FINALLY! Congress Has DECIDED To DEPORT Ilhan Omar to Somalia

Ladies and gentlemen, everyone's favorite Somalian congressional representative, Ilhan Omar, is about to get deported back to Somalia. Ethan Reigns leaned back in his chair, eyes fixed on the classified report flickering on his laptop screen. The words stared back at him in bold, unflinching letters: "Deportation Order Pending, Subject: Congresswoman Ilhan Omar.

" He exhaled slowly, drumming his fingers on the desk. "And no, I'm not joking," muttered Lee from across the dimly lit office, dropping a thick file onto Ethan's desk. "That's your next case, Reigns.

Try not to get yourself killed this time. " Ethan arched an eyebrow. "Deporting a sitting congresswoman?

That's a new one. " "You see," Lee continued, sliding into the chair opposite him, "about a week ago, our dear Ilhan got caught hosting online workshops. " He flipped open the file, revealing grainy screenshots: Ilhan Omar mid-speech, hands gesturing, a room full of faces listening intently.

She was instructing Somali illegal immigrants in the U. S. on how to avoid getting deported by ICE.

Ethan let out a low whistle. "That takes guts and stupidity. " Lee smirked.

"And once again, no, I'm not joking. " Ethan sighed, running a hand through his hair. "So what's the angle here?

Political stunt? Diplomatic nightmare? Or something worse?

" "That's for you to find out," Lee said, rising from his chair. "Because this isn't just about illegal immigration. Someone high up wants her gone, and they want it done quietly.

" Ethan watched as Lee disappeared down the corridor, leaving the file sitting on his desk like a loaded gun. He glanced at the bolded words again: "Deportation Order Pending. " Something about this smelled off, and if there was one thing Ethan knew from experience, when Washington wanted something done quietly, it was never just about what they claimed it was.

In fact, Ethan Reigns wasn't the type to watch television news—too much theater, too little truth. But tonight he had no choice. He leaned back against the worn-out leather couch in his apartment, eyes narrowed at the glowing screen.

The CNN exclusive banner scrolled across the bottom, and there she was: Congresswoman Ilhan Omar, live on air, poised, unshaken, and as expected, defiant. "Take a look at her defense as to why she was doing this," the anchor announced, voice dripping with a mixture of curiosity and skepticism. Ethan adjusted the volume as the screen cut to a split screen.

On one side was Ilhan Omar, her expression composed; on the other, a bold tweet from none other than Elon Musk. "Elon Musk," the interviewer started, deliberately mispronouncing her name with a slight smirk. "I want to see if you want to respond to him.

He is actually singling you out on X. He retweeted a post that alleged you were telling Somalians who are illegally in the country how to avoid deportation. " Ethan exhaled slowly, watching Omar's reaction.

No flicker of surprise, no hesitation—just a steady, calculated expression. "You do speak Somali in the clip," the anchor pressed. "And according to the translation, it shows you telling people that if ICE attempts to question them, they are not obliged to answer those questions.

" Ethan tilted his head; that was an interesting phrasing. They weren't saying she was wrong, just making sure the audience knew exactly what she said. Clever.

Ilhan Omar's lips parted, and for the first time, her voice cut through the noise. "I do not speak Somali," she said, shaking her head slightly. "And I'm basing this on the translation that he retweeted.

Here, and this is guidance that we have heard from many immigration advocates. " Ethan rubbed his jaw, skeptical. That was a half-truth if he'd ever heard one.

"But Musk says that you are 'breaking the law,' literally outright. Do you want to respond to that? " Omar let out a small amused breath.

"Well," she said, tilting her head slightly, "it just shows you how much he lacks an understanding of what the laws of this country are. " The interviewer didn't flinch. "In the clip, it was an interview that I gave to a reporter.

I'm not in that room, actually. That they pan out to—that is an edited video. " Ethan narrowed his eyes.

"Edited? That was a bold claim. " "And in the interview I was asked," Omar continued, her voice steady, "what I say to Somalians who are undocumented or whose documentation might have lapsed.

It is important for people to exercise their Fifth Amendment right to remain silent unless they feel confident. " The screen froze momentarily as the network cut to commercial, but Ethan barely noticed. She was good—too good.

It wasn't just what she said; it was how she said it. No panic, no outrage; just enough legal jargon to sound reasonable, just enough indignation to look like the victim. But something was off.

