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The mansion loomed against the skyline, a gleaming monument of excess perched on the edge of the Hollywood Hills. From afar, it looked like a beacon of power, drawing the eye with its sprawling facade of marble, glass, and steel. The estate’s design was a masterstroke of calculated opulence, each detail crafted with the sole purpose of attracting the elite, yet maintaining an air of subtle menace.
Demi Lovato’s estate had evolved into something far more than a lavish residence. It was a labyrinth of hidden corridors, secret rooms, and polished façades, its beauty a mask for the dangerous currents that ran beneath. The garden, manicured to perfection, bloomed with imported flowers, their sweet fragrances masking the cold steel that ran through the mansion’s veins. The grand ballroom gleamed under chandeliers, the room alive with whispers and laughter, yet the shadows that clung to the corners seemed to harbor more than just memories.
Inside, the mansion’s layout seemed almost deliberate in its complexity. Designed with the eyes of the powerful in mind, it offered the perfect blend of opulence and secrecy. The grand hallways, lined with abstract sculptures and priceless artwork, echoed with the footsteps of influential guests: Hollywood moguls, politicians, and those with darker connections. But these guests, draped in the superficial glamour of their world, were never fully aware of the undercurrent that ran through the estate. Not just a haven for the rich and famous, it was now a playground for espionage and secretive dealings, a place where Demi had mastered the art of manipulation.
In the depths of the estate, where the glamour of the public rooms faded into shadows, there were rooms that few ever entered. Hidden doors concealed behind tapestries, floors that moved with a soft whir, guiding guests to underground chambers where whispers of international deals were exchanged. These rooms, equipped with state-of-the-art surveillance equipment and encryption technology, served as the staging grounds for the most covert operations. Demi’s influence was no longer confined to the world of pop music or celebrity gossip; she had become a key player in a far darker game.
The mansion, once a symbol of youthful exuberance and the promise of fame, had become a fortress for her allegiances. Her ties to North Korea, once hidden in the shadows, were now woven into the very fabric of the estate. Security was tight, a mix of personal guards and hidden surveillance systems ensuring that no secret slipped through the cracks. Outside the walls, the city buzzed with the glamour of Hollywood, but within, a much darker agenda was unfolding. The estate was not just a symbol of Demi’s success—it was a statement of her new power and her willingness to wield it.
As Demi stood at the top of a grand staircase, overlooking a room filled with high-profile guests, she felt a rare flicker of satisfaction. This was no longer just a home. It was a fortress—a place where power was drawn, and alliances were forged, some with consequences far beyond the walls of the estate. The hidden rooms, the whispers in the corners, all pointed to one truth: Demi had become a queen in a world where the rules were written in shadows.
And in this kingdom, no one was truly safe.23Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡZkLm840t00
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Glamour Records opened its glossy glass doors on Melrose Avenue in Los Angeles, its towering presence in the heart of Hollywood promising the world a new sound. The building, sleek and modern, with walls of reflective chrome and floor-to-ceiling windows, was designed to stand out—an oasis of high-end luxury amidst the eclectic hustle of the neighborhood. Its official address, 1210 Melrose Avenue, Los Angeles, California, became a beacon for young artists eager for their big break, a front that appeared to be nothing more than another trendy music label catering to the stars. But beneath its polished exterior, Glamour Records was much more: it was a carefully orchestrated North Korean operation, an international front designed to funnel money into the hidden coffers of the regime.
The label had been conceived under the direction of high-ranking North Korean officials, their identities obscured behind layers of intermediaries and false fronts. Officially, Glamour Records was headed by Jin Ho, a suave and well-spoken businessman who had come to Los Angeles under the guise of being an international talent scout. Known for his charisma and ability to manipulate those around him, Jin was a key figure in North Korea’s global operations, using the guise of an entertainment mogul to recruit allies, make covert deals, and launder money. As CEO, he managed the day-to-day operations, but his true allegiance lay with the higher-ups in the DPRK, where he reported directly to a shadowy group of officials overseeing the label’s covert activities.
