Death of a Nation

The year was 2025, and what little trust the people had left in their government was gone. Shutdowns had become a routine spectacle—whole agencies shuttered, workers sent home, and essential services left to rot. It was no longer a rare crisis, but a way of life. Citizens were told to be patient, to "tighten their belts," even as politicians in polished suits lined their pockets.

Taxes, fees, and penalties—those were the words stamped across every notice, every demand from the state. But everyone knew the truth: these were not contributions to a shared future, they were tribute to a ruling class that no longer pretended to serve the people. Corruption had been normalized, legalized, and paraded openly in the halls of power.

The nation, divided beyond repair, staggered under the weight of its own decay. Communities were splintered, neighbors suspicious of one another, each side convinced the other was the enemy. Hope had eroded into dust, and poverty was the common bond that stretched from coast to coast.

The war did not erupt in one single act of violence—it smoldered, spreading city to city, like embers in dry grass. Protest became riot. Riot became massacre. And soon, cities themselves were set ablaze.

At night, the skyline of America was no longer lit by neon signs or the glow of skyscrapers, but by fire. Burning cities reflected the death of a nation. Streets once filled with the bustle of daily life became charred graveyards of steel and ash. The first civil war had been about ideals. This second one was about survival.

And from its ashes, only fragments of humanity would remain. Survivors, scattered and broken, left with one impossible question: could a new world be built on ruins soaked in blood?