Ethan wasn't a politician, nor was he a judge. His job was to read between the lines, and what Ilhan Omar wasn't saying was just as important as what she was. He grabbed his phone, dialing the only person he trusted in situations like this.

The line rang twice before Agent Lee picked up. "Tell me you saw that," Ethan said. "Saw it?

Hell, I recorded it," Lee replied. "And guess what? The original clip—I just got access to it—and buddy, Omar wasn't lying about it being edited.

" Ethan sat forward. "That was unexpected. So what are we looking at?

" Lee let out a low chuckle. "We're looking at a war, Reigns, and it's just getting started. So yeah, she doesn't even deny that as a sitting member of Congress, she was advising and instructing illegal immigrants on how to avoid deportation.

" Ethan Reigns tapped his fingers on the desk, his eyes locked on the spectrogram rolling across his laptop screen—a digital waveform pulsed in blue, capturing the rhythmic peaks and valleys of a secretly recorded conversation. A conversation that was. .

. Never meant to see the light of day, the audio had been buried deep, scrubbed from public access, but nothing truly disappeared when the right people wanted it found. And Ethan, he was damn good at finding things.

He hit play. At first, it was static; then came the voice—low, steady, confident. Ilhan Omar.

She wasn't speaking English. Ethan's Somali was rusty but not useless. He adjusted the equalizer, filtering out background noise, then a phrase leaped out at him, crisp and unmistakable: “If ICE questions you, you are not required to answer.

” His stomach clenched. It wasn't an interview. It wasn't CNN.

It wasn't even public; she was speaking directly to a closed group, her voice calm, instructive. The words weren't just about rights; they were a guide to evasion. Ethan leaned back, running a hand over his face.

How deep did this go? And then the recording shifted; a new voice entered. The tone was different—ceremonial, almost reverent—a man speaking in Somali.

The words were fragmented, but one name repeated itself over and over: Hassan Shik Muhammad. Ethan stiffened—the president of Somalia. His eyes darted to the transcription running beside the audio file.

The system's AI struggled with some of the accents, but the words were clear enough: “Our unfortunate ally, MWI, Henna, MWI, Somalia, MWI, Hassan Shik Muhammad in our Manitoba, Minneapolis. ” Ethan exhaled sharply. Minneapolis?

Why was the name of the Somali president being invoked in a secretive discussion with immigrants in Minneapolis? He rewound, playing it again, this time focusing on the cadence of Omar's words. There was no hesitation, no uncertainty.

It wasn't just a speech; it was allegiance. A sick realization settled in his gut. Where exactly did Ilhan Omar’s loyalty lie— the United States of America or Somalia?

His mind flashed to a classified memo he'd read days ago—something about foreign political influence growing in American immigrant communities. At the time, he'd brushed it off as bureaucratic paranoia. Now?

Now he wasn't so sure. He reached for his phone, dialing Agent Lee. The call connected almost instantly.

“Tell me something good,” Reigns. Lee said, his usual sarcasm in full effect. Ethan's voice was tight.

“Ilhan Omar, Hassan Shik Muhammad, same recording, same conversation. ” Silence, then a low whistle. “That’s a hell of a combination.

You think she’s working for him? ” Ethan didn’t answer right away because the truth was he didn’t know. What he did know was that something wasn't right.

And if the whispers in this recording were anything to go by, Omar wasn't just defending immigrants; she was operating in a much bigger game. “Hey, Congresswoman Omar,” he muttered under his breath, eyes narrowing at the screen, “exactly which country are you representing here? Because right now, now it sure as hell looked like she was playing for Somalia’s team.

And that? That made her dangerous. ” Ethan Reigns had seen plenty of classified reports in his time, but this one?

This one was a whole new level of rotten. He scrolled through the declassified intelligence brief, his jaw tightening with every line. The name at the top of the document: Hassan Shik Muhammad, president of Somalia.

And the further Ethan read, the worse it got. “Somalian president Hassan Muhammad, that Ilhan Omar seems to love so much, isn’t exactly the greatest guy. ” That was putting it lightly.

According to the document, ten years ago, an international corruption court had found Muhammad guilty of embezzling tens of millions of dollars—money that had been sent from the U. S. as humanitarian aid.

Ethan clenched his teeth. American tax dollars funneled straight into the pockets of a foreign leader. And it didn’t stop there.

“You see, about a decade ago, an international corruption court found him guilty of stealing tens of millions of dollars of relief money being sent from the U. S. to Somalia.

