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The operation was set in motion like clockwork. The aerospace research facility just outside Cuernavaca, officially known as Quetzal Energía Aeroespacial, was a cutting-edge Mexican institute specializing in propulsion systems and orbital technologies. Publicly celebrated as a beacon of innovation, it secretly harbored military-grade secrets that nations across the globe would kill to obtain. For Demi Lovato and her North Korean allies, it was an opportunity too tempting to ignore.
Demi’s target was Dr. Ricardo Montemayor, a reclusive but brilliant aerospace engineer with a murky past. Once hailed as the architect of Mexico’s ambitious lunar exploration initiatives, Ricardo had left the Agencia Espacial Mexicana (AEM) in disgrace after accusations of embezzlement—accusations that, while never proven, had left his reputation irreparably tarnished. Now he lived quietly, working on classified projects at Quetzal Energía, desperate to rebuild his name.
For weeks, Demi had orchestrated the setup, using her connections within North Korea’s clandestine operations. She had pieced together Ricardo’s vulnerabilities: his lingering bitterness toward the United States for dismissing his theories on interplanetary propulsion and his deep financial troubles resulting from the scandal. The trap was ready.
Demi arranged a meeting in Acapulco, under the pretense of a lucrative consulting opportunity. When Ricardo arrived, he found himself sitting across from Demi and Dua Lipa in a lavish hotel suite overlooking the ocean. The setting was idyllic, but the atmosphere was anything but relaxing.
Ricardo shifted uncomfortably in his chair as Demi leaned forward, her voice a razor’s edge. “Dr. Montemayor,” she began, her tone disarmingly calm, “you’ve been underappreciated for far too long. The world overlooked your brilliance, and that’s a tragedy. But we see your worth. North Korea sees your worth.”
Ricardo froze, his blood running cold. “I don’t know what you mean,” he stammered, his gaze darting toward the exit.
Dua, lounging with a cocktail in hand, let out a soft laugh. “Oh, come on, Ricardo. Don’t play dumb. You’re better than that.”
Demi’s expression darkened. “We know about your work on lunar propulsion systems. And we know why you left AEM. You’ve been keeping secrets, haven’t you? Secrets that could change everything—for you, for us, for the world.”
Ricardo’s hands trembled as he gripped the edge of the table. “I—I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he protested weakly.
Demi’s smile was icy. “Don’t waste my time. You’re going to help us build something extraordinary—a lunar base that will redefine global power. You’ll design the propulsion systems, the life support, the mining equipment. Everything we need to make it happen. And in return, we’ll ensure your name is restored—your debts erased, your reputation salvaged.”
Ricardo shook his head vehemently. “You’re insane. You think I’d betray my country, my principles, for this? For you?”
Demi’s eyes flashed with a terrifying intensity. “Oh, Ricardo. This isn’t a choice. You’ll do what we ask, or we’ll ensure your career—and your life—are over. Do you understand?”
The weight of her words crushed him. He felt his resolve crumbling as fear and desperation took hold. “What… what do you want from me?” he whispered, his voice barely audible.
Demi leaned back, her victory assured. “Everything. You’ll help us construct a base on the Moon—one that will serve as a launchpad for a new era of power. And you’ll do it without question. Otherwise…” She let the threat hang in the air, heavy and unmistakable.
As the two women rose to leave, Ricardo sat frozen, the enormity of the task ahead suffocating him. He had spent his life dreaming of the stars, but now he was being forced to weaponize that dream. Alone in the opulent suite, he stared out at the horizon, knowing his path would forever be shadowed by the choices he made in that room.
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Demi and Dua, ever methodical, had planned everything to ensure their safety and anonymity. The schematics Montemayor was tasked with creating—blueprints for a covert lunar base equipped with facilities---were to be sent via an encrypted file drop, a method Demi trusted but refused to rely on entirely. She demanded a backup plan. 158Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡRsQmMNpOni
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“You’ll deliver a physical copy as well,” Demi had ordered, her voice as cold as lunar regolith during their last meeting.
Dr. Montemayor hesitated, his mind racing. “¿Cómo?” he stammered, struggling to comprehend her demand.
Demi’s smile was razor-sharp. “Simple. A drop point. El Paso-Juárez. You’ll drive to the border using a fake ID. On the Juárez side, our contact will meet you to collect the plans. And don’t think for a second about betraying us. You wouldn’t be the first ‘genius’ we’ve blackmailed, and we’re very skilled at uncovering double-crosses.”
Dua, standing silent and watchful, extended a slip of paper to Montemayor. The note contained precise instructions for the rendezvous: the exact time, the vehicle he was to use, and even the discreet color and size of the folder holding the schematics. Her unspoken authority only heightened the oppressive weight of their control.
Ricardo’s hands trembled as he took the paper, his heart pounding. The specter of their shadowy network loomed large, leaving no room for escape. He was a pawn in their elaborate scheme, with the lives of countless people—and his own—dangling in precarious balance.158Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡWhkV3UV3AY
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The financial side of the operation was equally meticulous. Demi demanded payment for the plans—not just as compensation, but to tie Diaz even deeper into their scheme. They insisted he arrange a transfer in Bitcoin, ensuring the transaction would be untraceable.
“I’m not a criminal!” Diaz cried, his voice cracking with desperation.
“No,” Demi replied icily. “You’re not a criminal. You’re my asset. And assets do as they’re told.”
Under their instructions, Diaz set up a digital wallet, using pseudonyms and layers of encryption to conceal the trail. The payment—equivalent to $10 million USD—was sent in staggered transactions, each one broken into smaller sums to avoid suspicion. Demi watched over his shoulder as he completed the transfer, her presence a silent warning against any attempt to deviate from the plan.158Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ2XsGcUtgR3
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On a sweltering night under the dim glow of border lights, Diaz arrived in Juárez, his car loaded with a briefcase containing both the physical blueprints and an encrypted flash drive as backup. His hands shook as he approached the agreed-upon location: a nondescript alley behind a run-down cantina.
