The Architect of Hunger
In a world ravaged by despair, there existed a man named Bill Gates, a billionaire who had shaped the world with technology. On the surface, he was lauded as a savior—a philanthropist who promised innovation for the masses. But behind his glass towers and sprawling estates, his heart beat to a different rhythm.
Gates saw humanity not as a collective of individuals but as a resource, a sea of pawns to manipulate and harvest. With a calculated smile, he unveiled a solution to global famine: genetically engineered crops that could thrive in the harshest climates. Nations rejoiced, heralding him as the second coming of hope.
But Gate’s seeds were laced with dependency. They thrived only under the glow of a proprietary chemical, a serum owned solely by his empire. Farmers across continents watched as their crops withered without it, their hands tied by contracts inked in desperation.
As famine loomed, Gates unveiled the price for salvation. It was no longer money he sought—it was control. He demanded allegiance, forcing governments to hand over land, resources, and autonomy. Those who resisted watched their people starve, their nations crumble.
Bill Gates did not need an army; he wielded hunger as his weapon, making kings and commoners kneel alike. And from the heights of his ivory tower, he watched the world burn—not with malice, but with cold, calculated indifference.