” The document was littered with redactions, but the accusations were clear as day: embezzlement, bribery, misappropriation of foreign aid. Ethan let out a slow breath, scrolling down further, and then his stomach dropped. “He’s also been found guilty of funding and arming the radical jihadist terrorist group Al-Shabab.

” He stared at the words. He read them again: funding, arming. Hassan Shik Muhammad hadn’t just stolen money; he had redirected portions of it to one of the deadliest terrorist organizations in East Africa.

And Ilhan Omar was connected to this man. “Jesus Christ! ” Ethan rubbed his temples.

He wasn't naive; he knew international politics was a dirty business. But this? This wasn't just corruption; this was blood money.

He scrolled further. “He also has a penchant for silencing any Somalian media that doesn’t support his regime. ” Of course he did.

Ethan had seen it before—authoritarian Playbook 101: steal, fund, violence, silence dissent. And yet, Ilhan Omar was openly praising this man. He leaned back, exhaling sharply.

“So pretty much he’s a corrupt, terrorist-supporting authoritarian—that about summed it up. ” And the real question now was, what the hell was Ilhan Omar doing in the middle of all this? Because from where Ethan was sitting, it sure as hell looked like she wasn't just defending immigrants; she was running cover for something much, much worse.

Ethan Reigns exhaled sharply, staring at the words on his laptop screen. The deeper he dug, the more twisted this whole thing became—a sitting U. S.

congresswoman openly praising a foreign leader who had been caught funding terrorism. And yet, no outrage, no media firestorm, no endless panels dissecting her every word. He clicked on a video link embedded in the intelligence report.

The screen lit up with a grainy clip: Ilhan Omar standing before a crowd, a smile on her face. “He’s our great president! ” Ethan clenched his jaw.

Great. The same Hassan Shik Muhammad who had been caught stealing U. S.

relief money, the same Hassan Shik Muhammad who had lined the pockets of a terrorist organization. But sure—great. He scrubbed a hand down his face.

But hey, you know what? Ethan muttered to himself, leaning back in his chair. Now that I think about it, it's a little bit weird to consider that Congresswoman Ilhan Omar has a little bit of a soft spot for authoritarian leaders, especially considering what she had said just a few days ago.

He clicked on another link, pulling up a CNN interview from last week. The moment the video started, Ethan already knew where this was going: Ilhan Omar, sitting prim and proper in a sleek blue blazer, her expression sharp, voice measured. "We are witnessing a constitutional crisis," she declared.

Ethan snorted. "Here we go. " We talked about Trump wanting to be a dictator on day one, and here we are.

Ethan paused the video, staring at her frozen expression. Dictator? That was rich.

He resumed playback. "This is what the beginning of dictatorship looks like. " Oh, he had to hear this one.

"When you gut the Constitution and you install yourself as the sole power, that is how dictators are made. " Ethan clicked the video off, tossing his phone onto the desk. "So just to make sure I understand all of this," he muttered, shaking his head, "Trump is bad because he's a literal dictator, but the Somalian president, who's executing journalists, funding terrorist groups, and stealing humanitarian aid—he's a great guy?

" Ethan let out a low chuckle, dark and humorless. "Hmm, this all seems just a little bit hypocritical. But okay, folks, what do you say we go ahead and move on to the main point?

" Ethan Reigns wasn't easily shocked. He had seen too much—war zones, black sites, political betrayals that would make the public lose what little faith they had left. But this?

This was new. He scrolled through the classified Homeland Security memo sitting on his screen: Subject—Ilhan Omar, status pending deportation. Ethan let out a slow breath, rubbing the back of his neck.

Ilhan Omar is finally getting deported? That wasn't a tabloid headline; it wasn't some political grandstanding; it was an official directive, and it was already in motion. He flipped to the last page of the document.

The signatures were redacted, but Ethan knew how to read between the lines. This wasn't just about immigration fraud; it wasn't just about a technicality in her citizenship paperwork. This was something bigger—political chess.

Somebody, somewhere had decided that Omar was now expendable, and the real question was why now? Ethan pushed back from his desk, pacing the length of his apartment. His gut told him there was more at play here.

This wasn't about justice; this was about leverage, because in Washington, nothing was ever just what it seemed. Ethan Reigns knew Washington ran on scandals, leaks, and political theater, but this? This was an outright brawl.