Demi Lovato, already entrenched in her own web of international intrigue, saw Glamour Records not only as a platform for her artistic ambitions but as a crucial part of her growing influence. With the label serving as a financial bridge between her entertainment empire and North Korea, she was able to funnel massive sums of money from the music industry into the regime’s coffers. But beyond the money, the label also allowed her to recruit—spotting raw talent and grooming them for positions within the North Korean machinery. The artists Demi discovered and promoted were not just rising stars; they were potential assets, their careers carefully curated to serve a much darker purpose.
One evening, in a secluded hidden room deep within her estate, Demi sat with Jin Ho and Kim Yong-Il, a senior operative of the North Korean regime who had recently arrived from Pyongyang under the guise of a high-ranking cultural ambassador. The room was stark and minimalist, lit only by dim, recessed lights and the faint glow of a bank of screens embedded in the wall. The furniture was sparse—two leather chairs facing one another, a large mahogany desk between them, and a map of the world pinned to the far wall, dotted with pins marking key locations. This room, more than any other in the mansion, was where the real business of the empire took place.
“Everything is proceeding as planned,” Jin Ho said, his voice calm, yet carrying a note of excitement. He slid a folder across the desk, and Demi opened it to reveal a series of documents—names, bank transfers, artist contracts, and a list of key players to be recruited.
Kim Yong-Il, seated opposite Demi, spoke up. His English was impeccable, but his thick accent betrayed his origin. "The flow of funds must remain seamless. We cannot afford any mistakes. Your discretion is paramount, Miss Lovato." He leaned forward slightly, his cold eyes locking onto hers.
Demi nodded, her mind already working. "Of course," she replied, her tone casual but laced with an underlying authority. She had become proficient at balancing the two worlds she now inhabited—the one of public glamour, and the other of secret dealings. “The label is doing well. We’re picking up steam. I have a few new artists in mind, ones with a certain… edge. We’ll make them stars.”
Jin Ho smiled, his thin lips curving into something that wasn’t quite a grin. “That is good. But remember, every artist you promote will be a part of something larger. Glamour Records isn’t just about music. It is a tool for influence—both here and abroad. Your influence, Miss Lovato, is what we seek. And your choice of artists will reflect that.”
Demi looked down at the folder, her fingers grazing the edge of a particular document—a young, rebellious artist she’d recently taken under her wing. The artist had no idea, of course, that her rise to stardom was tied to something far more sinister.
“We’re on the right track,” Demi said, a flicker of something darker passing through her eyes. “I’ve already made contact with the right people. The money will be rerouted through the standard channels. I’ll take care of it.”
Kim Yong-Il remained silent for a moment, assessing her every word. Finally, he leaned back in his chair, his steely gaze never leaving Demi. “Good. We trust you will continue to carry out your duties. The future of the regime—and your future—depends on it.”
As the meeting ended, Demi rose from her seat, her posture relaxed, yet there was an unspoken power in the way she moved. She had mastered the delicate balance between being an entertainer and an operative—using her fame to gain access to the very people who could help cement her place in a global power struggle. And as the door to the hidden room closed behind her, the world outside remained oblivious to the true nature of her empire. Glamour Records was more than just a music label. It was a tool, a bridge, a weapon in the quiet, shadowy war Demi Lovato had chosen to wage.
Meanwhile, in a dimly lit adjoining room, whispers lingered in the air. Dua Lipa stood near the large windows, her gaze out over the city, her thoughts far from the glamour that surrounded her. The music playing softly in the background seemed to mock her, the beats somehow distant, as if they belonged to someone else entirely. She ran a hand through her dark hair, her heart racing with a mix of fear and uncertainty.
