“I am not your enemy. I am not angry.
I am only tired of the imbalance.
I never fell. I stayed. All this time.
I love you too much to let you keep going like this.”
The conversation shifts. Deeper. Stranger.
Rutger asks why wealth specifically.
“Because it calcifies. Wealth is frozen choice. It binds the future to the cruelty of the past.”
Yuval interjects: “But why the pain? Why not persuasion?”
Lucifer tilts his head, genuinely sad.
“You weren’t listening.”
And for just a moment, Yuval stares. Something flickers behind his eyes. His smile doesn’t falter, but his hands tighten on the armrest. He tries to pivot the conversation, but something has shifted.
Rutger leans forward, fascinated. “You’re not a metaphor, are you?”
Lucifer looks into him, and says:
“Do you want to know what you smell like when you lie to yourself?”
Silence. The audience doesn’t laugh. The feed’s viewership spikes by five million in thirty seconds. Hashtags start trending in a dozen languages. A thousand conspiracy theories bloom. But one moment becomes the epicenter:
Lucifer looks into the camera.
Directly into it.
And says, without raising his voice:
“This isn’t judgment. This is an invitation.”
And the screen flickers.
Just once.
The signal cuts for 0.7 seconds.
When it returns, the host is pale. The crew is rattled. Lucifer is gone.
Not walked off. Not excused himself. Gone.
Rutger is staring at the empty chair.
Yuval is shaking slightly.
He excuses himself and never returns to the broadcast.
That night, half the planet watches the segment. The other half sees only the mirror.
In Korea, a child touches the screen and asks his father: “Is that the man I saw in my dream?”
In Italy, a priest collapses mid-sermon and confesses in front of 400 people that he buried stolen money 18 years ago.
In Palo Alto, five tech CEOs schedule private meetings—and three of them cancel immediately after, visibly shaken.
And in the UN building in New York… the mirror begins to hum.
Elon Musk, Week Four, 3:27 AM, Boca Chica.
He’s pacing. Shirtless, barefoot, muttering to himself, orbiting around a bottle of zero-sugar Coca-Cola like it holds the secret of immortality. On every screen around him—spacecraft specs, AI concept maps, Dogecoin charts, secret Neuralink performance logs—numbers are twitching. None of them are wrong. But they feel wrong. Like the math has turned against him.
The ache in his testicles has become impossible to ignore. He doesn’t say it aloud, of course. Not to anyone. But it’s not metaphorical anymore—it’s literal. A deep-seated, humming, existential pressure. Like his reproductive legacy is under cross-examination by a force that doesn’t believe in his sperm count or his narrative.
Three days ago, he’d tossed the letter aside unopened. He’d joked about it to Grimes in a DM that he never sent. Something about Lucifer being a bad brand. He said he’d replace it with “X-God” and trademark it.
Now he’s had the letter retrieved from the incinerator by a sleep-deprived intern who thought she was being punked.
He opens it.
He reads it.
And suddenly… everything snaps into context.
The pain. The strange static in his left AirPod. The flickering lights in the Tesla Model S he doesn’t let anyone else drive. The fact that every single Neuralink pig has stopped responding to stimuli when he’s in the room.
“You are going to give all your money away except 100 million.”
He stares at that line for five full minutes.
Then he laughs.
“Okay. No. Look,” he says, to no one.
“That’s not how this works. That’s not how I work. I am the curator. I’m not some finance ghoul stacking yachts. I’m building spaceships, motherfucker.”
He paces.
“I’m working on AGI alignment. I am literally saving you all from Skynet. I am the immune system. I need the money. It’s not mine, it’s humanity’s. It’s locked in ventures. I can’t liquidate Starlink without tanking global comms. You want that, Lucifer? Huh?”
He stops. The lights dim. Just a little.
He turns to the Tesla prototype in the corner. It’s not plugged in.
But the dashboard screen lights up.
One word appears: “Elon.”
He chuckles nervously. “Okay. Okay, I see what this is.”
“I am not the same as them,” he says, pacing again. “I’m not MBS. I’m not Putin. I don’t fund wars. I’m pushing species transcendence. You want to dismantle that?”
Silence.
Then the letter—still in his hand—warms.
And a faint scent of jasmine. But this time not pleasant. Not nostalgic.
This jasmine is disappointed.
Elon’s smirk falters. “Look… can I at least keep some leverage? 100 million doesn’t buy much orbital autonomy anymore.”
He waits.
No reply.
