The streets were no longer safe—not because of crime in the traditional sense, but because of something far more insidious. Paid agitators were everywhere, dispatched like a plague to disrupt the lives of ordinary citizens. They flooded grocery stores, blocking aisles and creating chaos at checkout lines. They staged riots at fuel stations, turning every gas run into a potential battleground. They obstructed traffic, surrounding cars with snarling faces and slogans that changed by the day, each one carefully designed to incite anger and despair.
The goal was never justice, nor reform, nor even protest in its true form. It was disruption. The kind that ground daily life to a halt and made people long for order—any order, no matter how oppressive. Fear crept into the hearts of the populace like a sickness, and soon, they whispered among themselves about how things used to be. How life was once predictable. How they used to walk their streets without the risk of being confronted, harassed, or attacked for no reason other than existing.
But that was the point. The architects of this new chaos wanted people to feel helpless, to long for someone—anyone—to step in and take control. They wanted to wear them down, make them beg for relief, so that when the answer finally came, wrapped in the guise of authority, the people would welcome it with open arms.
And so, the agitators continued their work. Paid well, protected by those in power, and untouchable by the law. They had become the foot soldiers of a revolution that was never meant to be for the people, but against them.