His phone buzzed—a notification from X. He tapped the screen, and there it was: a post from Congressman Brandon Gil, timestamp just a few hours ago. "We should have never let Ilhan Omar into our country, and America would be a better place if Ilhan Omar were deported back to Somalia.

" Ethan's brow furrowed as he scrolled through the explosion of replies beneath it—a digital war zone of outrage, support, and accusations flying from every direction. Cable news had already picked it up. CNN and MSNBC were calling it xenophobic; Fox News was calling it patriotic.

Typical. Ethan exhaled, rubbing his jaw. So this was it?

This wasn't just about Omar anymore; this was a full-scale political weaponization, and the worst part? It was working. For years, Washington had played these games, turning political figures into light rods, distracting the public from whatever real power struggle was actually happening in the shadows, and now Omar was the latest pawn on the board.

Ethan tapped his fingers against his desk, thinking, who really stood to gain from this? Who had decided that now was the time to turn a sitting congresswoman into the face of national security failure? He wasn't sure yet, but one thing he did know: this was just getting started.

But okay, Ethan muttered to himself, flipping on the TV, let's see how deep this rabbit hole goes. The CNN logo flashed across the screen, the network's signature red banner blaring, "Breaking News: Rep Brandon Gil doubles down on Ilhan Omar comments. " Ethan grabbed his coffee, leaning against the counter as the split-screen debate unfolded before him.

On the left, Congressman Brandon Gil—crisp navy suit, American flag pin gleaming under the studio lights, sharp, composed, ready for war. On the right, CNN's prime time host, her expression equal parts skeptical and confrontational. "I just want to follow up with this post you had on X," she started, shifting in her chair.

"You said that Congresswoman Ilhan Omar, a U. S. citizen, should be deported to her home country of Somalia.

Omar became a naturalized citizen at 17. Why did you say that? " Gil didn't even blink.

"Listen," he said, folding his hands on the desk, "my colleague Ilhan Omar, she is an American citizen. She is a member of the House of Representatives. I didn't call for her to be deported, but I did say that America would be better off were she deported.

" Ethan smirked—classic politician's dodge. "And why do you believe that? " the host pressed.

Gil leaned forward slightly. "I think that there is a serious problem, particularly after the past four years of open borders, of Democrats facilitating the invasion of our country by illegal aliens," he said, voice steady. "My colleague Ilhan Omar was advising illegal alien Somalians on how to evade ICE detection.

That is as un-American as you can possibly get. It's unbecoming of a congressperson. " The host wasn't letting up.

"What evidence? Where are you getting that from specifically? " Gil's smirk was almost imperceptible.

"We have the audio of her doing that. It was in an interview. " Ethan's breath stilled.

They had the audio. CNN's host adjusted her earpiece. She is a duly elected member of Congress.

Her constituents put her in office; she has a duty to uphold the values and customs of America, not to represent foreign illegal aliens who shouldn't be here to begin with. Gil nodded, and I think that raises serious questions. Ethan's phone vibrated—a message from Lee: "Turn the TV off.

Get to the office now. " Ethan's jaw clenched; that wasn't good. He grabbed his jacket and bolted out the door because if CNN was airing this and Lee was calling him in at the same time, something big was happening, and Ethan had a feeling it wasn't going to end on live television.

Ethan Reigns stepped into the dimly lit operations room, the scent of stale coffee and overheated monitors thick in the air. A massive screen flickered in front of him, broadcasting the CNN interview with Brandon Gil. The captions rolled at the bottom, but Ethan was already a step ahead; he could predict the spin before the words even left their mouths.

Illegal aliens, Somalis, or American citizens? Ethan leaned against the console, arms crossed. Legitimate question, wrong setting.

The CNN host barely flinched. "She's representing her constituents as a member of Congress. " That was the line they were going with.

Ethan smirked. Right, because this wasn't about legality anymore; it was about controlling the narrative. "Congressman Brandon Gil, I really appreciate your time.

I appreciate this conversation. " "I think it's really important. " "So do I.

" The segment ended, and the studio lights dimmed, but Ethan wasn't interested in what happened on air; he was interested in what was happening behind the scenes. Because this wasn't an interview; it was a script. CNN had just neatly packaged Ilhan Omar as the misunderstood victim, subtly nudging viewers toward the real issue they wanted to push: not whether she broke the law, but whether questioning her made someone a xenophobe.

And people would eat it up. "Did you guys hear that? " the CNN host's voice crackled through the speaker behind him.