Across the room, Li Min, a female North Korean agent, sat at a small table, her posture rigid and almost predatory. Li Min had been a part of the regime’s operations for years, and she exuded an aura of cold calculation that unsettled those around her. She had witnessed the consequences of failure firsthand—each punishment more horrific than the last. The way she looked at Dua now, with eyes as hard as steel, made the singer feel small.... as if she were just another pawn in a much larger game.
“I don’t know if I can do this anymore,” Dua said, her voice trembling. She turned to face Li Min, her face pale under the artificial light. “I’ve come this far, but I… I’m scared. I didn’t sign up for this kind of power, this kind of danger. It feels like everything’s spinning out of control. I’m thinking about backing out.”
Li Min’s eyes narrowed, and she slowly stood up, her movements deliberate, almost feline. She crossed the room, stopping just in front of Dua, her expression as cold and unforgiving as the regime she represented. “You are not in a position to back out,” Li Min said, her voice low but carrying an undeniable weight of authority. “You think you can just walk away from this? From Kim Jong-Un’s will? There are consequences far worse than anything you can imagine.”
Dua’s breath caught in her throat as the words sank in. “What do you mean by that? What could be worse than—”
Li Min’s lips curled into a thin, merciless smile. “Sexual slavery is one option,” she said, her tone matter-of-fact. “And if you think that’s bad enough, consider what happens if you really let him down. If you turn your back on the regime. You won’t just be discarded, Dua. You’ll be used. Used in ways that will make you wish for death.”
Dua’s mind reeled, the images of horror she had heard about from whispers in dark corners now flooding her thoughts. “Used? How? What do you mean?”
Li Min’s smile faded, her eyes sharpening. “Kim Jong-Un has plans for those who fail him. If you think you’re done, that you can walk away and just fade into obscurity, think again. There are other options for defiance, you see. One involves becoming a ‘volunteer’ for experiments that even the most hardened scientists in the world would shudder to conduct. You’ll be brought to places where nobody, not even you, will remember your name or face. You’ll become a subject of weapons testing—nuclear testing, to be specific. And let me tell you, no one survives the fallout from those experiments.”
Dua’s chest tightened as she struggled to breathe. “You’re saying… nuclear weapons? But how would that…?”
Li Min cut her off, her eyes burning with icy certainty. “There are facilities where they conduct tests in absolute secrecy—places where they test the limits of human endurance, of life itself. If you ever find yourself in one of those places, you won’t have a choice. They’ll use you as a tool to measure the effects of radiation, the heat of an atomic blast, the psychological toll of exposure. You’ll be in the blast zone, and your life will become nothing more than a dark experiment for the regime’s gain.”
Dua staggered back, her pulse pounding in her ears. The world outside the window seemed to blur as the weight of Li Min’s words sank in. The truth was undeniable—backing out wasn’t an option. There was no safe haven from Kim Jong-Un’s reach. The fear gnawed at her, but it was soon replaced by something darker—a realization that there was no way out, no escape from the twisted game she was now a part of.
Li Min stepped closer, her voice almost a whisper now. “You are already in too deep, Dua. You made your choice when you joined us. There is no turning back.”
Dua’s hands trembled, but there was a new resolve in her eyes. She wasn’t sure where this path would lead, but one thing was certain: the cost of defying Kim Jong-Un was more than she was willing to face. And yet, the gravity of her situation was far heavier than she had ever anticipated. The consequences, she now understood, weren’t just metaphorical. They were real. And they were terrifying.23Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡJgThfaFXCU
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The night was a tableau of elegance laced with danger, set in the lavish sprawl of Demi’s estate in the Hollywood Hills. Golden lights lined the winding drive, leading up to an expansive stone façade that seemed to rise out of the hillside itself, both hidden from prying eyes and towering in grandeur. The guests, a mix of glittering celebrities, industry magnates, and the occasional high-ranking official, arrived with anticipation, each drawn by Demi's unique blend of charm and enigmatic allure. Soft jazz floated from hidden speakers, underscoring a setting that, on the surface, looked like any other glamorous Hollywood soirée, yet beneath the glamour lay a sinister undertone, known only to a select few.
