Entertainment: Starting as a Succubus, Taking Hollywood by Storm

[GodOfReader: I'm not reading all of these shit.]

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The cluster of buildings looked rundown, some even collapsed, clearly uninhabited for years.

From the third vehicle in the convoy, a Maybach, the window rolled down, revealing a man with round glasses and a mustache—Saif al-Islam Gaddafi, Muammar Gaddafi's second son.

He gazed at the desolate scene, muttering inwardly, What a dump. This godforsaken place.

Born in 1972, Saif had never known hardship. By then, his father had overthrown the Idris monarchy, establishing the Libyan Arab Republic and serving as chairman of the Revolutionary Command Council and defense minister.

Saif was brilliant, outshining his brother Mutassim academically. He graduated from Austria's Imadec University and the London School of Economics, studying international trade and public administration, later earning a PhD from the LSE. Fluent in Arabic, English, and German, he admired the West deeply.

After returning to Libya, he urged his father to soften his anti-Western stance, occasionally aligning with the West. Unbeknownst to him, this flip-flopping made Libya unwelcome in both Western and Eastern blocs. Saif bore significant responsibility for Libya's current plight.

Realizing his error, Gaddafi distanced himself from Saif, entrusting the military to Mutassim. Too late. Gaddafi sometimes wondered if Saif was secretly colluding with NATO or the U.S., which was why he didn't bring him to his Sirte hideout.

Saif knew his father's trust had waned.

Lost in thought, a hot gust laced with sand stung his face.

"Pfft!" Spitting out grit, Saif wiped his face with a handkerchief, cursing silently, This damned country, this damned place—better off destroyed!

He tossed the soiled handkerchief under the seat, fingers brushing a black leather wallet containing a satellite phone with a 12-digit encrypted number.

His heart steadied. They're all wrong. I'm right, he thought. Only Western liberal democracy can save this nation… Father, don't blame me… You said anyone could be sacrificed for the greater good.

And Mutassim, thinking he can rule by controlling the army? Hah! If I can't have it, I'd rather see it burn!

This country—gray and yellow sand everywhere, no green; fools everywhere, no wisdom; backward beliefs, no civilization. What's the point of such a place?

Father, if you'd let me reform it, I could've made it a civilized, Western-like haven. You made the wrong choice. Don't blame me…

Saif's eyes burned with cold fury and jealousy.

The convoy rolled deeper into the complex, stopping at a large square.

Six grimy middle-aged men in local attire approached Saif's Maybach.

"Honorable Mr. Saif," said the leader, Ahmed, "we've prepared your quarters. Please follow us."

Their calloused hands marked them as former soldiers, tasked by Saif to guard this site.

Stepping out, Saif recoiled at their filth, covering his nose. "How long since you bathed? You're disgusting!"

Ahmed gave a wry smile. "Sir, water's scarce here. We save it for drinking, so…" He gestured to himself, "Bathing's not an option."

Saif's guard captain, stepping from the passenger seat, frowned. "Ahmed, I assigned you a 30-man squad. Where's the rest? And I told you to maintain this place—look at this wreck!"

Ahmed's smile grew bitter. "Sir, it's just us six now. The others deserted. As for maintenance, we haven't received funding since last year. If we weren't frugal, we'd have starved by now."

Saif's face darkened. "How? My secretary was supposed to send funds—" He stopped, fury flashing. His secretary, who quit last month, had clearly embezzled the money.

That bastard stole from me. If he hadn't fled, I'd have shot him.

No matter. Once I control this country again, I'll settle scores with every traitor and skeptic.

But he wouldn't get the chance.

As the convoy settled, soldiers from trucks, APCs, and troop carriers disembarked, joined by a few official-looking men. The heat inside the vehicles was unbearable, air conditioning useless. Outside was hot too, but at least the air was fresh.

No one noticed the last truck, parked quietly, unmoving.

Perhaps the smooth arrival lulled everyone's guard.

Saif instructed an official, "Amin, take a few men and buy food and supplies in town. Get extra water canisters—I need a damn bath. Money's no issue."

"Yes, sir."

"And don't get followed. If the military asks, show them my dear brother's orders. Say you're procuring for Mutassim's army."

Saif's jaw clenched. His word carried less weight than Mutassim's in the military—infuriating.

But no such hassle was needed.

As Saif's men milled about the square, the last truck's tarp lifted. Soldiers leapt out.

Big Dog had parked in a secluded spot, so no one noticed at first.

Only when Ram, Pilot, and their team strode forward, rifles raised, did a soldier spot them.

"Who are you? What's with those uniforms?"