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Chapter 8: Final Reckoning
Huling Na-update:
2025-11-11 14:04:08The island woke to a dark dawn—sky like dried blood, sun a flat coin behind smoke. SILKEN COMMAND sat half-sunk in the calm water, white side broken open, drinks bubbling in the shallows with fuel and coral bits. The reef had cut it deep overnight: sharp rock tearing metal, water filling lower areas where fancy food and drugs floated in mess. I watched from the boat’s front, engine low, Leica camera across my chest, salt on the lens. The dark-web show—now 92,000 watchers and growing—showed Damian and Seraphina tied to the metal frame on the stage. Their gold masks cracked, silk clothes ripped and dirty with ash and blood. The red ribbon hung loose between them, untied noose moving in the hot wind like a white flag.
Bids stopped at $15.2M – SOLD. Buyer: ANON-7FIG (hidden through many secret paths, last signal in Liechtenstein). Terms: 48 hours, alive, no marks, no questions. I ended the show with one touch. Quiet came—waves, birds, the yacht creaking deeper into sand. The island’s dock was junk: small boats floating empty, a fancy speedboat sinking with engine on, a water bike half under with expensive bags. Guards gone with the people—some took boats, others swam to reef, cut by rock. The main house smoked; computer room a black hole, fire gone after eating machines, melting metal. I pulled the boat onto warm sand from the fire, walked barefoot, camera clicking: burned cloth, broken glass, gold mask split like a face. I found them on the stage—right where I left. Damian’s white clothes gray with ash, silver hair stuck, wrists red from pulling ties. Seraphina’s gold chain caught in her dark hair, cutting her neck with each breath. Her gray eyes red but sharp, still looking for weakness. The metal frame stood behind, red ribbon at their feet like a dead thing. I knelt, arms on knees, camera ready. “Morning, stars. Good sleep?” Seraphina spit blood—bright on sand. “This won’t stop us. The board will start over. Vantage will—” I put the knife to her throat, under the chain. Blade warm from sun. “The board’s caught—Switzerland, Dubai, Singapore. Your buyers bid on you now. $15.2 million for two broken things. Delivery 48 hours. No marks.” Damian’s voice rough from yelling. “Say your price, Maya. Double. Triple. We can send from islands before—” I smiled slow. “I already did.” I turned the camera screen to them—live send to new hidden spot: CARTER_ARCHIVE_FINAL. All old 47TB files, plus 12 hours new clear video: masked party, taken auction, them tied, yacht breaking. Marked with buyer info, bank sends, secret companies in US, Europe, islands. Hit send. The dark web blew up. Police alerts worldwide. US team moved from Miami. #GhostStarFinale big online—1.2 million posts in hour. I stood. “Your world ends with the sun.” Seraphina jumped—ties broke loud, gold chain like a whip. I moved aside, grabbed her arm, used her speed to slam her face into metal. Blood flew—bright, fast, on sand. Damian yelled, pulling hard, neck veins out. I tied her tighter—hands to feet, same rope knots she used on me, red ribbon in her mouth like a gag. The camera kept going—quiet click, clear, red light on. “Ghost Star: Payback – Live”. I leaned close, talked to lens: “Money to victims. All of it. The Carters last prize. Bids end at sunrise.” Damian’s eyes met mine—green like hers, but cold, no power. “You won’t be free. They’ll chase you. The buyers—” I put knife to his face, under eye. “They chase you. ANON-7FIG paid. Send to secret spot in Europe. No return. No cameras. Just you two and what’s left.” Seraphina made sounds through gag—mad, begging, threats. I ignored. Walked around, camera clicking: smoking house, sunk yacht, reef leaking drinks and fuel. Proof. Safety. Record. I left them—sun up, reef leaking, island smoking. The boat took me north, engine steady, water trail white on blue. By noon, island guards found them—alive, no marks, $15.2M sent to victim fund in islands, run by Europe group. Dark web went wild: “GHOST STAR WINS”, “CARTERS SOLD”, “END IN TIES”. I was in Miami—new passport (“Clara Moreau”), new name, new camera. The Leica’s last picture: island from air, smoke like a fire for the dead, SILKEN COMMAND bones in water. Ghost Star: Done. No names at end. No save. Just fair. I walked into airport crowd, hood up, camera down. The world kept going—louder, better. I kept taking pictures. Somewhere over the ocean, the red ribbon sank with the water. And Maya Torres—Lena Moreau, Élise Gagnon, Clara—gone at last.