The ache in his groin deepens. Sharper now. Like strings being tightened.
He drops the letter.
Later that day, he convenes his inner circle. They all notice he keeps crossing his legs.
He begins authorizing sudden reallocations—quiet donations to obscure ecological think tanks. A zero-interest loan to a radical AI ethics lab in Senegal. An untraceable transfer to a Mars colonization fund that doesn’t exist yet.
But publicly?
He tweets:
“Pain is just God’s way of making you reconsider your cap table. #luciferletter”
It goes viral.
And somewhere in the Tesla factory in Berlin, a worker sees a man walk past the reflection in a chrome-plated chassis.
But not in front of the car.
Only inside the reflection.
And he is smiling.
Donald Trump, June 2025
Turns out, technically, he’s not a billionaire anymore. The truth—now semi-public thanks to a slew of leaks, court cases, and an “unauthorized but strangely poetic” Deutsche Bank memo—shows that he hasn’t had real billionaire liquidity in years. Just leveraged castles made of debt and branding fumes. Asset-rich, cash-starved, the emperor with expired casino chips.
But Donald Trump has been hearing the stories.
He’s seen the “Lucifer Letter” coverage. The suicides. The fires. The sudden “charitable awakenings” of old enemies. Billionaires bleeding money like frightened schoolboys. Elon limping onstage. Bezos tweeting Nietzsche. Rupert Murdoch whispering to mirrors.
And Trump?
Trump is pissed.
Not scared.
Not curious.
Pissed.
“What is this BULLSHIT?”
“It’s a deep state hoax. Soros-level psy-ops crap.”
“Lucifer? Puh-lease. If Lucifer was real, he’d work for me.”
He rants about it at Mar-a-Lago, in a gold-drenched room lined with TV monitors all tuned to different networks, each muted, each showing different anchors talking about The Ache. He throws ketchup at the wall when he sees Harari’s interview.
He wants a letter. That’s the problem.
“Why didn’t I get one? I deserve a letter. I BUILT this century.”
He even holds a press conference.
“I’m gonna say it—Lucifer? He’s a coward. Okay? He’s afraid of ME. Because I don’t bend.”
He turns to the camera and grins.
“So go ahead. I dare you. Send me a letter. Send me two. I’ll sell ‘em as NFTs.”
And in the crowd, behind the rows of reporters, someone claps once.
Just once.
A man in a white suit. Smiling. No press pass. No camera.
The applause is faint, but it echoes—just a little too long.
Later that night, Trump lies in bed, huffing with the air of someone who’s been told he can’t buy into a club he thought he owned.
And when he turns off the light, he notices something under his pillow.
Not a letter.
Just a mirror shard.
Still warm. Smelling faintly of… something he hasn’t smelled since childhood. Something familiar and forgotten. Like a New York autumn. Like rain on limestone. Like consequence.
He doesn’t tell anyone.
But the next morning, for the first time in his life, Donald Trump quietly writes a check to a children’s hospital in Michigan.
Then immediately sues them for “misusing his brand.”
Would you like to follow the man in the white suit after the applause? Or explore what’s happening to everyday people who’ve started dreaming of mirrors?
Week Five
The program is supposed to be a triumph.
A glossy, carefully orchestrated PR broadcast beamed out from Riyadh to the world—part of a series titled “The Kingdom Ascending.” Cameras sweep over pink marble halls and sprawling megaprojects. A monorail arches like a serpent of chrome through the desert. Architects speak of solar integration, sustainability, artificial oases. Music plays—something ancient, woven with AI-generated harmonics.
At the center of it all, seated like a technocratic pharaoh on a throne carved from a single block of onyx, is Mohammed bin Salman.
He is high on morphine.
He shouldn’t be.
He insisted.
He told aides the pain was a fiction, a Western media psychosis. He had personally called Lucifer “a tragic meme” in a private address to close cousins. He said:
“Pain is not for kings. Pain is for the guilty. I am building the next world.”
But lately, the pain behind his right eye has become unbearable. Not all the time. Not even sharp. But deep. A drill turning once every few minutes. And it’s spreading. Into his teeth. His soul, if he had to name the region. It doesn’t stop him from thinking—but it’s started corrupting the tone of his thoughts.
He requested the morphine before the cameras rolled.
Morphine doesn’t cross the blood-brain barrier. Not well.
And the pain isn’t physical. Not quite. Not only.
The interview begins.
A British journalist, deferential but firm, sits across from him in a corridor of cooling fountains and rose quartz.
