[VIRAL METER: 102% - SYSTEM OVERLOAD]
[LOCATION: LOS SANTOS - VINEWOOD HILLS]
[STATUS: ASCENDING]
The transition from Vice City to Los Santos was like moving from a neon dream into a sun-bleached nightmare. If Vice City was the heart of American decadence, Los Santos was its ego—a sprawling, smog-choked monument to vanity and the desperate pursuit of the "American Dream."
Dante Vane's private jet touched down at a secluded hangar at LSIA, far from the prying eyes of the FAA. The local police were already on high alert, but their databases were still recovering from the "Vice City Glitch." To the system, Dante Vane didn't exist; he was a ghost in the shell of a billionaire's tax haven.
"The gala starts in six hours," Sia reported, her eyes fixed on a holographic map of the Vinewood Hills. She was dressed in a sleek, carbon-fiber tactical suit that looked like high-end streetwear. "The AIPAC Chairman, Abraham Sterling, has hired a private security firm—Blackwater veterans. But that's just the surface. My scans are picking up encrypted signals coming from the sub-basement. That's Mossad signatures, Dante. They're expecting us."
Dante stepped out of the jet, his hand resting on the hilt of a cane he didn't need—a hidden blade forged from a blackened titanium alloy. "Of course they are. If they weren't, this wouldn't be art. It would just be a chore."
"Boss," Jax grunted, tossing a heavy duffel bag into the trunk of a waiting blacked-out SUV. "We need more than just firepower for this one. The Vinewood gala is a fortress. If we go in loud, the CIA drones will have us boxed in before we reach the foyer."
Dante adjusted his dark sunglasses, the reflection of the Los Santos skyline dancing across the lenses. "I don't plan on going in loud. I plan on going in as a benefactor. But first, we need to stir the pot. Jax, go meet our 'street-level' consultant. I believe he's waiting for us in Strawberry."
The smell of cheap diesel and high-grade cannabis filled the air in the back alleys of Strawberry. Standing under a flickering streetlamp was a man who looked like he had been woven out of dreadlocks and camouflage gear. Little Jacob was leaning against a rusted-out Emperor, checking his watch with an agitated twitch.
"Seen? De vibe in de city is heavy, man," Jacob said as Jax stepped out of the SUV, looking like a monolith of impending doom. "Ever'body talkin' 'bout de Vice City ghost. De streets is buzzin', ya know? Like a beehive hit wit' a brick."
Jax loomed over him, his expression unreadable. "Dante wants a distraction. Something that will pull the LSPD and the FIB away from the Hills for exactly forty minutes."
Jacob grinned, showing a gold-capped tooth. "Me have just de ting, rasta. De 'Vexation Protocol.' Me have five hundred 'yout' in de hood ready to roll. We trigger de silent alarms in every Ammu-Nation and Cluckin' Bell in de city simultaneously. De police gwine be chasin' shadows while you do de high-society ting. But it gwine cost, seen?"
Jax dropped a brick of cold, hard cash onto the hood of the car. It wasn't just money; it was the kind of payment that bought total loyalty for a night.
"Tell Dante," Jacob whispered, pocketing the cash, "de fire gwine burn bright tonight. Los Santos gwine look like de sun fall down on de pavement."
Back in the Vinewood Hills, the gala was a sea of tuxedos and silk gowns. The air was thick with the scent of $5,000-a-bottle champagne and the whispered deals that shaped the fate of nations. This was the headquarters of the Lobby.
Dante Vane entered the ballroom not as a criminal, but as a guest of honor. He had "purchased" his invitation two hours prior by liquidating a shell company belonging to a rival senator. His presence was a physical weight in the room; the air seemed to chill as he moved through the crowd.
"Mr. Vane," a voice called out—sharp, calculated, and dripping with false hospitality.
Dante turned to see Abraham Sterling, the AIPAC Chairman. Beside him stood a man with a military posture and eyes like a hawk—a Mossad "Handler" named Ari Ben-Zvi.
"A bold move, coming here after the... performance in Vice City," Sterling said, swirling his drink. "You've made a lot of enemies in one night, Dante. The CIA wants your head. The Lobbies want your soul."
Dante took a glass of champagne from a passing waiter, his gaze never leaving Sterling's. "Enemies are just critics who haven't realized the show is for them. You, Abraham, are the lead actor in tonight's final act."
Ari Ben-Zvi stepped forward, his hand twitching toward his waist. "You are surrounded, Vane. This building is a dead zone. No signals out. No livestream. You are just a man in a suit in a room full of people who want you dead."
Dante leaned in, his voice a low, lethal hum. "You think I need a signal to be a threat? Ari, your Mossad training taught you how to kill a man. I'm teaching you how to kill a system."
Suddenly, the lights in the ballroom flickered. Outside, in the distance, a series of massive explosions rocked the Los Santos skyline. The "Vexation Protocol" had begun. The sky turned a dark, bruised orange as fires broke out across the city. The sirens of a hundred police cars began to wail, but they were all moving away from the Hills.
"What is this?" Sterling hissed, his face turning pale.
Dante checked his watch. "That is the opening act. And as for your 'dead zone'..."
Dante snapped his fingers.
In every corner of the room, the "waiters" and "security guards"—who were actually Sia and her hand-picked mercenaries—pulled out specialized EMP jammers. The signal block vanished.
[VIRAL METER: 150% - SUPREME CHAOS]
[STREAM RE-CONNECTED: 50 MILLION VIEWERS]
Dante's face appeared on every guest's smartphone simultaneously. But it wasn't a pre-recorded message. It was a live feed of the very room they were standing in.
"Ladies and gentlemen," Dante addressed the room, but his eyes were on the camera drone hovering near the chandelier. "Welcome to the Art of Chaos. Tonight, we aren't just leaking data. We are performing a live audit of the soul of America."
The massive screens in the ballroom, which had been displaying "Charity Foundation" logos, suddenly changed. They began displaying the real-time bank transfers of the people in the room—money flowing from foreign intelligence accounts directly into the pockets of the politicians present.
"Kill him!" Sterling screamed.
Ari Ben-Zvi pulled a suppressed Glock, but before he could level it, a heavy caliber round shattered the marble floor at his feet. Sia stood on the balcony above, her sniper rifle glowing under the tactical lights.
"Don't," Sia said, her voice echoing through the silence. "The world is watching. If you kill him now, you prove him right. If you let him live, you lose everything."
Dante walked toward Sterling, his reflection looming in the tall windows overlooking the burning city. "You see, Abraham? This is the beauty of the digital age. You can't kill a virus with a bullet. And I am the most expensive virus you've ever encountered."
Jax burst through the main doors, his minigun humming. "Boss, the FIB is regrouping. We have five minutes before the air support realizes the distraction is a fake."
Dante drained his glass and set it on a tray. "Five minutes is plenty of time for a finale."
He turned back to the camera. "Tonight, Los Santos burns. Tomorrow, the world wakes up. This isn't a heist. This isn't a riot. This is the Art of Chaos."
As the team moved toward the exit, Dante looked back at the terrified "elites" of the world. He wasn't just a billionaire. He wasn't just a gangster. He was the Antichrist of the New World Order, and the internet was his gospel.