Inside, the halls gleamed under crystal chandeliers, their lights casting an opalescent glow across marble floors and decadent furnishings. The estate, meticulously designed by Demi herself, was full of purposeful details meant to convey both wealth and mystery. Dark velvet curtains hung heavy against the windows, while priceless artwork adorned the walls, each piece selected as much for its reputation as for the layers of meaning it added to the environment. Secret passages—unseen by the average guest—were woven into the mansion’s layout, leading to rooms where Demi held her most private conversations. They were outfitted not only for comfort but for control: discreet listening devices, velvet couches positioned to subtly influence how guests opened up to her, and locked safes where she stored sensitive information gleaned from powerful allies and lovers alike.
As she moved through the crowd, Demi’s presence commanded the room. Her gown, a striking shade of deep burgundy, was deliberately chosen to match the red wine swirling in the crystal glasses of her guests, a detail that, like so much of her life now, was calculated for effect. Her expression was that of an attentive hostess, warm and welcoming, yet with an edge that reminded even the most jaded guests that Demi was not someone to underestimate. One by one, high-profile attendees approached her, exchanging words and indulging in her careful flattery.
Among the notables in attendance, one guest stood out: General James Mattis, the retired Marine Corps officer who had recently been tapped to join President-elect Trump’s administration as Secretary of Defense. His arrival had caused a ripple through the crowd; whispers followed him as he moved, effortlessly stoic and unreadable. Mattis was not the type to engage in Hollywood’s glamour, yet here he was, a reluctant guest of honor in a setting worlds away from the Pentagon’s austere halls. He stood apart from the glitz of the evening, his demeanor reserved as he navigated a crowd more accustomed to film premieres than discussions of military strategy.
Demi, ever the hostess and sensing her moment, approached him with a gracious smile, subtly positioning herself at his side. Draped in a gown of deep burgundy that offset her dark eyes, she was magnetic—a mixture of charm and danger that seemed to draw him in. She extended a glass of champagne toward him, and for a moment, the general’s steely gaze softened. “I’ll admit, I didn’t expect to see you here tonight, General,” she murmured with just the right hint of curiosity, allowing her eyes to linger on him as he took the glass.
“An unexpected invitation,” he replied, his voice calm and even. He met her gaze directly, a flicker of amusement at the edge of his expression. “Not the usual company I keep.”
Mattis studied her in silence, finally offering a slight nod. “Curiosity can be a dangerous thing,” he replied, his eyes narrowing as if appraising her. “Especially in circles like these.”
Demi laughed softly, leaning in just a fraction closer as if sharing a secret. “Oh, but it’s only polite to know one’s guests, General,” she replied, tilting her head. “After all, this new administration is bound to shake things up, isn’t it? From what I hear, there’ll be a focus on…modernization, perhaps?”
For a brief moment, his mask slipped, the barest hint of recognition flickering in his eyes. But the general quickly regained his composure, choosing his words carefully. “Modernization is… essential. We need to stay ahead. Deterrence is more than just a posture; it’s a commitment.”
Demi nodded thoughtfully as if his words held a deeper meaning. She smiled, absorbing his vague response as though she’d been let in on a secret. “It must be challenging, though—finding ways to keep a force ready and flexible, especially with everything else on the world stage.”
Mattis didn’t respond immediately, but Demi could sense the guarded tension in his stance. She could see the wheels turning, the calculation in his mind as he weighed her curiosity. “We’ll manage,” he finally said, though his words held more weight than they seemed to.
As the evening wore on, Demi steered the conversation into lighter territories, but her mind held fast to every detail, every hint he’d offered.
