Entertainment: Starting as a Succubus, Taking Hollywood by Storm

Los Angeles, in a private room.

Under the glow of amber lights, three figures danced to the music. The high-end sound system filled the air with the haunting melody of HELLO.

Martin moved effortlessly between Scarlett and Rachel, his dance fluid and graceful, never missing a beat.

Meanwhile, in distant Libya, the roar of gunfire thundered.

Mutassim sat quietly in his room, ignoring the chaos outside, lost in the same song—HELLO.

I dream of the past, beautiful California, beautiful us.

So young, chasing freedom, you and me.

I almost forgot, but reality brings it all back…

The gap between us grows clearer, worlds apart.

I still want to call you, even across the horizon.

No matter how much time changes, I want to reach you.

To say sorry for everything I did…

Coincidentally, Mutassim was listening to HELLO, his thoughts drifting to his Italian confidante, Vanessa Hessler.

"Vanessa, are you okay?"

"We may never meet again."

"This war is lost…"

"I'm not reconciled—damn NATO, damn the U.S.!"

"But I have my mission!"

"I'll see it through."

"Even if it means death!"

Mutassim's vacant gaze hardened with resolve.

…

At the heart of Aziziya Barracks, slightly to the east, lay a defensive position split into four smaller sectors, guarding a central small building. Each sector had at least two anti-aircraft machine guns and two cannons, all cloaked in camouflage netting.

Satan, directing his men to fortify one sector with sandbags, kept glancing at the net-draped building.

Ram sidled up, whispering, "Damn, I just saw someone at the building's window."

"Who? Did you get a good look?" Satan asked.

The building was 200 meters away—too far for most to make out a face through glass. But Satan knew Ram's eyesight was exceptional.

Ram once bragged, "I can spot a fly's gender from a kilometer away. If I weren't scared of heights, I'd have joined the air force." The first part was exaggeration, but his vision was superhuman.

Ram nodded. "Got a clear look. Looked like Gaddafi. Even without the face, that flashy white outfit was unmistakable."

Gaddafi was known for his signature look: white robe, white pants, white shoes, white headscarf, white gloves, and, for special occasions, a white cape with gold trim.

Satan nodded. "I had a hunch."

"When I called Mutassim earlier, he dodged naming who we're protecting but kept stressing we follow his orders. Felt off."

"Plus, our intel confirmed Gaddafi's holed up here."

"Could it be a double? Doesn't he have at least two?" Ram asked quietly.

"No idea," Satan admitted.

Unbeknownst to them, from the building's window, Gaddafi was watching them through binoculars. Beside him stood a middle-aged man with round glasses, bearing a five- or six-point resemblance to Mutassim—Saif al-Islam Gaddafi, Libya's pro-Western son.

"Father, I still don't trust these mercenaries from Guinea. Mutassim said they're tied to that American," Saif said. "And sending our top talent to Guinea? That's unsettling. Everyone knows Martin's influence there."

Gaddafi glanced at his second son, sneering. "That was my decision. Got a problem?"

"Uh, no, Father, I respect you," Saif stammered. "I just don't want Mutassim blinding you. He's cozy with Russia and China."

"Oh, like you're cozy with the U.S. and France?" Gaddafi shot back.

Saif fell silent, his face darkening.

Gaddafi didn't fully trust Saif but kept him close. Unlike the resolute Mutassim, the 69-year-old Gaddafi, his ambition faded, had little faith in winning the war. He now only sought a peaceful end to his days, and Saif was his potential channel for negotiating surrender with the West.

Saif knew it too.