Rage of the Deceived

The streets burned with the rage of the deceived. They called it justice, retribution, a reckoning against those who had “wronged” them—but the truth was far simpler, far more sinister. They were pawns, weapons wielded by the powerful, blinded by propaganda and turned loose upon their own countrymen. The legacy media had played its part well, feeding the fire with carefully chosen words, twisting reality until up was down and lies became truth.

Hordes of the furious rampaged through what remained of once-thriving cities, smashing windows, setting businesses ablaze, and hunting anyone who dared to question their cause. It no longer mattered what they were fighting for; most didn’t even remember. They only knew anger, a righteous fury placed in their hands by those who would never dirty their own.

The politicians watched from their fortified estates, sipping expensive whiskey, smiling as the chaos unfolded exactly as planned. Fear was a powerful tool, and an unstable, divided populace was easy to control. While the streets boiled with unrest, they passed laws in the dead of night, ensuring their grip on power tightened with every riot, every protest turned violent.

No one was safe. Not the few who still clung to reason. Not the businesses, large or small. Not the families who had once believed in the promise of their homeland. The nation teetered on the edge of complete collapse, but those who orchestrated the downfall didn’t care. As long as the money flowed, as long as they remained untouchable, the suffering of the masses was nothing more than the cost of doing business.

And still, the people raged, never once realizing they were nothing more than the means to their own destruction.