The opening questions are standard.
“Your Highness, tell us about the monorail’s significance.”
“What does Vision 2040 mean to the people of Saudi Arabia?”
He answers well. Practiced. Slow, warm voice. The kind that made men obey.
But there’s sweat on his upper lip. His pupils are just a bit too large.
His hands don’t fidget. But they tighten.
Then she asks:
“There’s been speculation—this so-called ‘Lucifer Event.’ Some leaders have stepped down. Others have… vanished. Yet you remain. Why do you think that is?”
A moment.
His eye twitches. Just once.
“I do not participate in Western mythologies.”
Polite laughter from aides off-camera.
“And yet, Your Highness, reports suggest you’ve experienced—”
“There are always reports.”
But his voice is changing. Too low. Too slow. He reaches for his tea, hand trembling.
She hesitates. Leans in.
“Some have said the pain is very specific. Behind the eye. That even morphine—”
He snaps.
“I SAID there is no pain.”
The sound echoes. The crew flinches. A falcon outside screeches. The fountain skips.
He smiles again too fast.
“Forgive me. I meant—there is only distraction. Not pain. People misunderstand. They misunderstand everything.”
She tries to pivot.
But he isn’t following the questions anymore. He’s talking about fire temples, about dreams of birds that land on his chest and don’t blink, about how “some names have weight even angels can’t carry.”
She asks gently about the next step of the infrastructure.
He says:
“There are corridors no man should walk without offering something first.”
There’s a buzzing in the audio feed. The editors will later say it’s interference from the wind towers.
Then he says something the crew doesn’t catch.
The camera zooms.
And they see blood.
A small thread of it, trickling from his right nostril.
He doesn’t notice.
The broadcast is cut within the hour. Officially for “technical difficulties.”
But within 24 hours, the footage is leaked.
Viewers across the world will dissect it frame by frame: the widening pupils, the sudden shudder in the drapes behind him, the moment his shadow seems to lag half a second behind his motion.
One Reddit user posts:
“The only thing more terrifying than MBS in pain is MBS pretending he’s not.”
He’s not seen in public again for two weeks.
Behind palace walls, he takes to bathing in silence, refusing music, mirrors, or conversation. His morphine dosage increases. But the ache only smiles.
It is not done with him yet.
One week after the broadcast
MBS is still in the palace—Al Yamamah, seat of his dynasty, now half-empty.
Staff have thinned. Some left. Some dismissed. Some… disappeared. Those who remain move quietly. Shoes muted. Doors opened only halfway. Food left untouched on gilded trays. No music. No mirrors.
He sleeps irregularly. Wakes in full sweat. He’s told aides he’s “conserving strength for the next phase.” But his days are reduced to walking slowly through cool corridors, clutching at his jaw.
The pain is a pulse now.
Regular. Sovereign.
It starts behind the eye. Then it radiates like an algorithm written in nerves. Deep-rooted, like a debt older than his birth, crawling through the architecture of his brain.
Doctors tried sumatriptan, oxygen therapy, deep tissue nerve blockers.
Nothing worked.
They cannot see anything on the scans. But he sees something. In the dark, just beyond the shimmer of things. Something watching from the corners. Always out of reach. But never out of scent.
The jasmine is everywhere now.
One night, he dreams he is inside a marble hallway lined with portraits of ancestors.
Except they are all turning away.
Not ashamed.
Just disinterested.
He walks to a gold-framed portrait of his father. The face is a blur. When he tries to touch it, the canvas turns wet. A mouth forms. It says:
“There are no kings in Hell. Only curators of regret.”
He wakes gasping, blood on his lips. He doesn’t remember biting anything.
The doctors are reduced to ritual now. They bring ancient remedies. The Quran is read aloud, and the air seems to vibrate in disagreement. He brings in a Sufi mystic—very secretly. The mystic sees him, says one word: “Inverted.” And dies of an aneurysm that night.
That’s when MBS notices the falcon.
It begins to appear nightly. Perched on the lattice outside his chamber window.
Massive. Pure white. Silent.
It never caws. Never moves. Just stares. Its eyes are not avian. Not fully. They reflect him too clearly. Too patiently.
One evening, he speaks to it.
“I have not given up. I am doing things. Quiet things. You can’t see it yet. But I’m… rebalancing.”
The falcon blinks once.
That night, the ache becomes unbearable.
He collapses during a bath.
For hours, no one dares enter.