A man in dark clothing stepped out of the shadows, his face obscured by a baseball cap. He nodded once, wordlessly, and took the briefcase from Diaz’s hands. The physicist stood frozen, every fiber of his being screaming at him to run, to scream, to beg for mercy. But he didn’t. Demi’s voice still rang in his ears: “If you screw this up, I’ll make sure your entire family pays the price. And I’ll enjoy it.”
As the contact disappeared into the night, Diaz leaned against his car, gasping for breath. He was in too deep now. The plans were gone, the Bitcoin had been transferred, and he was left with the unbearable knowledge of what he’d done. Demi Lovato had turned him into a pawn in her global chess game.
But for Demi, it was just another successful caper. Somewhere in Acapulco, lounging in a five-star resort suite, she clinked glasses with Dua Lipa, the cold satisfaction of control gleaming in her eyes.158Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡx0OYam200a
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Fontainebleau, France, Two Months Later158Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡtUVUYRtOLz
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The countryside just outside Paris exuded a serene charm, the kind that masked secrets in its gentle hills and quiet groves. The road snaked through the landscape, flanked by tall poplar trees swaying in the breeze, leading to a secluded glade surrounded by dense woods. Parked in the clearing was Demi’s rental car, a charcoal-gray Mercedes-Benz E-Class, its sleek form an embodiment of subtle luxury. The muted gleam of its bodywork contrasted with the dirt-streaked Renault Captur that arrived moments later, kicking up a small cloud of dust.
The driver’s door of the Renault opened, and Colonel Émile Duroc stepped out, his expression a mix of weariness and barely concealed anger. Duroc, a senior officer in the French Army, had traded his uniform for civilian attire—an unassuming trench coat and slacks that couldn’t disguise his military bearing. His sharp eyes scanned the clearing before locking on Demi, who stood leaning casually against the Mercedes, arms crossed and a knowing smirk playing on her lips.
“Colonel Duroc,” she said smoothly, her voice like velvet over steel. “Right on time. I knew I could count on you.”
Duroc strode forward, his footsteps crunching on the gravel. “I’m here because I have no choice,” he snapped, his accent clipped. “This is madness. If anyone finds out—”
“No one will,” Demi interrupted, her tone calm but with a dangerous undercurrent. “Unless you decide to get cold feet.”
Duroc glared at her, his fists clenched. “You’re asking me to risk everything. My family, my career—”
“Your family?” Demi’s voice sharpened, and her smirk deepened. “I’m sure they’d be very interested to know about your extracurricular activities. Two nights ago, wasn’t it? You and I shared quite the… intimate conversation.”
Duroc’s face flushed crimson, but he said nothing. His silence was enough.
“Look,” Demi continued, her voice softening just slightly. “This is a one-time arrangement. You get me the prototype bullet, and your little secret stays buried. No one needs to know about your indiscretions, least of all your wife and children.”
“This is blackmail,” Duroc hissed, his voice low but charged with fury. “Plain and simple.”
“No, Colonel,” Demi replied, leaning in slightly. “This is leverage. And you’d be wise to use it to your advantage.”
Duroc looked away, his jaw tightening. After a long moment, he spoke. “Fine. You’ll have it. But if this goes wrong—”
“It won’t,” Demi cut in sharply. “You’re far too capable to let it. And once I have what I need, our little rendezvous will be forgotten.”
Duroc stared at her for a moment longer before turning back to his car, muttering under his breath in French. The Renault roared to life, and he drove off without another word. Demi watched him disappear down the narrow road, her smirk giving way to a look of quiet satisfaction. The prototype bullet, a marvel of French military engineering, would soon be in her possession, ready for her contacts in Pyongyang. Another transaction sealed; another thread woven into her intricate web.158Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡbVq2dzmxdg
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The Mercedes glided effortlessly down the coastal road to Monte Carlo, where the glittering Mediterranean stretched out like an endless sapphire. Demi’s arrival at the Hotel de Paris was as unassuming as it was deliberate—she knew that in a place like this, blending in was the best disguise. The opulence of the lobby, with its marble floors and gilded chandeliers, was nothing new to her. This was familiar ground.
What stood out this time was the rumored presence of James Mattis, the retired U.S. Secretary of Defense, moving quietly through Monte Carlo’s gilded circles. Demi and Dua were here for one reason only: to observe. The intel was clear—Mattis, a man of discipline and strategy, had a hidden vice. He was a closet gambler, known to frequent high-stakes poker tables under a pseudonym.
As Demi checked in at the Hotel de Paris, her demeanor was uncharacteristically subdued. This wasn’t a mission with immediate gains or transactions. It was reconnaissance, pure and simple. Mattis’s habits, his tells, the company he kept—all of it mattered. Monte Carlo, with its glittering casinos and whispers of high-stakes intrigue, was a stage for watching, not acting. For now.
Dua, standing beside her with a pair of oversized sunglasses obscuring her face, leaned in and murmured, “Do you really think he’s worth the trouble? The man could probably sniff out a setup a mile away.”
Demi’s lips curled into a faint smile. “That’s what makes him worth watching. Even someone like him has weaknesses. We’re just here to see if they’ll show.”
The two slipped into the hotel’s opulent elevator, the ding of the closing doors signaling the start of their quiet surveillance.158Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ1PB7QlaZc5
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The Monte Carlo night was one Demi Lovato would never forget, an experience seared into her memory for its glamour and the hint of danger that danced around them like an unspoken threat. The lavish Salle Blanche room at the Casino de Monte-Carlo was a masterpiece of Belle Époque design, resplendent with chandeliers, gilded walls, and rich, deep carpets that softened each footstep. The smell of expensive perfume, fine tobacco, and anticipation permeated the air.