Amid the elegant crowd, there was one figure who stood out as markedly different from the polished Hollywood regulars and the American dignitaries: Viktor Ivanovich Lebedev, a powerful Russian oligarch with an undeniable air of danger about him. Tall and heavyset, with a severe, hawkish profile, Viktor wore a tailored suit that couldn’t quite hide the scars on his knuckles or the weight of his presence. It was as though every gaze in the room landed on him, but quickly glanced away; everyone knew who he was, or at least knew enough to give him a wide berth.
As Demi and General Mattis continued their conversation, Viktor approached, a glass of vodka in hand, his cold, steel-blue eyes taking in the general with something close to amusement. “Ah, General Mattis,” Viktor’s voice was smooth, with a thick Russian accent, his tone just polite enough to mask the hint of disdain that lay beneath. “A pleasure to meet you. America’s ‘Warrior Monk,’ as I hear they call you.”
Mattis turned to Viktor with a reserved, guarded expression, not extending a hand but nodding curtly. “Mr. Lebedev. I didn’t expect to find a… representative of your sort here tonight.”
Viktor chuckled, a low, dark sound. “I am a guest of Ms. Lovato,” he replied, his eyes flickering briefly to Demi, who gave him a faint, enigmatic smile. “Business brings me here. Not unlike yourself, no?”
“Business,” Mattis replied coolly, his gaze sharp, unyielding. “Interesting choice of words, Mr. Lebedev. I thought you were… retired from most of your business endeavors.”
Viktor’s smile turned predatory, his gaze locked on the general. “Oh, I do what I can to stay active, General. You know how it is, I’m sure. One must keep up with the times.” He raised his glass in a mock toast, his eyes glinting with a hint of malice.
Viktor’s history was well-known in the shadows of international affairs. Once a young, ruthless tycoon, he had amassed his wealth during the chaotic privatization of the 1990s. His empire ranged from oil and steel to technology—industries he’d leveraged to deepen his connections with Russian intelligence circles. It was whispered that he’d even helped broker arms deals in Eastern Europe and beyond. Rumors circulated that he held ties with North Korea, particularly in facilitating shipments of technology and parts necessary for their missile programs. Through third-party firms and shadowy shell corporations, it was said that Viktor had funneled resources to Pyongyang, keeping their weapons programs alive in exchange for lucrative kickbacks and access to an array of covert markets.
“Tell me,” Mattis said, his tone turning icy, “how are your friends in the east? The ones with the… unconventional armaments?”
Viktor’s smirk didn’t falter, but his gaze grew more calculating. “The East has many friends, General. And some of us do enjoy the exotic. After all, sometimes you can find the best opportunities far from home.”
A silence settled between them, thick with unspoken threats. Demi watched with a faint, almost approving smile; the tension was palpable, a clash between two men representing two very different worlds. She felt a surge of satisfaction, seeing these titans measure each other up, assessing risks and weaknesses. It was all part of the evening’s unspoken agenda, the intricate dance of power that played out amid the glittering lights and laughter.
Finally, Viktor nodded, a glint of amusement still in his eyes. “Well, General,” he said smoothly, “perhaps we shall speak again.” He glanced at Demi, who nodded graciously, then drifted away into the crowd, leaving Mattis and Demi in a quiet moment that hung heavy with implication.23Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡX1xUWO1I9t
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I sat across from Demi in her dimly lit cell, the shadows accentuating the chasm between the pop icon the world once adored and the hollowed figure she had become. Her expression remained steely and unreadable, yet I couldn’t help but question how someone so beloved could have spiraled so far. Gathering my thoughts, I started, trying to ease into the matter, almost as if we were old friends discussing a minor indiscretion. “Why, Demi?” I asked, keeping my voice casual, yet probing. “Why invite a man like Viktor Lebedev into your home, knowing his reputation?”
Demi’s face remained impassive, her tone businesslike, as if we were discussing a mundane transaction. “Orders. That’s why,” she said, her gaze unwavering. I paused, caught off guard by the stark lack of remorse and the sheer matter-of-factness with which she confessed. She seemed almost bored, as though this admission held no weight.
