Solid Snake leaned against the rain-slick railing, the cigarette’s tip glowing once before he spoke. His voice stayed low and flat.
Snake: So. You still want the serpentine protector. Something that coils close, watches without noise, and only strikes when the threat is already inside the radius. Not a suit with an earpiece. A shadow that moves the way a snake does through wet grass.
Angelina stood a few steps away, arms folded, rain beading on her jacket.
Jolie: That’s the shape of it. Patient. Silent. I’ve had enough of loud protectors and louder enemies.
Snake: And the rest of the wish. You want the Assassins—the old secret society that works by the creed—to go after the Rothschild family’s Bavarian Illuminati. Tear down the nested structure of money, influence, and quiet control.
He took another drag, then added:
Snake: You’re not the first person to want that network dismantled. Look at what happened to Dr. Richard Rockefeller. Head of the U.S. side of Doctors Without Borders for years—founding member, chair of the advisory board, the one who helped plant the organization in America. June 13, 2014. Single-engine Piper Meridian. Took off from Westchester County Airport in dense fog after visiting his father. Less than ten minutes later the plane was in the trees. Official story: spatial disorientation. Pilot error. Soft landing into the official narrative.
Angelina’s expression didn’t change, but her eyes narrowed slightly.
Jolie: Softly killed. No explosion. No obvious sabotage. Just an experienced pilot flying into weather he shouldn’t have, and the machine fails him at the exact moment the climb is critical. The kind of death that leaves no clean fingerprints. The kind that looks like misfortune if you don’t dig.
Snake: Exactly. Untimely. Convenient. A Rockefeller who spent decades pushing independent medical aid, access to medicines, field work in places the big money prefers to ignore—and then the sky takes him in fog so thick the instruments become the only truth. The Assassins understand that method. One quiet pressure, one manipulated variable, and the target is gone without a public declaration of war. The Illuminati and the old banking families have used the same quiet tools for generations. Plane. Fog. Spatial disorientation. Case closed.
He crushed the cigarette out against the railing.
Snake: That’s the world you’re asking the Assassins to walk into. They deal in precision. One life, one moment. You’re asking them to cut at the root of a lineage that already knows how to erase people softly. Richard Rockefeller’s crash is the template. No manifesto. No blood on the street. Just an empty cockpit and a report that says the pilot lost the horizon.
Jolie: I know what I’m asking. I’ve seen how power hides—and how it removes the ones who step outside the approved lines. I don’t need a speech about how hard it is. I need the serpentine thing to keep me breathing long enough for the Assassins to land even one real blow. Or at least to start the work.
Snake was silent for a moment, rain running off the brim of his bandana.
Snake: A serpentine protector doesn’t care about your ideology or the Illuminati’s ledgers. It cares about the contract. It stays close, stays silent, and ends whatever comes for you before it reaches your throat. If the Assassins move on that network the way they moved—or the way someone moved—on Rockefeller, the blowback will be the same quiet kind. No banners. Just accidents that aren’t accidents. You’ll need something that can disappear with you, or stand between you and the next soft kill.
He turned toward the stairwell, already mapping exits and sight lines.
Snake: I’ll take the protector job. Not because I believe the Assassins will succeed, and not because I have a side in the Rockefeller-Rothschild-Illuminati game. I take it because you asked clearly, and because the alternative is you walking into the same fog alone. The Assassins can chase their ghosts. My job is simpler: keep the snake between you and the soft methods.
Jolie: And if they fail the same way the investigation into that plane crash failed to ask the harder questions?
Snake: Then the protector still does its job. You stay breathing. The rest is history written by the people who already know how to make a crash look like nothing more than weather and pilot error.
She gave a single, sharp nod.
Jolie: Deal. Serpentine. Quiet. And if the Assassins ever get close enough to land a real strike… I want to know.
Snake (over his shoulder): You’ll know. Or you’ll be too busy surviving the next soft method to care. Either way, the snake doesn’t leave. Stay low. Move only when I say. And don’t romanticize the Assassins. They bury people too—sometimes with the same quiet hands that put a Rockefeller into the trees on a foggy morning.
The rain kept falling. The city kept its secrets. And somewhere in the ledgers of old money, another name had already been crossed off softly.