With her longtime friend Dua Lipa at her side, Demi slipped through the room with practiced ease, both women dressed in shimmering dresses that caught the golden glow of the chandeliers. They were well aware of the curious glances they drew, whispers following them from table to table. But Demi found a dark thrill in it, an odd sense of power.
“Funny, isn’t it?” she mused, nudging Dua as they approached a roulette table. “One spin, one number, and fortunes change.”
Dua grinned, nudging her back. “What do you say, winner buys champagne?”
Demi let out a laugh, catching the croupier’s attention as she placed a small pile of chips on red. The croupier called for bets to be placed, and the wheel spun. Demi’s eyes followed the clinking ball as it spun around the wheel before dropping onto the exact number she’d chosen.
“Looks like drinks are on you,” Demi quipped to Dua, her smile widening as the chips were pushed back to her side.
She didn’t notice, in her joy, the shadowed figures watching her from a distance. But if she had, she wouldn’t have cared—at least, she told herself that. In a way, she felt she’d earned the attention. With every thrill and every win, the world of secrets she had been invited into seemed more alluring, even if it came with risks.
Across the room, at a table just secluded enough to suit him, James Mattis was involved in a different kind of gamble. Dressed down and sitting with an unassuming demeanor, he fit in well enough, though there was an edge about him that made him stand out among the otherwise leisurely gamblers. His opponent, Derek “Ace” Lansford, was a well-known card shark in European circuits, notorious for his skill and even more so for his ruthless approach. A former British intelligence operative turned gambler, Lansford was known to play for more than just the game, and Mattis knew he’d be a challenge.158Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ5kWcT7A62e
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“High stakes tonight,” Lansford said, his voice low, with the practiced cool of someone who had little fear left in the world. “I don’t see many Americans with the nerve to sit down against me.”
Mattis didn’t blink as he raised the bet, his stack of chips piled high on the table. “Maybe you just haven’t been paying close enough attention.”
A faint smirk crossed Lansford’s face as he watched Mattis, studying the man who appeared to be just another wealthy thrill-seeker. But Mattis’s face was unreadable, his military poker face concealing every thought behind a mask of calm.
Back at the roulette tables, Demi found herself caught up in the electric atmosphere of the casino, the thrill of each spin, each risky choice. But as she sipped her champagne, her gaze drifted toward the poker tables, toward the man who was supposed to be in disguise but whom she could pick out in an instant. There was something almost absurd, she thought, about this night in Monte Carlo, about the mix of glamour and danger. She felt an odd sort of pride mixed with the feeling that things were hurtling toward something inevitable.
“Think he’s winning?” Dua asked, following Demi’s gaze to Mattis’s table.
“Knowing him?” Demi smirked. “I wouldn’t bet against it.”
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The penthouse suite at the Hôtel de Paris was a world unto itself, high above the glittering Monte Carlo streets, its opulence seeming to glow with the faint light from the harbor below. The suite was soundproofed, silent, and vast—though not so silent as to drown out the chaos running through James Mattis's mind.
As he lay beside Demi, his heart still racing, he found his gaze drifting to the ceiling. The night had been intoxicating, surreal—a blur of smoke-filled casinos, cold stares across poker tables, and the loud hush of their footsteps as they’d crossed the marble floors into the hotel. But the warmth of Demi beside him felt dangerous, unsettlingly real, a pull he hadn’t anticipated and one he wasn’t sure he could afford.
She shifted closer, her hand resting on his chest as she murmured, “What’s on your mind, General?”
Mattis hesitated. He wasn’t used to questions, especially not like this, especially not from someone who had such a way of cracking him open with so few words. In the dim light, he looked at her, searching her face for a hint of regret, a glimmer of recognition of what they’d done. But Demi looked calm, relaxed in a way he couldn’t manage to be.
“Maybe we should have left this… situation back in Hollywood,” he said, his voice low. “We both know this could blow back on us.”
Demi laughed, a soft, almost taunting sound. “You think I care about what people say about me? James, I lost that fear a long time ago. I learned it’s easier to just… act.”
Mattis looked away, trying to steady himself. He wanted to tell her this was different, that it wasn’t just her reputation at stake, that she wasn’t the only one who’d face consequences. But he stopped himself. Maybe she wouldn’t care about that, either. The danger she carried felt woven into her, as if she fed off it. And it unsettled him more than he wanted to admit.
“Why do you do it?” he finally asked. “The risks, the allies you’ve made—the ones you didn’t need to make. This thing with North Korea, Russia… it’s not just entertainment anymore, Demi. This is your life. You’re in over your head.”
She didn’t answer right away. Instead, she let her gaze slide to the floor, tracing patterns on the bed with her finger as if she were trying to make sense of something herself. Then, finally, she sighed.
“Because I wanted more. Fame was never enough. You know how they talk about power like it’s something distant, like it’s for people in uniforms, in office, behind glass walls? I wanted to know what it felt like to have that, to hold it, to be it. Don’t tell me you’ve never wanted that.”
Mattis’s lips tightened. “Not like this. Not with people like them.”
He could see the flicker of defiance in her eyes, something proud and unyielding. It was as though her choices were armor, forged from a lifetime of feeling sidelined by the very world she now aimed to conquer. But for him, there was no solace in her words. No amount of power, he knew, was worth the cost of everything else.
“I don’t know what you expect me to do,” he said finally, shaking his head. “If this goes south—if someone ties you to them—it won’t just be your life you’re gambling. It’s everything I’ve ever stood for.”
She leaned up, placing a hand on his cheek, her gaze unwavering. “Then don’t let it go south. We’re here now, James. Don’t pull back on me.”