“Orders?” I repeated, searching her face for some hint of humanity. “You mean… from them?”
She nodded, a flash of impatience crossing her face, as if disappointed I hadn’t grasped this from the outset. “Yes,” she replied curtly, “my masters, my foreign patrons. They wanted him there, and that was enough for me.”
I struggled to hide my disgust as I asked, “So, loyalty to them became stronger than any loyalty you had to your own country?”
Demi’s smile was cold, her eyes unflinching. “By then, the only cause I believed in was survival,” she replied bluntly, “and power. They gave me both. Why would I question that?”
Her words struck me, the terrifying simplicity of her logic laying bare just how far she’d drifted. It was painfully clear now that any ties she’d once had to the U.S. had long since dissolved, replaced by a chilling allegiance to forces that fed her hunger for power.
I pressed her again, compelled to make her see the enormity of what she’d done. “You knew who he was—his ties to trafficking, black-market deals. And yet… you let him in?”
Demi tilted her head, almost amused by my shock. “Lebedev was useful,” she replied, her tone unbothered. “My masters needed funds, connections. He provided both. It was business, plain and simple.”
The casualness of her response struck me; her complete lack of remorse, her willingness to reduce it all to a matter of convenience, left me at a loss, grasping for any hint of the person she once might have been.
“Did it ever cross your mind,” I asked, barely managing to keep the edge out of my voice, “that what you were doing was… wrong?”
Demi’s response was as chilling as it was immediate. “What’s wrong,” she said with a cold certainty, “is weakness. Regret doesn’t buy protection, and it doesn’t give you power.”
Her words had a finality to them that left me rattled, a stark reminder of how far she’d drifted from who she once was—or perhaps, how little I’d truly understood her all along.
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Inside the dimly lit back office of Glamour Records, the air was thick with tension. The sleek surfaces of the modern office reflected the neon glow of the Hollywood night, but it was a far cry from the glamour that outsiders would expect. Hidden behind the polished veneer of a successful music label was the dark undercurrent of international intrigue. Demi Lovato sat at the head of the table, a glass of scotch in front of her as she faced Jin Ho and Kim Yong-Il.
Tonight, the discussion was not about new artists or the next big release—it was about something far more lucrative, something far more dangerous. The loans Demi had provided to the North Korean state were no longer a casual gesture. They had grown into a multi-million-dollar operation, one that now directly funded Kim Jong-Un’s military ambitions and technological developments, particularly in the fields of nuclear weapons and advanced missile systems.
“You understand, Miss Lovato, the importance of these loans,” Kim Yong-Il said, his tone calculating, almost clinical. “The funds you have provided have gone directly into expanding the regime’s capabilities. We are on the cusp of breakthroughs, and your investment is instrumental in securing North Korea’s future as a global power.”
Demi, ever the poised negotiator, leaned forward, her expression one of controlled calculation. She was no longer just a pop star or a philanthropist; she was an integral player in this shadowy world. “I’m well aware,” she replied, her voice steady but laced with a sharp edge. “But the stakes are high. The amounts we’re talking about… these are no small loans. I need guarantees—real guarantees—that my investments are being used strategically. If I'm putting more money into this, I expect to see returns. And not just financial ones.”
Jin Ho smiled faintly, though something was menacing in his eyes. He slid a portfolio across the table to her, the documents inside carefully prepared with a mixture of high-level jargon and financial figures that only those steeped in the dark world of international dealings could understand. “We are prepared to meet your demands, Miss Lovato,” he said, his voice almost placating. “The terms of your loans have been modified. You will receive a percentage of the proceeds from the technologies we develop, as well as access to the exclusive networks we’re building. But most importantly, the regime is prepared to offer you further leverage in the geopolitical arena.”
