News cycles had feasted on it. Commentators. Think pieces. Armchair analysts. Trauma porn with ads.

Dmitri's death couldn't be a footnote buried in a classified report that three bored analysts skimmed before lunch.

It had to be loud.

Public.

Impossible to ignore.

An eye for an eye. A tooth for a tooth.

Except there was a problem.

The CIA would never release that information willingly.

Admitting that a high-value international criminal had been killed in their custody—days after arrest, inside a supposedly airtight facility—would be an institutional nightmare. Questions would pile up instantly. Security failures. Internal corruption. Whether their black sites were fortresses or just expensive waiting rooms where people conveniently died.

And Dmitri wasn't some nobody. He was connected—oligarchs, politicians, entire shadow economies that spanned continents. His death in American custody would ripple outward, diplomatic fallout guaranteed.

The shit that didn't start wars, but definitely ruined dinners between governments.

So no. The CIA wasn't announcing that.

Which meant Eros had to.

And he had to do it without painting a giant neon sign over his own head that said I DID THIS.

The elevator doors opened on his penthouse floor. He stepped out, still thinking.

Rivera Next Media was the obvious move. They were allies now.

But that was too clean.

If Rivera broke the story first, the CIA would connect the dots instantly. Same day shipping. No mystery. Straight line back to him.

And while the CIA was useful—thanks to Ava and mutual interests—that relationship depended on plausible deniability. If he was seen openly leaking classified information about deaths in federal custody, that alliance would turn real fucking awkward real fucking fast.

So, he needed a ghost.

Someone else to break it first. Someone untraceable. Someone the CIA couldn't immediately tie back to him.

Then Rivera Next Media could follow. Cite the original reporting. Pretend they were just doing journalism instead of participating in a carefully choreographed information war.

The CIA wouldn't buy it.

But they wouldn't be able to prove otherwise.

And sometimes, that was enough.

Eros walked into the penthouse, stepping over the quiet aftermath of last night—Patricia sprawled on the couch, Janet half-curled in a chair, Priya asleep where exhaustion had finally claimed her. He didn't slow down. Didn't look back.

He went straight to his office.

He needed to make a call.

And he already knew who to call.

The one outlet with the reach, credibility, and absolute lack of fucks required to light this fuse.

IHIN.

Insider Hidden International News.

The ghosts.

The people who broke stories governments buried and prayed stayed buried. CIA black sites. Corporate corruption reaching presidential desks. Trafficking networks that made billionaires sweat and politicians disappear.

No faces. No names. No traceable chain.

Untouchable.

And Eros smiled as he sat down, fingers already moving.

Because he didn't just have a story.

He had leverage.

And leverage loved the truth—especially when it ruined lives.

Because two weeks ago, he'd done IHIN a favor. Not a polite favor. Not a hey, think of me sometime favor. A burn-the-house-down-and-hand-you-the-insurance-payout kind of favor.

He'd fed them intel on a trafficking network so massive it bent reality around it—Europe-wide, politicians stacked on top of shell companies like nesting dolls, money laundering routed through charities with glossy mission statements and blood on the balance sheets.

The documentation was airtight, the kind that laughed at appeals and mocked corrupt judges. Arrests followed. Raids. Assets seized mid-transfer.

Careers ended halfway through press briefings. Judges who normally specialized in "procedural complications" suddenly rediscovered morality like it was a forced firmware update.

He hadn't asked for anything in return. No quid. No pro quo. No I'll call you later.

He'd dropped the truth in their lap and vanished like a ghost with standards, trusting that people who built their entire identity around exposing buried rot tended to remember who fed them.

IHIN remembered. They always did.

Now it was time to cash the fuck in.

Eros sat at his desk and opened the encrypted contact app IHIN used—layered encryption, dead drops, digital paranoia thick enough to taste. He typed calmly, casually, like he was ordering room service instead of lighting a fuse.

I have a story for you .International criminal killed in CIA custody. Full documentation. Timeline. Evidence that can't be disputed. Interested?

He hit send and leaned back.

Three minutes passed. No typing indicator theatrics. No suspense games. Just professional silence. Then the reply arrived.

Always interested in truth. Send documentation.

Eros grinned—not a smile, but the expression he wore when someone important was about to have a very bad week.

"ARIA," he said quietly, "compile everything on Dmitri's death. Prison records. Security footage. Autopsy. Internal logs. The stuff they swear doesn't exist."

"Compiling now, Master," ARIA replied smoothly. "Estimated time: four minutes."

"Good." He leaned back, laced his fingers behind his head. "And wake up Rivera Next Media. I want them ready the second IHIN breaks this. Make it look organic—citation chains, secondary sourcing, journalism cosplay."

"Understood. Empress Catalina will appreciate the exclusivity."

"She can show appreciation by owning the news cycle for a week," Eros said with a snort. "I want every bastard who watched me bleed on live TV to know the man responsible died screaming in a concrete box."

"Noted."

Four minutes later, ARIA confirmed the packet was ready. Eros transmitted it to IHIN, the files sliding into the void like a confession with a body count.

A beat passed.

Then a response appeared.

Holy shit. This is legitimate?

Eros didn't hesitate.

Every word. Run it. The world deserves to know.

Another pause followed, longer this time.

This will cause international incidents.

Eros replied immediately.

Good. Truth should be uncomfortable.

Silence again. Then:

Story breaks in six hours. Recommend excellent lawyers and better alibis.

Eros laughed out loud.

I have both. Thank you.

A second later, one last message arrived.

No. Thank you. This is why we exist.

The connection terminated.

Eros leaned back, staring at the darkened screen as satisfaction settled into his chest like expensive whiskey—warm, slow, earned.

n six hours, Dmitri's death would be front-page news everywhere that mattered.

In six hours, the system would tick its little cosmic checkbox and dispense rewards like candy for good behavior. In six hours, the CIA would wake up to the worst group chat they'd ever been added to.

That wasn't his problem.

His problem was making sure justice looked exactly like revenge.

And he'd nailed the aesthetic.

"Master?" ARIA interrupted gently. "Your women are waking. Patricia is asking for you."

Eros glanced toward the living room, where bodies were stirring and last night's aftermath was slowly reassembling into consciousness. Right.

He'd broken three women, dismantled an espionage queen, flipped a rival into an ally, and detonated an international scandal before lunch.

Aftercare was probably on the agenda.

Being a god was fucking exhausting.

But someone had to do it.

Eros stood, stretched, and headed back toward his women. Tomorrow would be chaos. Tonight, he'd enjoy the calm—such as it was.

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