The cities burned as mobs roamed the streets, chanting slogans they barely understood. Their faces were contorted with rage, fists raised high, voices hoarse from screaming demands that changed by the hour. These were not revolutionaries with a cause, nor warriors fighting for justice. They were the discarded, the disillusioned, the manipulated—set loose upon the country like a plague.
They had no leader, no true direction, only anger stoked by those in the shadows, elites who used them as pawns in a game far beyond their comprehension. They railed against a system they could not define, demanded change they could not articulate, and destroyed everything in their path with no vision of what would replace it.
The media fanned the flames, painting them as righteous warriors, conveniently ignoring the bodies left in their wake. The politicians, too weak or too complicit to resist, bent the knee, feeding the frenzy with empty promises and feigned sympathy. And as law and order crumbled beneath the weight of their destruction, the nation teetered on the edge of oblivion, its foundations eroded by a madness that cared nothing for what came next—only that something, anything, was burned to the ground.
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