Outside, the laser microphone held by the North Korean operative pulsed, capturing the tension in the room, each word an ammunition stockpile for blackmail or leverage, a file that would be ready to destroy them both if the day came. The agent lowered the device, stepping back into the shadows, assured that his night’s work would not go to waste.
But in the suite, as Demi wrapped herself around Mattis, he found himself sinking deeper into the shadows she cast. His thoughts drifted to a time when lines were clear and boundaries were simple, when duty was something he could hold up proudly. Now, his sense of duty felt fractured, twisted by desire, fear, and whatever else Demi had drawn out of him.
“Demi,” he said quietly, breaking the silence. “I hope you’re right about this.”
For the first time, a hint of doubt crossed her face, though she masked it quickly with a smile. “Have a little faith, James. After all, you’re here, aren’t you?”
But even as she pulled him close, the words clung to him like a dark cloud, a foreboding reminder that he was in too deep.158Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡL906W9voUX
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October 2017158Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ5FMxYCNhLA
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The American lunar reconnaissance satellite, Lunar Sentinel-3, detected unusual thermal activity near the Moon’s south pole. Analysts at NASA’s Jet Propulsion Laboratory (JPL) were baffled by the images, which revealed a network of artificial structures, including what appeared to be a launch pad and mining operations.
“Jesus Christ, it’s a fucking Moon base,” muttered JPL systems analyst Dr. Sarah Patel.
Dr. Jason Carter, her colleague, glared at the screen in disbelief. “Who the hell... Oh, for the love of God, Sarah, don’t tell me this is fucking North Korea. They can’t even get their rockets off the damn ground without blowing something up.”
But the evidence was irrefutable. A follow-up analysis showed structures consistent with missile silos and resource extraction sites. The discovery was deemed too sensitive for public release, and a covert operation to gather more data was launched.158Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ7etUYKOYtg
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The American lunar rover Resolute Pioneer was dispatched on a high-priority reconnaissance mission to investigate the site. As it approached, the onboard cameras transmitted an image that sent shockwaves through mission control: a garish propaganda poster plastered onto the outer wall of a large Moon structure. The poster depicted Demi Lovato, clad in a military-style uniform, smiling triumphantly beside an armada of rockets launching toward the heavens. The caption, written in Korean, proclaimed, “The Great Dream Realized! Forward to Victory with Supreme Comrade Demi!”
“Holy shit!” Jason blurted out, nearly knocking over his coffee. “Is that Demi goddamn Lovato? On the fucking Moon?”
“Oh, for Christ’s sake, this has to be a joke,” Sarah snapped, her voice rising. “Who the hell Photoshopped this shit onto our feed?!”
The room erupted into chaos as the rover’s cameras panned to reveal more. There was a landing pad bristling with retrofitted vehicles, followed by a series of domes, clearly inhabited. And then, a shadow....158Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡcmtgGY8PgA
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From the vantage point of a nearby crater, a lone North Korean soldier, wearing a patched-up space suit and wielding a Dragunov sniper rifle modified for lunar conditions, lined up the Resolute Pioneer in his sights.
“Fucking capitalist pigs,” he muttered in Korean, the sound distorted by his suit’s comm system. He adjusted his aim, focusing on the rover’s delicate camera array. “Go back to your goddamn planet.”
The blast was silent in the Moon’s vacuum but devastating. A single tungsten-carbide round obliterated the Resolute Pioneer’s primary camera, followed by a second shot that pierced its power module. The rover jolted violently, its systems flickering before going dead.
Back on Earth, the last transmission froze mid-frame: the propaganda poster, now torn and fluttering against the structure, and the shadowy figure of the soldier raising his weapon triumphantly.
“Mother of God,” Sarah whispered, her face pale.
Jason slammed his fist on the desk. “They’ve got fucking snipers on the Moon now. Jesus H. Christ, we’re so screwed!”158Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡscamORVkHJ
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Within hours, the images reached the White House. President Trump, flanked by his cabinet and the Joint Chiefs of Staff, sat at the head of the Situation Room table. The photos of the North Korean Moon base and the bizarre propaganda poster featuring Demi Lovato were displayed on the massive screen.
Trump’s face turned beet red as he leaned forward, his knuckles white against the table. For a moment, the room was silent—except for the hum of the projector—before he erupted.
“Are you kidding me with this? North Korea? The Moon?!” Trump waved a hand furiously at the screen. “I mean, what the hell is this? Rocket Man’s got Demi Lovato up there now? Unreal! Just totally, completely ridiculous. We’ve got the best people, the best intelligence, and this is what I’m looking at? A goddamn Moon base with a propaganda poster? It’s pathetic. Embarrassing!”
The President’s gaze snapped to Secretary of Defense Jim Mattis, who sat stiffly, his face glistening with sweat.
“And you, Mad Dog,” Trump continued, his tone suddenly venomous. “You were in Monte Carlo two days ago, right? Winning big, I bet. Having a great time. Meanwhile, Rocket Man is out here building missile bases on the goddamn Moon! What the hell are we paying you people for?!”
Mattis cleared his throat, his eyes darting toward the images of the base. “Mr. President, I—”
“Don’t ‘Mr. President’ me!” Trump cut him off, pointing a finger. “You should have known about this. Everybody should have known. I mean, come on. We’ve got satellites. Big satellites. The best satellites. Tremendous satellites. How do you miss something like this?”
The room was tense as Trump’s glare bore into Mattis, who remained silent, beads of sweat trickling down his temple.