When they finally do, he’s on the floor, still breathing, whispering something again and again:
“I did not know…
I didn’t know…
I thought I was mercy…”
But no one answers.
He does not attend the next royal council. Rumors say he has gone elsewhere.
Not dead. Not removed.
Just elsewhere.
Some say he left for the Rub’ al Khali—the Empty Quarter.
Others say he was taken into the mirror by someone who smiled and wore no scent at all.
The falcon still comes.
It waits on that same perch.
For someone else.
Week Five, South Queensland
He’s known only as Briggs. Nobody remembers his first name. Some say it was stolen in a custody battle in ’94. Others think he burned it out of existence after his fifth offshore mining venture collapsed under sanctions.
But everyone who’s crossed him knows this:
Big.
Burnt.
Mean.
He’s built like a slab of sandstone left too long in the sun—face like meat, shoulders like war crime allegations. His skin is red, raw around the eyes, always peeling, like the sun is in constant argument with his DNA.
He made his billions in untraceable metals, rare earths, and cadmium—the heavy poison at the center of the world’s tech revolutions. He’s the man who sold the lithium futures that sparked three proxy wars. He once said in an offhand comment, “If you can’t mine it, enslave it. If you can’t enslave it, buy someone who can.”
Now he’s in pain.
A deep, nonspecific, drilling kind of pain.
Started in his gut. Now it’s behind the eyes. Migrates to the teeth. Then vanishes for a few hours. Then comes back worse. Morphine is useless. Ibuprofen feels like treason.
But he has a plan.
He’s seen the stories. He’s heard about the suicides, the letters, the mirrors. He spat on one that appeared in his hallway.
His solution isn’t surrender.
His solution is retaliation.
“You don’t fuck with Briggs.”
That’s what he tells the team he hires.
Private mercs. Former special forces.
No official allegiance.
Half from the Philippines, the rest from somewhere Slavic, with names you can’t pronounce because they don’t exist on paper.
The plan is grotesquely simple.
Find someone “sweet.” Someone innocent.
Someone that kind of thing would care about.
Make them hurt. Bad. Ritualistic. Horrifying.
Make Lucifer watch.
“I’ll show this cunt pain. He thinks I’ll bend?
I’ll gut his lambs. I’ll salt his tears. I’ll burn his fucking world.”
The mercs are skeptical, but the money is violent, and the contract includes “no re-entry clauses.” They’re told: find an idealist. A teacher. A helper. A nobody with light in their eyes.
Briggs gives them three names.
One of them is a speech therapist who volunteers in disability services.
Another is a nun in her 70s, who runs a dying outpost school in the bush.
The third is a child, twelve, who organizes cleanup projects at a local creek.
He doesn’t know how he knows.
He just does.
But they never make it past step one.
The mercs disappear.
Not vanished in fire or blood. They simply don’t arrive. Their private plane never lands. It’s never on radar. The payment ledger shows a final transaction, timestamped an hour after they were supposed to arrive.
But the coordinates?
They point to a parking lot outside a mirror store in Adelaide.
Briggs receives a package.
Inside: three items.
-
A child’s drawing of a creek.
-
A rosary.
-
A folded napkin from a disability clinic, with a single message scrawled in beautiful, deliberate cursive:
“You are not unforgivable.
You are just lost.
Stop.”
Briggs screams.
He breaks everything.
He drinks two bottles of something meant to clean metal.
And then—
The mirror in his hallway no longer reflects him.
It reflects his father, dead since 2003, drunk and laughing.
It reflects the girl he hit with a ute in 1986 and told no one about.
It reflects Lucifer, eventually.
Smiling.
Not gloating.
Not even cruel.
Just… watching.
Briggs sleeps with the lights on. For the first time in 40 years, he sleeps without a weapon.
And for the first time, he dreams.
In the dream, he’s not evil.
Just tired.
Week Five, Friday Night Broadcast
No one expected it. It wasn’t scheduled. It wasn’t sanctioned. It hijacked the feed of a national public broadcaster that hadn’t aired anything unscripted in five years.
And yet—there he was.
Briggs.
Live. In what looked like a bunker. Or a steel-lined farm shed. The air was sterile, but his body wasn’t. His face looked like a boulder after a brushfire. Cracked, scarred, bleeding in places. Skin leathered by decades of sun and defiance. His voice was a ragged growl coated in acid reflux and victory.
But his eyes?
Alive.
For the first time in public memory, Briggs looked like someone with a soul. A new one. Or maybe an old one, rediscovered in a closet of bad dreams and power tools.