Pinakabagong kabanata
The Lust Journal Chapter 3: The Live Stream
The crypt was a furnace of wax and cunt-heat.I woke tied to the crimson chaise, wrists and ankles raw from silk rope now soaked with sweat and my own slick. The candle holder had burned low, flames licking black candles down to stubs, and dripping wax like cum onto the stone. Five cameras—four Bolex and one digital—blinked red, live, and feeding 73,912 viewers on the dark web. Title pulsing: “JOURNALIST’S CUNT: CONFESSION & CONQUEST – LIVE”.Luca stood over me, shirt gone, cross swinging between carved abs.Mara knelt at his feet, silver collar shining, and mouth wrapped around his cock—thick, veined, angry—sucking slow and sloppy, spit dripping down her chin onto the floor.She pulled off with a wet pop.“Time to wake the slut,” she purred, crawling up my body, fingers digging into my thighs, and spreading me wider.Luca grabbed the handheld 8K.“Tell them who you are, Elara.”I spat.“Fuck you.”He laughed, low and filthy.“Wrong answer.”He dropped to his knees between my legs and
The Lust Journal Chapter 2: Crypt 7
Midnight Midnight tasted of damp stone, candle smoke, and the copper tang of old blood.I went down the service tunnel behind the holy room, recorder in one hand and brass key in the other, the black slip dress I’d picked clinging to every curve like a whispered sin. The stairs spiraled down in a tight twist, iron rail ice-cold under my palm, and each step echoed like a heartbeat in a grave. The air grew heavier with every level—older and thicker, laced with myrrh, melted wax, and something metallic that curled in my nose: blood, or memory, or both. The walls wept moisture, centuries of water beading on the rough stone, and dripping in slow, steady beats that matched the pulse between my thighs.Crypt 7 waited at the bottom.The brass key—engraved in fancy script and heavy as guilt—slid home with a click that felt final and irreversible.The door groaned open on hinges that hadn’t moved since the rich old days, the sound scraping along my spine like nails on a board.Inside: a high ro
The Lust Journal Book 4: The Velvet Confession. Chapter 1: The Booth.
The church was empty at 23:11, and only my heartbeat echoed loud.St. Augustine’s, Lower East Side, once a home for Irish newcomers, now stood as an old relic of stone and colored glass, with moonlight bleeding across the main area. The air hung thick with incense and old candle wax, and it clung to your skin like guilt. I knelt in the left confession box, where the seat was cracked and the screen thin enough to see shadows move, and my black wool skirt, high on the waist, was already pulled up to my thighs. I’m Elara Quinn, 33, an investigative journalist with three big awards, but I had one secret I’d never print: I came here to record, not to confess.The screen slid open with a quiet scrape of wood on wood.A shadow filled the other side.He was male, with broad shoulders straining the black priest clothes.His cologne was faint—oud and smoke, expensive, and forbidden.His voice came low, familiar, and dangerous.“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.”I froze.That voice.It was F
The Lust Journal Chapter 8: Final Reckoning
The island woke to a dark dawn—sky like dried blood, sun a flat coin behind smoke. SILKEN COMMAND sat half-sunk in the calm water, white side broken open, drinks bubbling in the shallows with fuel and coral bits. The reef had cut it deep overnight: sharp rock tearing metal, water filling lower areas where fancy food and drugs floated in mess. I watched from the boat’s front, engine low, Leica camera across my chest, salt on the lens. The dark-web show—now 92,000 watchers and growing—showed Damian and Seraphina tied to the metal frame on the stage. Their gold masks cracked, silk clothes ripped and dirty with ash and blood. The red ribbon hung loose between them, untied noose moving in the hot wind like a white flag.Bids stopped at $15.2M – SOLD.Buyer: ANON-7FIG (hidden through many secret paths, last signal in Liechtenstein).Terms: 48 hours, alive, no marks, no questions.I ended the show with one touch. Quiet came—waves, birds, the yacht creaking deeper into sand.The island’s dock
The Lust Journal Chapter 7: Revenge in Nassau
The small plane dropped like a tired bird, engines rough over bright blue water that looked fake. Nassau airport smelled of fuel, fried food, and sun cream. I went through customs as Élise Gagnon—hoodie changed to a light shirt, Leica camera in a bag, fake passport against my leg. No bags. No mark.R’s last message: coordinates and time.25.0761° N, 77.3205° W – 02:14 local. Bring camera. Quiet entry.The island was a hidden strip of sand and rock south of Exuma, not on maps, surrounded by sharp reef. Locals called it Devil’s Teardrop. I paid $1,200 cash for a 22-foot boat from a fisherman who asked nothing. The boat moved through dark water under half moon, engine quiet with a wet cloth. Salt hit the cuts on my face from the tree escape weeks back.I stopped the motor 200 yards away. The island glowed—low houses over the reef, underwater lights making the water bright. A big yacht—SILKEN COMMAND—sat in the calm area, white and clean, name in gold. Music came over the water: low beats
The Lust Journal Chapter 6: Fallout
Montréal’s first snow fell like gray ash. I was in a third-floor apartment above a corner store on Rue Saint-Denis, hood up, cap low, breath showing in the cold room. The radiator banged like a broken machine; the one window looked over an alley with melting ice dripping into trash bins that smelled of old fries and smoke. R paid six months’ rent under Jean-Marc Lefèvre—a name from an old death notice. The landlord, Madame Duval, took the cash, gave me a key on a bent nail, and disappeared behind a curtain that smelled of spice and cleaner.The CARTER ARCHIVE – FULL was out.47 terabytes.200 shares.A huge bomb online.I watched it spread.• 00:03 EST – First share hit 100 people.• 00:17 – #SilkenCommands topped world trends, beating elections and star deaths.• 00:41 – A Swiss address linked to a fake company tried to crash it. It bounced to Russian computers and broke their own system.• 01:12 – Interpol sent an alert for unknown people tied to Carter company, Vantage Capital, and
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