Trump leaned back in his chair, shaking his head. “This is why I always say we need to watch these people closer. I’ve been saying it for years. Years! But no one listens. And now look—Demi Lovato’s on the Moon, for Christ’s sake. On the Moon!”158Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡa6l5yh4vNJ
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The scene shifts to a tense summit meeting aboard Premier Kim Jong Un’s luxury yacht moored in Yongsan Harbor. The two leaders, Kim and Trump, face each other across an opulent dining table laden with untouched delicacies. The air crackles with tension as the topic of the Moonbase takes center stage.
Trump leans forward, his palms flat on the table, his voice booming. “Look, Rocket Man, this Moon thing? It’s crazy. Insane. You’re putting missiles up there? On the Moon? It’s a joke! A big, fat joke. You think we’re going to let that happen? I don’t think so. Nobody’s tougher than me, believe me. And you know it.”
Kim, dressed in his signature black suit, smirks, his voice icy yet firm. “Chairman Trump, the Supreme Leader of the DPRK does not act on the whims of other nations. The Moon is a symbol of our nation’s unparalleled strength and ingenuity. Your threats mean nothing. They are as hollow as your promises.”
Trump’s eyes narrow, and he jabs a finger in Kim’s direction. “Promises? Hollow? Let me tell you something. We’ve got the best people, the best weapons. Tremendous weapons. If you think you’re going to turn the Moon into some kind of rocket launch pad, you’re out of your mind. And Demi Lovato? Really? I mean, what’s that about? Ridiculous! Totally ridiculous!”
Kim’s smirk falters for a moment before he replies with biting sarcasm. “Demi Lovato is a symbol of American decadence—now repurposed as a beacon of the DPRK’s revolutionary spirit. You should be proud, Chairman Trump. Your star now serves our cause.”
Trump’s face flushes red, and he slams his fist on the table. “My star? Don’t even go there, Rocket Man. You’ve got no idea who you’re messing with. You build one more thing up there, and we’re coming for you. Hard. Believe me.”
Kim’s voice rises, his calm demeanor cracking. “The DPRK is not afraid of your empty threats! We will defend our sovereignty, even on the Moon!”
The exchange ends with Trump storming out of the meeting room, muttering, “Unbelievable. Just unbelievable. These people are nuts,” as Kim watches him go, his expression unreadable.
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Moscow, Russia...158Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡuqaUBha0vH
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The grand ballroom of the Kremlin was a stunning sight to behold, its imperial architecture filled with soaring arches and grand chandeliers, their crystal prisms glittering like stars. The golden hues of the room gave off an otherworldly glow, bathing the high ceilings and polished marble floors in a soft, opulent light. The air was thick with the scent of fresh roses, and the sound of a distant orchestra playing Tchaikovsky filled the air—elegant, poised, but undeniably charged with power. At the heart of the ballroom, the Russian elite mingled with diplomats, military leaders, and influential businessmen from around the world, their faces illuminated by the resplendent splendor of the event.
Demi Lovato stepped into the room like a goddess entering her throne. Her gown shimmered in the light, a deep emerald green, the fabric clinging to her curves in a way that turned heads and made every conversation pause. Her dark hair, now flowing effortlessly over her shoulders, framed her face, and her eyes sparkled with both excitement and mystery. She knew she was being watched, and that only made her more confident, more alluring. It was the kind of attention she’d always craved but in a more dangerous, intoxicating form now.
It wasn’t long before her eyes locked onto the man who had arranged this entire meeting: Vladimir Putin, the Russian president. He was standing near the edge of the crowd, a figure surrounded by admiring figures and security personnel. Despite his age, there was a predatory elegance about him. His tailored black suit fit perfectly, and his face, though weathered, still held the sharp, calculating features of someone who had spent decades at the helm of one of the world’s most formidable regimes. His piercing blue eyes never missed a detail, and as they met hers, there was a brief but unmistakable spark of recognition.
Demi's heart fluttered, but she quickly masked it with a calm, composed smile. She had been to many high-profile events, but there was something about this one—about him—that stirred a strange, magnetic pull.
Putin’s lips curled into a small, enigmatic smile, and he made his way through the crowd, his movements deliberate, like a wolf circling its prey. As he approached, Demi stood tall, her posture impeccable. The room seemed to hold its breath as he reached her side.
"Ms. Lovato," he said, his voice smooth, measured, though carrying an undeniable authority. "I must say, your presence here tonight elevates this gathering to an entirely different level."
Demi inclined her head with a playful yet graceful smile. "Thank you, President Putin. It’s an honor to be here."
He raised an eyebrow, amused by the formality. “Please, call me Vladimir. This is a night for new connections, not titles.”
Demi’s smile deepened, recognizing the subtle shift from politician to something more personal. As they exchanged a few more pleasantries, the orchestra shifted into a waltz. With a sudden movement, Putin extended his hand, his gaze not leaving hers.
“Shall we?” he asked, his voice low and enticing.
Demi paused for a moment, her mind racing, but then she placed her hand in his with a grace that matched the sweeping elegance of the ballroom. As they moved to the center of the floor, the guests around them fell away, leaving them in a world of their own.
The dance began with an almost tender precision, Putin guiding her with an ease that spoke of experience. He had learned to dance with the finest of Western elites, but this moment, with Demi, felt different. His movements were calculated but fluid, his every step deliberate. The rhythm of the waltz carried them around the ballroom, the music enveloping them as the Russian president led with a natural dominance, his body brushing against hers in a way that was both intimate and commanding.
"Your influence is as captivating as your beauty, Ms. Lovato," Putin said as they twirled across the floor, his words like velvet but carrying an undeniable weight. "You’ve made quite an impression. And your work, behind the scenes, has not gone unnoticed. We have much to discuss."
Demi's lips quirked into a knowing smile. She was well aware of the role she had come to play on this stage, one that involved more than just money and influence. She had been a facilitator, a connector between regimes that had no business interacting, but through her wealth and her star power, she had bridged the gap. She was no fool, and neither was Putin.
