They meet in boardrooms, islands, temples made of glass.
Their laughter oils the hinges that have never known a key.
The mentor’s grin, the waiting jet, the children smuggled in last—
The manifest preserves the names that justice will not see.

No creed but appetite, no flag but chartered skies.
They harvest flesh like data, every victim numbered, never mourned.
The law kneels at wealth’s altar and sanctifies the lies,
While Congress skims the manifest and asks who climbed aboard.

They dream of outliving empire in a bunker’s private sun.
The world below turns feral as the safety nets collapse.
One falls—we call it justice, say our ritual is done.
But new wolves cut their teeth in shadow while their patrons softly clap.