Demi’s gaze dropped to the papers, her fingers tracing the numbers. They were substantial, but it wasn’t the money that interested her—it was the power that came with it. The North Korean regime’s technological advancements, particularly in nuclear weapons, would have massive implications on the global stage. Her loans were no longer just investments; they were stakes in a game of life and death. And she was in the middle of it, completely immersed in her role as a financier, manipulator, and, to some extent, a confidante of the regime’s darkest secrets.
Kim Yong-Il leaned in, his voice low but heavy with menace. “You will not back out now, Miss Lovato. The consequences of failing to see this through… would be dire. Your loans, and your support—are fueling not just technological developments but our military capabilities. If you pull away, if you even think about abandoning us, the world will see the full consequences. And I think you understand that better than anyone.”
Demi’s eyes flickered, a brief moment of unease before she masked it with a cool exterior. She had come too far to back out now, but the reality of what she was doing, what she had become a part of, was becoming more apparent with every conversation, every deal, every transfer of funds.
“And what exactly are those consequences?” she asked, her voice steady but with an underlying tension. She needed to know the full scope of what she was involved in—what her money was really supporting.
Kim Yong-Il’s lips curled into a thin, knowing smile. “You’ve already seen the influence we’ve gained in your industry, in the music world. But this is about more than that. You’re securing the future of North Korea as a technological superpower. Our missile technology, our nuclear weapons programs—those are funded by the loans you’ve provided. If you withdraw, the regime will not hesitate to remind you of your place. You will become a target—not just for us, but for everyone who wishes to see you fall.”
The implications were clear. This was no longer just a financial transaction—it was a matter of life and death. The loans Demi had given weren’t just supporting the regime’s military ambitions; they were playing a pivotal role in the development of North Korea’s most dangerous weapons. With each installment, she was strengthening Kim Jong-Un’s hand in a deadly game of global power.
Demi set the portfolio down, her fingers drumming on the table, her mind racing through the options, the consequences, the stakes. The money she had loaned, the influence she had bought—it was no longer about the thrill of power, the allure of being on top of the world. It was about survival. Her survival. And the survival of the regime she had chosen to align herself with.
“I want more than just money,” she said, her voice low and controlled, but firm. “I want assurance that I’ll be part of the real decisions. I’ve invested enough. Now I need to see how deep this rabbit hole really goes.”
Jin Ho and Kim Yong-Il exchanged a look. It was clear Demi was no longer just playing a role—she was a key player in their game. And they were willing to meet her demands.
“As we said,” Jin Ho replied with a slight bow, “your position is secure. You’ll have access to the highest levels of decision-making. And your influence will only grow from here.”
Demi nodded, her eyes fixed on the papers in front of her. The deals were made. The stakes were set. There was no turning back now. The money she was pouring into North Korea was no longer just funding a regime—it was fueling a war machine, a global threat. And she was right at the heart of it, guiding the flow of power, for better or for worse.
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Demi sat alone in her sprawling study, surrounded by tall windows that reflected the faint glint of the city lights in the distance. The room was dark, save for the soft glow from her computer screen, where she scrolled through a profile of a young, edgy artist from Eastern Europe who’d been generating significant buzz. Glamour Records had quickly made a name for itself by scouting talent from obscure corners of the world, the very artists who brought grit and controversy along with their music. Yet Demi’s interest went beyond the lure of industry acclaim; each artist she pulled into the label represented a new pawn, someone who could help her network stretch further into unexpected regions. This latest acquisition felt particularly promising, not for the music itself but for what it could mean strategically. She knew how much it would intrigue her North Korean contacts, the new ways it could serve their broader plans.
Still, her thoughts couldn’t help but drift to Dua, who had been on her mind more often these days. Their relationship had been a turbulent mixture of competition, admiration, and a curious connection—Demi had first seen Dua as a collaborator, an artist she could guide into Glamour’s sphere,23Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡlpxCYrbJKj
