A D.C. earthquake just hit. Pam Bondi has publicly accused Barack Obama of being the hidden architect behind the entire 2016 “Russian interference” story.
The ground trembled beneath the United Dominion’s capital as if a giant had driven its fist into the heart of the city. Car alarms screamed in every direction. Windows rattled.
The Capitol spire shook like a metal reed struggling against the wind. People poured out of restaurants, government buildings, and late-night offices, staring into the night sky as if expecting it to crack open.
The quake itself lasted barely twelve seconds.
But the political aftershock would last far longer.
At precisely the moment the tremor struck, former Dominion Attorney General Pamela Bondare, a woman known for her immaculate suits and even sharper legal instincts, walked onto the stage of the Dominion National Press Center.
Her entrance was perfectly timed—though the timing was not her doing. Fate, it seemed, had chosen to amplify her words.
She adjusted her microphone.
And then she dropped a bomb.
“Tonight,” she said, voice steady, eyes cold as polished steel, “I am calling for a full federal investigation into former Chancellor Baron Obellon and his administration for orchestrating what I believe to be the greatest political fabrication of the last decade: the so-called ‘Northern Federation interference narrative.’”
A wave of gasps hit the room like another earthquake.
But Bondare wasn’t finished.
“And Baron Obellon,” she continued, “did not act alone.”
The journalists leaned forward, pens hovering, cameras recording.
There was a tremor in the air—of dread, of anticipation, of political adrenaline. Dominion City was a town addicted to scandal, fed by chaos, and ruled by whispers. But what Bondare was doing tonight was not a whisper.
It was war.
THE CITY THAT LIVES ON FEAR
Dominion City had survived a thousand political storms—corruption trials, resignations, secret tapes, espionage scandals, even the legendary “Cabinet Meltdown of ’09.” Yet this moment felt different. Deeper. More primal.
Because the accusation was not merely political.
It was existential.
Right after the quake, news crews flooded the streets. People called family members to check on them. But as soon as the shaking stopped and the dust settled, something stranger happened: phones across the capital began buzzing with alerts—not about the quake, but about
May you like
Bondare’s press conference.
The timing was uncanny.
Almost unreal.
To some, it felt like an omen.
To others, a distraction.
To the city’s elite, it felt like a nightmare coming to life.
Inside the sleek, glass-walled penthouses of Dominion Heights, where powerful figures met behind tinted windows and security clearances, panic was unfolding—not over the earthquake, but over Bondare’s words.
“Did she really say his name?”
“Obellon? Yes. She said it clearly.”
“And she mentioned… partners?”
“We don’t know who yet. She didn’t reveal the names.”
“Then she’s saving them.”
“For when?”
“For maximum damage.”
In Dominion politics, nobody feared the earthquake.
They feared the list.
Because if Bondare claimed Obellon had secret accomplices in crafting the massive narrative that shaped a decade of national discourse, then those names—real or fabricated, innocent or guilty—could destroy careers, empires, legacies.
A single accusation could topple a senator.
But a list?
A list could collapse the capital.
THE WOMAN BEHIND THE FIRESTORM
Pamela Bondare had never been a woman who dealt in half-measures.
Her critics called her theatrical. Her supporters called her fearless. The truth was more complicated. Behind her steely composure hid decades of silent resentment, carefully catalogued betrayals, and a vast reservoir of ambition.
She had once served under Baron Obellon himself, a rising star placed in charge of internal justice. For a time, she had admired him—until the day she realized she wasn’t part of his inner circle, only a convenient piece on his board.
She had never forgiven him.
And tonight, she was finally collecting the debt.
Yet even those who despised her privately admitted one thing:
Bondare would never make an accusation she couldn’t survive.
So if she had walked into the Dominion National Press Center tonight and named Obellon…
Then she believed she had something.
Or someone.
This terrified the capital more than the accusation itself.
Because nobody knew who her “insider” was.
Speculation spread like wildfire:
Was it a former cabinet member?
A foreign intelligence defector?
One of Obellon’s close advisors?
A member of the Dominion Security Directorate?
Or perhaps worst of all—
someone still inside the government?
If Bondare had a mole, the game changed entirely.
ACROSS THE CITY, THE FORMER CHANCELLOR WATCHES
In a secluded townhouse on Old Chamber Row, far from the flashing cameras and the roar of media vans, Baron Obellon sat alone in his dim study.
A glass of aged Marinthian whiskey rested near his fingertips.
His phone buzzed endlessly.
Messages from old allies. Former aides. Advisers. Lobbyists. Journalists seeking comment.
He ignored them all.
Instead, he watched Bondare’s speech again. And again.
On his fourth rewatch, he finally spoke aloud, his voice low, measured, almost weary:
“So that’s how she wants to play this.”
There was no fear in his tone.
But there was something far more dangerous.
Calculation.
Obellon had always been a grand strategist, a man whose mind could anticipate political shifts months before they appeared. But even he had not expected an attack of this scale—not from Bondare, not now.
But the real question gnawing at him wasn’t her accusation.
It was her timing.
Why now?
Why tonight?
Why during a natural disaster—unless it wasn’t a coincidence?
Obellon placed his whiskey down, leaned back, and let the darkness of the room swallow him.
There was only one conclusion:
Someone had made a move behind the scenes.
And Bondare was merely the public face.
“Who’s backing you?” he murmured.
Because Bondare was many things—bold, aggressive, relentless.
But she was not reckless.
If she had chosen to strike now, it meant she believed she could win.
And Obellon knew that meant only one thing:
Someone powerful had decided it was time to bring him down.
THE SECRET THAT PANICS THE ELITE
Meanwhile, deep in the Dominion City underground—where unmarked cars drove through restricted tunnels, where information flowed like currency, where secrets were traded like weapons—another conversation was happening.
This one was far quieter.
Far more dangerous.
In an unlisted meeting room beneath the Dominion Intelligence Tower, three senior officials gathered. Their names weren’t important—only their fear was.
“Bondare knows,” one whispered.
“She can’t know,” another insisted.
“She accused Obellon publicly. She’s preparing a list. She must have something.”
“Or she wants us to think she does.”
“What does it matter? If she releases that list, we’re finished.”
They all knew what “finished” meant.
In the Dominion, a political death was often followed by a real one.
The oldest of the three leaned forward.
“There is only one option,” he said. “We find out who her informant is.”
“And if we can’t?”
“Then we eliminate the list entirely.”
Silence fell.
Harsh. Cold. Final.
Because in the Dominion, power was not protected by laws.
It was protected by desperation.
THE LIST
Pamela Bondare returned to her penthouse hours after the speech. Her security guards, already doubled after the quake, escorted her inside.
She locked her office door behind her and opened a drawer.
Inside was a plain black folder.
No title.
No markings.
Just a weight that seemed far too heavy for its size.
Bondare placed the folder on her desk and slowly opened it.
Inside were the names of people she believed had helped Baron Obellon create the grand narrative that had shaped a decade of Dominion politics.
Names that would, if real, shatter the power structure of the capital.
Some were expected.
Some were shocking.
One, however, sat at the bottom—underlined in red.
It was the name she planned to reveal last.
The one that would detonate the Dominion’s political heart.
The one that would ignite panic, outrage, desperation, and possibly chaos.
She whispered the name to herself, barely audible.
And she smiled.
A cold, quiet, victorious smile.
Because she knew:
Once this name came out…
the capital would burn.
Dominion City never slept, but after the quake and Bondare’s accusation, it didn’t even blink.
Coffee shops stayed open past midnight. News stations ran emergency streams. Hotel lobbies overflowed with lobbyists pacing on phone calls spoken in urgent half-sentences. Bars filled with off-duty analysts trying to drown anxiety in bourbon.
But while the city’s surface buzzed with speculation, the real tremors happened underground.
In a windowless operations wing beneath the Capitol Annex, the Dominion Security Directorate (DSD) activated a quiet Level-Three protocol. It wasn’t public. It wasn’t formal. And it wasn’t legal.
The order was simple:
“Identify Bondare’s source. Neutralize information flow.”
That was all.
No names.
No details.
No constraints.
Agents slipped into the night like shadows without owners.
Some to gather intel.
Some to intimidate.
Some to erase.
And one—only one—was given a different task:
Follow Pamela Bondare.
Not to stop her.
Not yet.
But to observe her.
Because someone, somewhere inside the Directorate, had a theory:
Bondare might not be the mastermind.
She might be the pawn.
And every pawn has a player.
At 3:14 a.m., Pamela Bondare stood by the tall window of her penthouse, looking down at Dominion City glowing beneath the night sky like a grid of molten gold.
She held her phone in her hand, waiting.
Her pulse remained steady. She had been in the game long enough to know that the moment after an attack was when the enemy’s counterattack would begin.
Right on schedule, the phone vibrated.
A blocked number.
She smiled faintly.
“Perfect.”
She answered without hesitation.
A voice—distorted, modulated—spoke quietly:
“You’ve made your move.”
“Yes,” Bondare replied. “And the city needed it.”
A soft chuckle came through the speaker.
“You’ve always had a flair for drama.”
“Says the person hiding behind a scrambled line.”
The chuckle stopped.
“When will you release the rest?”
“When I’m ready. Not before.”
A pause.
Measured.
Heavy.
“Be careful, Pamela,” the voice said. “You’re dealing with people who do not lose gracefully.”
Bondare’s expression sharpened.
“That’s why I have you.”
Silence.
Then the line clicked off.
Bondare lowered the phone. Her excitement was gone; the thrill replaced by something colder, sharper, more dangerous.
Determination.
Because she knew one thing about Dominion politics:
You didn’t bring down a giant unless you had another giant standing behind you.
And hers had just made contact.
Across the city, beneath a luxury hotel that pretended not to know it hosted black-ops meetings, three figures gathered in a private subterranean lounge.
They weren’t elected officials.
They weren’t cabinet members.
They weren’t even on any official payroll.
They were power brokers—the real ones—the type who funded campaigns, whispered orders, and made presidents.
Tonight, all three looked furious.
The woman in the red coat slammed her hand on the marble table.
“She named him publicly. Do you understand how insane that is?”
The man with silver hair adjusted his cufflinks, voice eerily calm.
“She doesn’t need proof at this stage. She just needs the narrative.”
“And once the narrative takes root,” the third muttered, “truth becomes almost irrelevant.”
Silver Hair nodded.
“She’s playing psychological chess. Not legal chess.”
The woman leaned forward.
“So what do we do?”
The man with silver hair answered:
“We don’t touch Bondare.
Not yet.
Not until we know the names.”
“And when we do?” the third asked.
Silver Hair smiled—not kindly.
Former Chancellor Baron Obellon had weathered political hurricanes before. But this—this was different.
Not because the accusation scared him.
But because it was elegantly timed.
Almost… mathematically.
He sat in his study, lights off, replaying Bondare’s speech frame by frame. He had always been a student of micro-reactions, able to extract meaning from the twitch of an eyelid or the tightening of a jaw.
On the seventh replay, he paused the video.
There.
For half a second, right after she mentioned “partners,” Bondare’s left brow twitched. Not out of nervousness—he knew her too well for that.
It was anticipation.
She knew exactly how the city would react.
She had predicted the panic.
She had engineered it.
Which meant—
“She already has the counterattack prepared,” Obellon whispered.
He rose from his chair, walked to a secure wall panel, and pressed his thumb to the scanner. A compartment slid open, revealing a sleek communication device.
He typed a single message to an encrypted recipient.
“Activate the contingency.
All assets.
No exceptions.”
He hesitated only once before hitting send.
He didn’t fear the accusation.
He feared the mind behind it.
Because someone was playing Bondare like a violin.
And Obellon hated three things in life:
Uncertainty.
Unpredictability.
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