Lee, half amused, half exasperated: "She's representing her constituents. Uh, are her constituents a bunch of illegal immigrant Somalis? " Ethan sighed because he thought illegal immigrants hadn't been voting in our elections—or did CNN maybe lie about that?

Ethan didn't answer; he didn't have to. Lee already knew the game, and Ethan was about to blow it wide open. Ethan Reigns leaned against the metal railing of the operations room, arms crossed, watching as the news cycle spun itself into a frenzy.

The shift had been almost instantaneous. The left-wing media had gone into full damage control mode. Yesterday, they were laser-focused on defending Ilhan Omar; today, they couldn't even keep their own story straight.

The footage on screen cut between segments from CNN, MSNBC, and a handful of progressive commentators, all scrambling to rewrite the narrative in real time. "With Trump back in office, everything is moving so fast that all of these left-wing talking heads can't even keep their story straight," Ethan exhaled slowly, shaking his head. Predictable.

The hypocrisy was almost impressive. Trump a dictator for pushing executive orders; Omar and Mohamud not even a headline, despite being knee-deep in corruption and potential foreign influence operations. He clicked his pen against the table, watching as new talking points rolled out across social media like clockwork.

They weren't debating whether Omar had done anything wrong; they were debating whether questioning her made you racist. But okay, Ethan muttered, adjusting the volume. "I want you guys to check this next thing out because this is really the massive news of the day.

" Something bigger was happening, and he was about to find out what. Just yesterday, Congressman Brandon Gil promoted a petition to arrest and deport Ilhan Omar back to Somalia. Ethan Reigns stared at his laptop screen, watching the numbers climb: 1 million signatures, 2 million, 3 million.

It was spreading like wildfire, faster than even the most aggressive political campaigns. What started as a single post from Brandon Gil had turned into a national referendum. Was Ilhan Omar a traitor, or was she a scapegoat?

Ethan wasn't naive. This wasn't just some grassroots movement; someone had pushed the dominoes, and now things were falling into place with surgical precision. He switched to another tab, pulling up the latest statement from Gil.

The congressman stood behind a podium, expression firm, eyes locked onto the cameras. "This is not about race. This is not about political division.

This is about the integrity of our nation. We have evidence that Congresswoman Ilhan Omar aided and abetted illegal immigration, and we can no longer stand by while she undermines the very fabric of American law. " Ethan exhaled slowly.

Evidence—that was the key. Everything up until now had been public outrage, media spin, political maneuvering, but if Gil was claiming to have actual legal grounds, that meant one of two things: they really had something airtight, or they were bluffing and hoping the storm itself would be enough to push things through. Ethan didn't trust politicians, but he trusted the intelligence trail.

Ethan's pulse quickened. He pushed back from his desk, grabbed his coat, and headed for the door, because if this was the moment everything finally started happening, it also meant that the people pulling the strings weren't going to let it happen without a fight. Ethan Reigns stepped out into the cold Washington night, hands deep in his pockets as he moved quickly through the streets.

He could still hear Brandon Gil's voice from the news broadcast replaying in his head—the political firestorm raging. But at this moment, that wasn't his biggest concern, because somewhere in this city, Lee had found something big. A whole new secret was waiting for them down the street.

Ethan glanced over his shoulder, instincts kicking in. Was he being followed? Maybe.

Maybe not. He wasn't going to wait around. To find out, he ducked into a side street, weaving through a small crowd, then slipped into the entrance of a rundown bar out front, the kind of place that had been around since the Cold War, where men in suits had once whispered over whiskey about how to dismantle foreign governments.

Tonight, it was just Ethan and Lee; another agent was already there, nursing a black coffee, a manila folder sitting untouched on the table in front of him. “Took you long enough,” he muttered, sliding the file toward him. Ethan didn't sit; he flipped it open, scanning the contents.

His pulse slowed then spiked. This wasn't just about Ilhan Omar; this was about where the money was going. “I don't even know why Congresswoman Ilhan Omar would be the least bit upset about this at all,” Ethan murmured, flipping another page.

Because this—this was more than just an immigration scandal. Buried between banking records, transaction logs, and encrypted communications was procured money funneled through humanitarian aid channels, landing in private accounts linked to Somali officials, some with direct ties to Hen Shik Mohammud and, more importantly, ties to certain figures in Washington. Ethan exhaled slowly.

He had seen a lot in his career, but this—this was something else. “Because, hey, it sure seems like she prefers Somalia to America anyway,” Lee snorted. “Prefer hell, man, she might as well have been on their payroll.

