[VIRAL METER: INITIALIZING...]
[LOCATION: VICE CITY - STARFISH ISLAND]
[STATUS: PRE-CHAOS]
The humid air of Vice City clung to everything like a wet shroud, smelling of expensive cologne, salt spray, and the faint, metallic tang of impending violence. Dante Vane leaned against the hood of his Bugatti Chiron, the car's deep indigo paint shimmering under the neon pink glow of the "Ocean View" hotel sign across the water. He adjusted his cufflinks—solid white gold, engraved with a serpent eating its own tail.
In the world of Grand Theft Auto, most men were content with a bag of cash and a getaway car. But Dante wasn't most men. He was a choreographer of catastrophes.
"The feed is live, Dante," Sia's voice whispered in his earpiece, smooth and cold. She was positioned two miles away in a luxury penthouse, her fingers dancing over a custom-built deck that was currently bypassing the security protocols of the CIA's regional hub. "We have 4.2 million viewers and counting. The internet is waiting for a miracle."
Dante smiled. It wasn't a kind smile. It was the expression of a predator watching a rabbit walk into a trap it had spent months building. "Let's not keep them waiting, Sia. Give them the 'Art'."
[SYSTEM NOTIFICATION: ENCRYPTION BREACHED. CIA INTERNAL DATABASE: ACCESSED.]
Suddenly, every digital billboard on the Vice City strip flickered. The advertisements for luxury watches and cheap beer vanished, replaced by a scrolling list of names, bank account numbers, and classified operation codes. It was a digital bloodbath—the private payroll of the AIPAC lobby and the CIA's clandestine "black budget" for domestic surveillance, laid bare for the world to see.
The reaction was instantaneous. On the phone in Dante's hand, the comment section of the livestream moved so fast it was a blur of fire emojis and "W"s. The internet was melting.
"Dante, we have incoming," Big Jax's voice boomed. The massive bodyguard stepped out from the shadows of a nearby palm tree, his tailored suit struggling to contain his physique. He held a customized M134 Minigun as if it were a toy. "Black SUVs. No plates. CIA 'Ghost' teams. They're not here to arrest us."
"I certainly hope not, Jax," Dante said, finally taking a sip of his scotch. "Arrests are for common thieves. This is an execution of the old order."
The screech of tires echoed through the quiet streets of Starfish Island. Four black SUVs roared around the corner, forming a tactical semi-circle around the Bugatti. Men in matte-black tactical gear leaped out, rifles raised, their faces hidden behind ballistic masks.
"Dante Vane!" a voice amplified by a megaphone shouted. "Step away from the vehicle and put your hands behind your head! You are in possession of classified government property!"
Dante didn't move. He didn't even put down his glass. He looked directly into the camera drone hovering silently overhead. "To the millions watching: observe the panic of a dying empire. They don't care that I stole their data. They care that I'm showing you the price tag they put on your lives."
"FIRE!" the CIA commander yelled.
The world turned into a symphony of lead and light. But before a single bullet could touch the Bugatti's carbon-fiber skin, Jax pulled the trigger on the Minigun. The sound was like a giant piece of canvas being ripped in half. The high-pitched whine of the rotating barrels drowned out the screams as a wall of 7.62mm rounds shredded the first two SUVs into scrap metal in seconds.
Inside the chaos, Dante remained a statue of calm. He watched as a stray bullet shattered a nearby fountain, sending spray into the air that caught the neon lights like falling diamonds.
"Sia, release the second wave," Dante commanded.
[VIRAL METER: 68% - CRITICAL HIT TO CIA SERVERS]
In Washington D.C., the screens inside the CIA's Langley headquarters turned bright red. Every computer terminal began printing a single sentence over and over: DANTE VANE SENDS HIS REGARDS. Simultaneously, the bank accounts of the lobbyists listed on the billboards began to drain. Tens of millions of dollars were being transferred in real-time to every smartphone user currently watching the livestream in Vice City.
"He's... he's giving it away," a technician in Langley stammered, watching the global economy glitch in real-time. "He's weaponized the currency."
Back in Vice City, the street was a graveyard of burning rubber and shattered glass. Jax had cleared the perimeter, standing over the wreckage like a bronze colossus. The "Old Don," Salvatore, watched from a safe distance in his vintage sedan, a cigar clamped between his teeth. He shook his head in disbelief. He was a man of the old world—extortion, unions, and concrete shoes. This? This was something else. This was The Art of Chaos.
A lone survivor, a CIA operative with a bleeding shoulder, crawled from the wreckage of the last SUV. He looked up at Dante, his eyes wide with a mix of terror and religious awe. "You... you have no idea what you've started. The Mossad... the Lobbies... they won't just kill you. They'll erase you from the Earth."
Dante stepped over the debris, his shoes clicking rhythmically on the asphalt. He knelt beside the operative, the glow of the burning cars reflecting in his cold, amber eyes.
"They can try," Dante whispered, loud enough for the drone's microphone to catch. "But how do you kill a man who has already become a ghost in your machines? Tell your masters that the 'Alpha' isn't just a title. It's a promise. I am the glitch you can't fix."
Dante stood up and turned back to his Bugatti. The door glided open. "Jax, Sia... pack it up. We have a flight to Los Santos. I hear the AIPAC chairman is having a gala tomorrow night."
[VIRAL METER: 99% - TRENDING #1 GLOBALLY]
[CURRENT VIEWERS: 18.7 MILLION]
As the Bugatti roared to life, its exhaust spitting blue flames, Dante Vane drove into the smoke. Behind him, Vice City was waking up to a new reality. The internet was on fire, the government was in shambles, and for the first time in history, the people had the passwords to the kingdom.
The Masterpiece had begun.