They gathered in the streets, shoulder to shoulder, chanting words they barely understood. Their signs, hastily scrawled with slogans that had been fed to them, bobbed above the throng like waves in a storm. It didn’t matter what the cause was today—whether it was justice, oppression, or some abstract fight against a system that had long since abandoned them. The only thing that mattered was that they kept moving, kept shouting, kept burning.
They had been told they were warriors, revolutionaries shaping the future. But in truth, they were pawns, their anger carefully curated and redirected with every news cycle. The media framed their rage as righteous, the politicians fed them new enemies to despise, and in their blind fury, they never stopped to ask who truly benefited.
Around them, the city crumbled. Once-grand buildings were now stained with soot and graffiti, their windows shattered, their interiors looted long ago in previous protests that had promised to change everything but had changed nothing. Fires burned in the distance, plumes of black smoke coiling into the sky like the breath of something dying.
Above it all, behind tinted glass high in the towers, the true architects of the chaos watched in satisfaction. They were the unseen hands that steered the outrage, adjusting narratives as easily as one might tune a radio. If the people ever stopped to think, to question, to see beyond the illusion, it would all fall apart. But they never did. They never would.
And so the protests would continue. Today, tomorrow, forever.
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