Michael Ogunlade stood at the edge of Tel Aviv's Azrieli Tower, the Mediterranean wind brushing against his coat. Beneath him, the city pulsed with life, unaware that its fate—along with that of the entire Middle East—hung in the balance of a single man's ambition.
He wasn't running operations anymore. He was orchestrating a symphony of collapse.
The time for subtlety was over.
The Great Double-Cross had begun.
Every side had trusted him. And now, every side would pay.
Israel believed he was their loyal partner, providing classified intel on Hezbollah's leadership structure and Iranian missile trafficking routes. But behind the Mossad firewalls, Michael had inserted ghost protocols—programs that funneled their data back to a deep server in Abuja. Israeli airstrikes now hit ghost targets. Civilian casualties surged. International outrage soared. Israel's hands, once praised for surgical precision, were now stained with collateral blood.
Meanwhile, Michael dropped select Mossad operative dossiers directly into Iranian cyberspace—through a backdoor he had helped the Chinese insert months earlier. Within days, Israeli agents in Damascus and Beirut were dead or captured. Iran cheered, thinking they'd turned the tide.
They hadn't.
Because Michael had simultaneously been feeding Iran falsified Western intelligence—convincing them that Saudi Arabia was planning a full-scale air campaign in coordination with the Americans. Tehran preemptively launched ballistic strikes across the Gulf. The Saudis responded with vengeance. American carriers in the Persian Gulf moved into position. Iran, caught between paranoia and pride, bit down hard on the bait.
War, unofficial but absolute, erupted.
And Michael poured gasoline on the fire.
He released caches of weapons—Chinese rifles, stolen NATO grenades, Russian anti-air systems—into the hands of every rogue militia, jihadist splinter group, tribal warlord, and paramilitary outfit from the Sinai to the Syrian Desert. Each crate came with coordinates, targets, and "anonymous" intel.
Kuwaiti pipelines were blown sky-high by Houthi cells armed with Nigerian-supplied explosives. Jordan's intelligence HQ was bombed by what looked like an ISIS resurgence—though the weapons bore Serbian markings linked to a UAE shipment rerouted by IIS operatives. Turkey found itself assaulted on three borders by Kurdish cells suddenly well-financed and technologically enhanced.
Chaos didn't just spread—it bloomed.
The CIA scrambled to triage the damage. In desperation, they reached out to Michael. He fed them a list of "verified Iranian-backed terror groups" active in Lebanon and Syria. The U.S. launched drone strikes. What they didn't know was that two of those targets were embedded Saudi command posts and one was a Russian field intelligence node.
Now the West, Russia, and Iran were locked in a tangled web of retaliation.
And Michael kept pushing.
He leaked Iranian diplomatic communications suggesting Russian betrayal. He doctored Israeli sat-comm intercepts to suggest U.S. surveillance of IDF operations. He funneled hacked CIA data to Hezbollah and "leaked" Saudi disinformation to the Houthis. Every leak was timed. Every revelation crafted to wound, isolate, enrage.
In Riyadh, a royal cousin was assassinated in his own palace—an inside job manipulated with forged texts from a Mossad burner phone.
In Tehran, a senior Quds Force commander "accidentally" crashed in a drone-blind corridor. His plane had been refueled in Basra by men on Michael's payroll.
In Baghdad, three Western-aligned politicians were exposed in a child-trafficking ring. The footage had been deepfaked—but by the time anyone questioned it, riots had already consumed the Green Zone.
The Middle East devoured itself.
Michael watched it all unfold from his encrypted IIS command center beneath the Nigerian embassy in Tel Aviv—ironic, given that no nation had a stronger alliance with Israel at that moment. The irony wasn't lost on him.
Neither Iran nor the West would win.
Iran bled from too many cuts—internally fractured, externally besieged. The Revolutionary Guard was in disarray. Its proxies fought battles without centralized leadership. Oil exports collapsed. Protests erupted in every major city. The regime survived—but only just.
The West? Drowned in too many fronts. The U.S. had troops scattered across five nations now actively hostile. Their allies in the Gulf were unreliable, NATO was overstretched, and their intelligence networks had been butchered. Embassies were shuttered. Diplomats fled.
Russia retreated. China watched. And Michael smiled.
Because Nigeria surged.
With Gulf oil compromised and Iranian exports crippled, Nigerian crude became king. Foreign investment poured in. Abuja dictated terms to the EU on energy deals. The African Union granted Nigeria unprecedented military privileges. Under Michael's covert steering, Nigeria expanded its intelligence network from Sudan to Tunisia to Pakistan.
The world didn't realize it yet, but the Middle East had been gutted—not by war, but by manipulation. And from that void, a new order emerged. One forged in Abuja. Powered by whispers. Commanded by shadows.
The prophecy had come true.
> "We are the sand. We swallow empires."
And now, there were only ruins left to sift through.