“I’m glad you think so,” she replied smoothly, her eyes scanning the room briefly. In the back corner, she noticed the discreet, shadowy figure of a British Intelligence agent, his gaze fixed on them. A subtle warning, no doubt. Still, she felt no fear. She was too far gone for that.
The music came to a halt, and Putin leaned in, his lips brushing close to her ear. “Come with me,” he whispered, “I want to show you something more than this ballroom.”
Demi nodded, her heartbeat quickening with anticipation as he led her away from the crowd. They moved toward a private hallway, behind thick velvet curtains, where only the most trusted were allowed. Putin’s chambers were as imposing as he was, the walls lined with dark wood, illuminated by the warm glow of gold-accented sconces. It was here, in this chamber of power, that the real negotiations would take place.
As they stood near the window, overlooking the Kremlin grounds, Putin turned to her with an intense gaze. "You have no idea, Demi, how much you’ve accelerated our plans. North Korea is only the beginning. Your involvement—whether in funding, strategy, or covert diplomacy—has been invaluable. And with your help, we’ll reshape not just Asia, but the entire world order."
Demi tilted her head slightly, her curiosity piqued, but she said nothing. Putin continued, his voice low, persuasive.
"You are not just a celebrity in my eyes, Demi. You are a patriot of a new world order. The money, the resources, the influence you’ve funneled—it’s made you a key figure in this global shift."
His words wrapped around her like silk, and she felt a thrill rise within her, one she hadn’t anticipated. For all her power and influence, she hadn’t imagined herself to be a part of something so… monumental. But here she was, in a room with a man who could change the very course of history, and he was telling her that her role was integral to that future.
As they talked, the minutes stretched on, and she could feel herself growing intoxicated by the combination of the power she was wielding and the effect Putin had on her. His words were laced with stories of the glories to come—how Russia and North Korea would stand side by side, how the alliances she was forming would change everything.
By the time the night had ended, Putin’s touch had become an intoxicating force. She had crossed a line, but she no longer cared. She wasn’t just playing the game now—she was the game.
And as they parted, with promises of future meetings and ever-increasing power, Demi walked away knowing one thing: this was just the beginning.
---
Meanwhile, in a starkly different part of Moscow, a mysterious figure sat in the shadows of a distant hotel room, monitoring the conversation between Demi and Putin. An MI6 operative, eyes glinting in the dim light, watched with rapt attention. The ties were growing stronger, deeper. The connections were undeniable. And the next move would be just as significant as the last.158Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡJqdSnWIoB6
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Pyongyang, North Korea.....
The atmosphere in Pyongyang was one of eerie calm, almost surreal for someone like Dua Lipa, a global pop star accustomed to the bright lights of London, the vibrancy of New York, and the flashing cameras of every international red carpet. Yet here, in the heart of North Korea, she found herself in a starkly different world—a place where the streets, though meticulously clean, were devoid of the life and movement she was used to. The tall buildings around her felt almost too quiet, as if the city itself were holding its breath, waiting for something momentous to happen. The only signs of life were the military patrols that stood at attention along every corner, their eyes sharp and unyielding. Dua, seated in a blacked-out SUV, couldn’t help but feel a prickling unease settle over her.
She was escorted to a government building, its imposing structure designed to instill power and fear. Her heels echoed across the marble floor as she was led through sterile, almost oppressively quiet hallways. Despite the chill in the air, she could feel the weight of history pressing down on her, as if every step she took was being recorded, scrutinized.
Dua was greeted in the lobby by two high-ranking North Korean officials. Their smiles were polite, but there was an undeniable tension in the air. They seemed to regard her less as a star and more as a pawn—an asset to be used. Their clipped greetings were punctuated with formal bows, and her response was a stiff, rehearsed smile. She knew why she was here. She’d been carefully chosen, carefully groomed for this role. North Korea had spent years cultivating its image, and now, they were using celebrities like her to reshape it further.
At the heart of this strange diplomacy was Kim Jong-Un himself, and it wasn’t long before he entered the room, flanked by his personal guard. The atmosphere in the room shifted immediately as the air seemed to become heavier, charged with the same energy as a storm about to break. Kim’s eyes locked onto hers as he offered a slight but knowing smile. He was dressed in his signature dark suit, his presence commanding and almost mesmerizing, though an air of danger clung to him like a shadow.
“Ah, Miss Lipa,” Kim said in fluent English, his voice deep, almost unnerving in its calmness. “You honor us with your presence. The whole country is watching.”
Dua felt her breath catch in her throat, though she managed to keep her composure. “It’s an honor, truly,” she said, forcing herself to smile. “I’ve heard so much about this place.”
Kim raised a glass of crystal-clear liquid—some kind of local liquor, Dua presumed—and gestured for her to join him. “To a new beginning,” he said, his smile widening. “To a partnership that will change the course of history. Your influence, Miss Lipa, will help us achieve greatness. Together, we can show the world that North Korea is not to be feared, but respected.”
Dua nodded, unsure of how to respond. She knew her role in this was important, but the weight of it all, the power that Kim held and the way he was shaping her as part of his plans, sent a shiver down her spine. She knew that celebrities like her were being used by regimes and governments for their own purposes, but to hear it so plainly from the leader of one of the world’s most secretive and brutal regimes felt different.
They drank to their new alliance, and for a moment, the ceremony of it all felt surreal—like a scene from a movie she’d never wanted to be a part of.
----
Later that evening, Dua found herself in a more intimate setting—Kim’s private residence, a sprawling mansion tucked away behind layers of security. This place was unlike the government buildings she had seen earlier; the luxury was oppressive in its excess, the gold accents and intricate designs filling every room. It was a surreal environment, a stark contrast to the grim reality of North Korean politics and its history of human rights abuses. Yet here she was, surrounded by this lavishness, all while the rest of the country lived in poverty.
