The walls were closing in on Pablo Escobar.
DEA raids intensified. Loyal sicarios turned snitches. Politicians who once took bribes now ordered airstrikes. The jungle laboratories burned, and the cocaine trails turned to blood.
Every day, Pablo grew more paranoid. He moved between safehouses like a ghost, trusted no one, and killed on whispers.
But the real threat didn't carry a badge or wear a wire.
It wore Vekom's face.
While Pablo fought for survival, Vekom's clones mapped every inch of his empire.
The vaults — the real ones — hidden beneath orphanages, farms, and fake churches. Cash, gold, bearer bonds, stock certificates, even artwork.
The system catalogued them all.
By the time the third safehouse burned, Vekom had already started the sweep.
System Log: Operation Vault Reclamation- Target Vaults: 43 confirmed, 12 unknown- Claimed Assets: $8,760,000,000 USD- Estimated Total Assets: $30,000,000,000+- Untraceable Funds Recovered: 82% of known caches
It wasn't theft. It was succession.
Escobar had become too loud, too dirty. Vekom was the silence behind the thunder — and the one preparing to erase him.
The final blow came not from the DEA, nor the Colombian military.
It came from within.
A lieutenant who had once begged for weapons from Vekom now fed Pablo's location to his enemies. The system caught the transmission before it hit the U.S. embassy, but Vekom let it go.
He watched from a drone feed as Pablo Escobar — wounded, exhausted, surrounded — was cornered on a Medellín rooftop.
He didn't beg.
He just raised his weapon, fired once, and was torn apart by return fire.
The king was dead.
Long live the shadow.
As the city erupted in chaos — shootouts, lootings, collapsing alliances — Vekom moved without resistance.
His clones took the vaults one by one, sometimes under the guise of DEA agents, other times as rival gangs. No one questioned them. In war, the boldest thief walks freely.
Pablo's closest men tried to run. Few made it. The ones who did would later find their accounts empty and their families already under surveillance by Vekom's network.
System Update: Medellín Subnet Secured- Power Vacuum: Confirmed- New Node Allocation: "Saddam Request"
The request came coded, routed through Syrian shell accounts.
At first, it looked like another militia inquiry.
But the clone embedded in Damascus flagged the signature. It bore markings associated with Saddam Hussein's inner circle — the Ba'ath loyalists, the nationalists, the shadow men behind the coming coup.
"The West is arming our enemies. We need weapons. Good ones. The kind that don't come in UN crates.Name your price."
They wanted Soviet-grade tanks, shoulder-mounted launchers, hardened comms, chemical protection suits.
It was the same every time.
Someone wanted power. And they needed Vekom to get it.
In the new Medellín headquarters — a converted mansion on the hilltop once owned by a Pablo lieutenant — Vekom leaned over the holographic map projected by his system.
Colombia was green. Safe. Controlled.
The Middle East lit up in amber. Potential, but volatile.
Eastern Europe shimmered in red — old arms dealers circling like vultures.
America, as always, was white noise — too many factions, too much noise, but the right price could still open doors.
He tapped the region over Iraq.
"Activate Infiltration Protocol: Baghdad""Deploy two clones – identities: Jordanian logistics trader, French contractor.""Initial delivery: test batch – 50 rifles, 20 launchers, 10 drones."
Offer: $8,000,000 upfront. No returns. No credits.
As the orders flew and currencies changed hands, Vekom took a moment to sit in silence.
The man who had once died in a dusty African alley, betrayed and forgotten, now moved empires.
No one knew his name.
No one knew he existed.
But every coup, every war, every rebellion — passed through him.
Down in the vault room, one of Pablo's old lieutenants was tied to a chair. Bloodied. Broken.
Vekom didn't even look at him.
"Where's the rest of it?" he asked.
The man spat blood. "You took it all."
"No," Vekom said calmly. "There's a final shipment. You moved it before Pablo died."
The silence dragged.
Vekom nodded to the clone nearby.
One bullet.
The man gurgled once. Then silence.
Upstairs, a clone in military fatigues was already prepping the next shipment — destined for an unnamed desert compound outside Baghdad.
Inside the crate was everything a rising tyrant could ask for.
Power. Precision. Death.
The clone sealed the lid and made the call.
"Package is en route. Payment expected in 48 hours."
Across the world, a man with a mustache and a dream of domination grinned.
Vekom didn't need a throne. He needed reach.
And now, with Colombia under his heel and the Middle East opening like a wound, it was time to move faster.
System Prompt:"Space Transport Node 3 unlocked. Transit to Africa, Europe, Asia possible in real-time relay."
He tapped in his next destination.
"Next Target: The Balkans."
Because where there was blood, there was money.
And where there was money, Vekom ruled.