Power to the People

At first, the protests were small—pockets of defiant voices gathering in city squares, demanding answers. They had seen the leaks, the undeniable proof of corruption, the deals made in smoke-filled rooms to sell out their futures. The government, bloated and untouchable for so long, had been exposed. The illusion of democracy shattered, leaving nothing but raw, seething anger.

Then the floodgates burst.

The streets swelled with people, not just the young and reckless, but mothers and fathers, workers and veterans, those who had given everything only to be repaid with lies. They carried signs, but more than that, they carried the weight of a lifetime of betrayal. Their voices rose like a tidal wave, drowning out the scripted denials of politicians and the desperate spin of legacy media.

The regime panicked.

They sent their enforcers to quell the unrest, armed in riot gear, barking orders through crackling speakers. But this was no ordinary protest, no temporary outrage to be dispersed with threats and teargas. The people did not scatter. They did not run. They stood their ground, eyes burning with something the corrupt had never feared before—resolve.

The media called it chaos. The politicians called it an insurrection. But the people knew better.

It was justice.

Every revelation of fraud, every backroom deal exposed, every betrayal laid bare in leaked documents and intercepted communications only fueled the fire. The government had spent decades keeping them divided—by race, by class, by ideology—but now, none of that mattered. They were united in a singular, unwavering demand:

Return the power to the people.

Cities became battlegrounds, not just of fists and fire, but of truth against propaganda, of a population reclaiming its right to govern itself. The old world was crumbling, its foundations rotted through with greed.

And the people? They weren’t going to let it stand anymore.