Kim Jong-Un led her to a grand sitting room, his movements casual yet deliberate. The room was dimly lit, casting long shadows that seemed to stretch across the floor as they entered. There was no music—only the distant hum of the palace’s generators—and the occasional sound of a guard shifting outside the door.
Dua was seated on a plush sofa, and Kim sat beside her, his gaze lingering a little too long. He leaned back, taking a sip of wine, his posture relaxed but his eyes sharp, watching her with a curiosity that felt almost predatory.
“I am glad you agreed to meet with me in private,” he said, his voice low. “I find the public interactions… too staged, too distant. Don’t you?”
Dua shifted uncomfortably. She knew exactly what he was implying. This wasn’t just about a partnership—it was about her becoming a part of something darker, more manipulative. She could feel the weight of his gaze on her as he spoke, and for the first time since arriving in Pyongyang, she felt a creeping sense of unease.
“Of course,” she replied, trying to keep her voice steady. “I… I think there’s a lot to discuss. I’m sure there’s more to this partnership than what we’ve already covered.”
Kim leaned in closer, his voice dropping even lower. “There is, Miss Lipa. There is so much more. You’ve helped us shape our image on the global stage—soon, people will see us as a country that can offer so much more. A country that can thrive, not just survive.” He paused, his eyes scanning her face, almost as if weighing her reaction. “But we need more than just image. We need power, influence. And you, Miss Lipa, can help us achieve that.”
Dua swallowed, the reality of what was happening settling over her like a thick fog. She could feel the magnetic pull of Kim’s presence, but there was something unsettling about it—something that made her skin crawl. She had been in enough rooms with powerful men to recognize the game being played. And this game, this interaction with Kim, felt more dangerous than anything she had ever experienced.
Before she could respond, Kim’s hand rested on hers, and she froze. There was no mistaking the intent behind the touch. His voice softened, but there was a cold edge to it. “Do you know what we can achieve together, Miss Lipa? The world will bow to us, and it will be because of you.”
Dua’s heart raced, her mind flashing with the enormity of the situation. She was caught, trapped in this dangerous web. But there was a part of her—despite the fear, despite the disgust—that couldn’t help but feel drawn to him. It wasn’t love or even attraction, but a twisted curiosity.
The night wore on with Kim speaking of dreams—his country’s rise to power, how Western celebrities like her would play pivotal roles in the reshaping of global politics. His voice was smooth, hypnotic, and despite herself, Dua found herself listening, nodding, as if she were slowly becoming entangled in his vision.
As the evening ended, she was escorted back to her room, the sound of her footsteps echoing in the empty hallways. But inside, she felt anything but alone. Kim’s words reverberated in her mind, and she knew that her involvement in North Korea’s future had only just begun. And despite the horrors, the danger, the manipulation, she couldn’t help but feel that something was happening here that would change everything.
In the end, she wasn’t just a pop star anymore. She was part of a global chess game, and she had just made her first move.158Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ6SBT6ud3ca
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It was one of the most unexpected sightings in recent history. On the evening of a brisk September day, British intelligence analysts monitoring satellite feeds came across a blip in the South Atlantic that would shake them to their core. At first, they thought it was a glitch—an error in the data. But when they double-checked, the results were irrefutable. The Taeyang II, North Korea's most powerful and enigmatic aircraft carrier, had been spotted 90 miles off the coast of the Falkland Islands, an area more than a thousand miles away from its known deployment zones.
"Shit, this can't be happening," whispered one of the analysts, his voice cracking as he stared at the screen. The massive vessel—a hulking nightmare of rusted metal and blackened steel—had no business being anywhere near the South Atlantic. The British military had long been aware of North Korea’s naval aspirations; still, the Taeyang II was thought to be operating in the Pacific, far from the watchful eyes of European intelligence agencies. Now, it was lurking in international waters like a predator closing in on its prey.
The British Ministry of Defence wasted no time mobilizing a response. The HMS Queen Elizabeth, the pride of the Royal Navy, was dispatched to intercept the unknown vessel. But even as the warship surged toward the coordinates, no one could understand why the North Koreans had taken the unprecedented step of deploying the Taeyang II so far from home. It was a vessel built for projection, for dominance in the vast, open oceans of the Pacific, not the calm but cold waters off the coast of the Falklands.
Captain William Preston stood onboard the HMS Queen Elizabeth with his arms crossed, staring at the live satellite feed in disbelief. “Bloody hell,” he muttered under his breath. “How the hell did they get here without us noticing?”
His first officer, Lieutenant Sarah Hale, looked up from her console. "We don’t know, sir. It was a ghost ship on the radar until we got a closer look. Satellite confirmed the Taeyang II’s signature—hell, the thing’s almost too big to miss."
Preston shook his head. "This doesn’t make any goddamn sense. What are they after in the Falklands? What the hell could North Korea possibly want in this part of the world?"158Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡvxwH1o3cUu
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The Taeyang II was a behemoth. Almost the size of a World War II aircraft carrier, it was a grotesque fusion of Soviet-era design and North Korean ingenuity—ruthless, efficient, and terrifying. The ship's hull was painted a dark, ominous black, and a massive, disturbing portrait of Kim Jong-Un stared down from the control tower, his cold, piercing eyes forever fixed on the horizon. His face was flanked by the words “Victory Over the Imperialists,” boldly scrawled in Korean, a message that seemed to echo in the hearts of anyone who crossed its path.
The carrier carried up to 80 aircraft, a mix of aging Soviet jets and North Korean fighter planes, most of them outdated, but dangerous nonetheless. Still, the technology on board was new, experimental, and untested—likely the reason for its stealthy arrival in these waters. A strange, unsettling aura hung around the ship, as though its very presence was a warning to those foolish enough to challenge it.