” Ethan set the file down, his mind piecing together the real story: the petition, the deportation order, the media frenzy—all of it was a distraction. Because if this got out, it wouldn't just sink Ilhan Omar; it would burn half of Washington to the ground. “But folks, I think that's all I've got for you guys today with this one.

” Lee leaned back, watching him. “So what's the play? ” Ethan closed the folder and slipped it inside his jacket.

This information wasn't safe—not here, not anywhere. “I personally just can't believe that we've had a sitting member of Congress just overtly instructing illegal immigrants on how to avoid getting apprehended and deported. And now, now they knew exactly why she was doing it.

” “That is insane! And thank God something is finally being done about it. ” Lee took a sip of his coffee, watching Ethan carefully.

“You know they are not going to let this slide, right? ” Ethan nodded; he knew. Because the moment he walked out of this bar, he wasn't just investigating corruption anymore.

He was a target. “But hey, that's going to be a wrap for this one. ” He got up, adjusting his coat.

“No time to waste. And, of course, as always, stay safe. ” The night was colder than usual, the kind that cut through layers and left behind a lingering chill.

Ethan Reigns moved swiftly through the dimly lit streets of Washington, the weight of the classified file inside his jacket pressing against his ribs like a loaded gun. He wasn't naive; he knew the moment he walked out of that bar, the countdown had begun. The truth he was carrying—it wasn't just a career-ending scandal; it was a kill order waiting to be signed.

A new message from an unknown number turned back: “This isn't your fight. ” Ethan smirked. “Oh, it was very much his fight now.

” An hour later, he was standing in front of a high-rise apartment overlooking the Capitol, the city's skyline twinkling below. Lee had set up a private meeting with a journalist from an independent network, one of the few left that still knew how to dig for the truth. A sharp knock, a pause, then the door creaked open.

Inside, Lauren Chase sat at her desk, multiple screens glowing in the dimly lit room. The best investigative journalist no one ever talked about because the real ones don't make it onto cable news. “Reigns,” she said, giving him a look.

“I hope you didn't bring me a conspiracy theory. I'm fresh out of tinfoil hats. ” Ethan tossed the folder onto her desk.

“Not a theory; a fact. ” Lauren flipped open the first page. A long silence, then a low whistle.

“Jesus,” she muttered. It was all there: the money trail, the fake NOS, the covert payments disguised as humanitarian aid siphoned into offshore accounts. A U.

S. congresswoman wasn't just looking out for Somali immigrants; she was laundering U. S.

foreign aid into the hands of a foreign government, and some of those funds directly linked to radical groups in the Horn of Africa. Lauren's fingers hovered over her keyboard, hesitating. “You know what happens if I publish this, right?

” “Yeah,” Ethan said, voice steady. “You make history or you disappear. ” She studied him for a moment, then, without another word, she started typing.

Thirty minutes later, the first article dropped. Then another, then a video leak. The story spread faster than the people in power could contain it.

Social media exploded; some called it the biggest corruption scandal in modern history. The White House scrambled to respond; they were reviewing the allegations. Ilhan Omar was nowhere to be found—vanished from public view.

And then, just as Ethan had expected, the media spin began. Some called it a right-wing attack, others called it an intelligence leak meant to destabilize national security. A few brave souls, the ones who still cared about the truth, called it what it was: a betrayal of the American people.

Ethan watched it all unfold from a rooftop across the city, the distant hum of sirens echoing below. Beside him, Lee let out a low chuckle. “Well, you sure know how to make a mess.

” “Yeah,” Ethan said, lighting a cigarette. “But it was a necessary one. Because this wasn't just about Ilhan Omar; this was about a system that let people like her thrive—a system that buried the truth under bureaucracy and distractions.

Tonight, they had cracked the foundation. But Ethan knew one thing for certain: the machine wasn't going to stop. ” There would be more corruption, more lies, more battles, and the fight for the truth—it never really ended.

Lee exhaled, shaking his head. "So what now? " Ethan smirked, tossing the cigarette into the night.

Turning to leave, he said, "We find the next one. " A week later, an encrypted email landed in Ethan's inbox—no sender, no signature, just a single line: "You weren't supposed to win this round. Watch your back.

" Ethan leaned back in his chair, exhaling. They weren't done with him, not by a long shot. But that was fine, because he wasn't done with them either.