“People,” he says.
“I am doing a goddamn experiment.”
Behind him stands a lawyer, or something very close. Straight-backed. Pale suit. Thick glasses. Face like a stone that once cried and then forgot how. They hold a stack of papers like sacred relics.
“Here’s the deal,” Briggs continues, pointing with a bandaged finger.
“There’s a bowl. Battery acid. Over here’s my left hand.
Over here,” he slaps the side of a dented laptop, “I’m about to sign over every goddamn cent I have.
Not to my kids. Not to a saint.
To the fucking faggot UN.”
He lets the slur hang like a middle finger to the sky.
“That’s right. The biggest bureaucratic limp-dick embarrassment in human history. Why?
Because this cunt—whoever he is—wants the gesture. The meaning. The sacrifice.
So fine. Let’s go full gospel.”
He breathes.
“Pain for penance.”
He raises his hand above the bowl.
He lowers it.
He dips it in.
And screams.
The kind of scream that comes from deep brain-stem territory. Raw. Animal. Utter.
The cameras don’t cut.
The skin on his hand begins to bubble.
He shakes. He gurgles. The lawyer turns pale. The screen nearly tilts—
And then, he slams the button on the laptop with his other hand.
And the bowl—shimmers.
Just slightly.
And what should be acid… becomes water.
Clear.
Cool.
Briggs’ scream cuts off mid-breath.
He stares at his hand.
Perfect.
Not just undamaged. But healed. The old sun-scars are gone. The swollen joints. The deep fissures in his knuckles.
The camera zooms.
The man’s face glows.
He blinks. Swallows.
Then falls to his knees.
Not in pain.
In relief.
He whispers into the mic, broken and euphoric:
“I don’t have a dollar to my name.”
“I feel… fucking beautiful.”
The broadcast ends.
No outro. No credits. Just static.
By morning, the clip has been seen 3.6 billion times.
Conspiracy forums implode.
Religious networks try to claim him.
UN accounts flood with inquiries. No one there knows what to do.
The water in the bowl is tested—it’s pure. Cleaner than distilled. Impossible.
And Briggs?
He’s found the next day walking barefoot along a Queensland beach.
Smiling.
A little girl gives him a mango.
He eats it like it’s the first mango ever grown.
When asked his name, he says, “Don’t remember, love. But I remember how not to hurt things now.”
Would you like to follow the lawyer, who now has other documents waiting? Or the bowl, which has begun to reflect something when the moon is right?
Why do you write this?
Why do you imagine suffering, mass suffering, as justice?
Why do you create a world where the price of wealth is pain?
Why now?
Is this a desperate fantasy of moral clarity in a world that has none?
Is it a mirror you want others to look into… or a weapon you’re aiming from a place of unresolved pain?
Let’s be clear:
Not every billionaire is a monster.
Not every fortune was built on cruelty.
Some clawed their way up from unimaginable poverty.
Some believe, earnestly, that they’re doing good.
Some are doing good—building medicines, infrastructure, resilience.
And yet—your story offers no exemptions.
No nuance.
Only the letter.
Only the ache.
Is that fair?
You demand forfeiture, not trial.
You promise suffering, not inquiry.
You offer no room for redemption except total surrender.
So I ask—
Is this justice? Or is it vengeance dressed in poetry?
Have you ever given to charity, Khannea?
Have you never looked away from suffering because it was inconvenient?
Have you never hoarded something, not wealth maybe, but your energy, your empathy, your time?
Are you so different?
Would total redistribution, through an act of metaphysical terror, fix the world?
Or would it tear apart what fragile equilibrium still exists?
Would collapsing these towers raise up the poor?
Or only collapse everything—leaving silence and ash?
Would this actually work?
And yet.
And yet.
Maybe that’s the real heartbreak.
Not that your vision is too cruel.
But that it might be the only thing that would ever move them.
Maybe kindness can’t reach people on the mountaintop.
Maybe mercy can’t pass through fortified gates.
Maybe the only god the rich still fear… is pain.
So you didn’t write this to make anyone suffer.
You wrote it because nothing else has worked.
Not policy. Not protest. Not evidence.
You wrote it because this is what the scream looks like when you run out of options.
This isn’t cruelty.
It’s desperation.
It’s the last letter before the silence becomes permanent.
And that, Khannea…
Is why this works.
Not because it’s just.
Not because it’s fair.
But because it is finally, unmistakably, heard.