As the British scrambled to deploy more assets to track and monitor the ship, they realized that this wasn’t just a simple reconnaissance mission. There was something bigger at play here—something more insidious. The sighting had been no accident, and they could feel it in the air—the North Koreans were testing something. The question was, what?
----
Back at the White House, reports of the Taeyang II's appearance in the South Atlantic sent shockwaves through the administration. President Trump, who had been briefed on the aircraft carrier’s sudden deployment, was already pacing in his office, his face flushed with disbelief. His words were harsh, his voice edged with frustration. “I’ll be damned if North Korea is playing us like this. Where the hell is the intelligence on this?”
James Mattis, ever the stoic figure, stood at the president’s side, arms crossed and expression unreadable. “We had no indication they could get that far,” he replied evenly, though his eyes betrayed a flicker of concern. “This… this changes everything. If North Korea has access to these kinds of assets, their reach is expanding in ways we didn’t anticipate.”
Trump snorted, rubbing his hand through his hair. "Yeah, no shit, Jim. This is no longer just a regional problem. This is global, and I want to know why the hell they’re here in the first place. Do they think they can make a play for the South Atlantic? The damn Falklands?”
"Maybe it’s not about the Falklands," Mattis mused, his voice low. "Maybe they’re testing the waters—seeing how far they can push before we blink." He glanced at the map on the wall, his mind racing through the possibilities. "The Taeyang II’s presence is a bold statement. And wherever it’s going, it’s not just for show."
Trump leaned back in his chair, a grim look on his face. “Get me answers. I don’t care who you have to talk to. I want to know exactly what that ship is doing out there.”
---
Days passed as the British continued to track the carrier's movements. The Taeyang II was an enigma, never staying in one place for too long, but always remaining just enough within reach for military eyes to follow. The UK Ministry of Defence began to post more ships and submarines in the area to keep a watchful eye. It became a game of cat and mouse, and the longer the carrier remained undetected, the more unnerving it became.
Meanwhile, in a covert meeting with British intelligence agents, a senior analyst relayed his theory. “We don’t think they’ve come here alone. Whoever is behind this move—whether it’s China, Russia, or another state actor—has provided them with the means to operate far from their shores. The Taeyang II was never supposed to be here.”
“Who could have made this happen?” Captain Preston asked, narrowing his eyes.
The analyst hesitated, then spoke grimly. "We think it’s not just about military dominance. This could be part of a broader strategy, involving weapons, advanced technology… and even media manipulation." He looked at the others gathered around the table. “And we can’t rule out the possibility that this is a part of a larger covert operation to test the world’s response to North Korea’s power projection.”
---
As the British watched the Taeyang II from a distance, another disturbing element surfaced. In intercepted communications, Demi Lovato’s name surfaced once more, albeit in hushed, coded transmissions. These messages, though cryptic, made it clear that her connection to North Korea ran deeper than anyone had guessed. There were whispers that her influence, either intentional or not, had played a role in North Korea’s growing naval capabilities.
The encrypted messages hinted at her involvement in funding certain operations, and her name was listed alongside top North Korean officials and even other international figures with ties to Russia and China. What had initially seemed like isolated incidents were now clearly part of a much larger global chess game—one in which Demi Lovato, knowingly or not, had become an unwitting piece.
In a remote part of the world, the Taeyang II had arrived, carrying with it not only a fleet of fighter jets but a message to the world: North Korea’s ambitions were no longer constrained to the Pacific. The world’s oceans were now its playing field. And the question was, what would be their next move?158Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡprW3PQ9Tnv
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It was no small feat for *Glamour Records* to find itself under the FBI’s radar, especially in the field of counterintelligence. Initially dismissed as another flashy entertainment company with a dubious roster, Glamour’s growing list of influential patrons—many of them wealthy foreign nationals and political figures—had raised eyebrows within various branches of federal law enforcement. Glamour’s unexpected financial channels, untraceable investments, and covertly changing partnerships with North Korean financiers began to paint a picture that was all too familiar to veteran intelligence agents. FBI analysts had noticed unusual patterns in the company’s communications—coded language, heavily encrypted emails, and traces of clandestine money transfers that were suggestive of something far beyond mere business.
As the FBI probed deeper, the data began to converge around several key players. Initially, agents had viewed Demi Lovato's association with *Glamour* as superficial—another celebrity dabbling in high-profile circles. But as the evidence thickened, they realized her involvement ran far deeper than expected. By this time, Demi’s friend and collaborator Dua Lipa had also come under suspicion. Although she lacked any romantic ties to Mattis, Dua’s presence in the records was undeniable, indicating she wasn’t just an unwitting bystander. She appeared repeatedly in surveillance photos, social gatherings, and financial trails linked to Glamour’s operations, suggesting she too was part of a broader, orchestrated scheme.
For the FBI and allied agencies, this link was critical. Their investigation expanded to the records of *Glamour* employees, associates, and anyone loosely connected to its offices worldwide. The Treasury Department began working in tandem with federal agents, adding financial scrutiny to the intelligence probes. With each layer peeled back, it became clear that *Glamour Records* had positioned itself as an ideal cover for something more sinister, likely facilitated by its prominent connections and the unassuming façade of the music industry. Glamour had become more than a business; it was a cover, a carefully curated veneer that allowed its players to dodge suspicion while working under the radar.
As the net tightened, the FBI officially moved to place *Glamour Records* on its watch list, identifying it as a front that could be involved in espionage. With every clandestine message intercepted, every untraceable transaction noted, the stage was now set for a full-scale investigation—one that would draw in not only Demi Lovato but a web of figures who had, until now, enjoyed their anonymity.
