"If you're going to steal from empires, make sure you sell them the lock first."
— Yug Bhati
---
Casablanca, Morocco — Vulture Assembly Hall
A table of black steel stretched forty feet long, with twenty identical chairs arranged in a perfect circle — not for democracy, but for surveillance. Above them hung a single vulture emblem, its wings forming a crescent around the globe.
One by one, private jets had touched down in the desert. Men and women who moved nations with phone calls, whose faces never appeared in the news — the full Vulture 20.
At the head of the table sat Omar Bin Latif, the leader. Dressed in desert robes and a modern coat, his presence was both royal and lethal. Across from him, calm and unmoved, sat Yug Bhati, in his green coat, black bracelet glinting under the fluorescent light.
"Gentlemen," Omar began, his Arabic accent cutting through the silence, "one of you has been too loud."
He didn't have to say who.
All eyes turned to Yug.
---
The Trial
Omar flicked a button. A holographic display lit the table, showing a cascade of leaked files — account routes, oil logistics, signatures.
CIA, MI6, and FSB insignias marked the corners.
"Fifteen percent of Russia's oil revenue," Omar said. "Ten percent of the Middle East. You've done what no state has managed. But you've drawn eyes we can't afford."
Yug leaned back in his chair, unbothered.
"Eyes are useful," he said coolly. "They look where I want them to."
Omar's expression hardened. "You think this is a game?"
Yug smiled, a calm, venomous smile.
"I think the game started when you invited me into it."
Half the table chuckled. The other half stayed deadly quiet. Rozam Moretti, the Italian arms lord, whispered something into his aide's ear and glared at Yug.
Omar slammed his hand on the table. "One wrong move and the entire syndicate collapses. You forget your place."
Yug's eyes narrowed. "No, Omar. I remember it perfectly. Second seat. Seventh arrival. And still the one who feeds your empire."
A ripple went through the room — half awe, half threat.
---
The Betrayal
Later that night, in a dimly lit café off the Casablanca port, Rozam Moretti met with two agents — one CIA, one MI6.
He slid a small drive across the table.
"Everything you need on Yug Bhati. Account trails, offshore ledgers, his refinery chain. Take him down, and I vanish."
The agents exchanged glances. One smirked. "And what do we do when we find him?"
Rozam smiled. "Pray you don't."
But when the agents opened the drive later, the files were fake — crafted traps.
GPS data hidden in the code traced their location. Within twelve hours, their unmarked car exploded on a coastal highway.
Rozam's name disappeared from all syndicate records the next morning. His Swiss villa went up in flames that night. No witnesses. No evidence.
And no one dared to ask who did it.
---
The Falcon's Warning
Three days later, Yug stood on the balcony of his Dubai tower, wind whipping through his coat.
Behind him, a small black drone hovered, projecting encrypted messages from the Vulture 20 network.
Omar Bin Latif:
> You went too far. You made a point, but you risk the whole structure.
Yug Bhati:
> The structure stands because I fund it. Don't confuse fear with order, Omar.
No reply. Only static.
Then, a faint line appeared — "You forget who made you."
Yug smirked. "No," he whispered. "I just learned faster than you planned."
---
The Expansion
Over the next weeks, Yug executed a maneuver so silent that even the syndicate didn't realize it.
He created a new front — Nereus Systems, a digital analytics firm.
It didn't pump oil. It didn't transport crude.
It did something far more dangerous: it controlled oil price algorithms used by global trading platforms.
Suddenly, a hidden hand could manipulate the global price of oil — dropping it to ruin countries or raising it to create billionaires overnight.
And that hidden hand was Yug's.
Governments panicked.
Traders called it a "data anomaly."
Only Russian Intelligence knew what it really was.
But they couldn't prove it — and even if they did, every economy depended on the very system Yug now owned.
---
The Final Scene
Back in Casablanca, Omar met with his closest advisers.
"He's uncontrollable," one said.
"He's dangerous," another added.
Omar stared out the window into the desert.
"No," he muttered. "He's necessary. For now."
---
Meanwhile, high above the Arabian Gulf, Yug's private jet cut through the night.
He poured himself a drink, watching the live oil price ticker climb and fall according to his will.
The bracelet on his wrist pulsed faintly — the mark of the Vulture.
He leaned back and whispered to himself:
> "They can't kill me. I own their oxygen."
And somewhere in the shadows of global markets, the Falcon's shadow spread — quiet, vast, and unstoppable.