Before the Decay

His name was Kade, though names mattered little now. In the Market Commons—what used to be a shopping mall before the Collapse—they called him “the Ghost,” not for any supernatural flair, but because he moved through the chaos unseen, unheard, and more importantly, unregistered. That alone made him dangerous.

Kade had once believed in the system, or what little of it was left. He stood in the forums, shouted with the rest, begged for scraps from the same crooked officials who smiled with powdered faces and bled the region dry. But over time, he saw the truth—the government no longer governed. It placated, misled, enriched itself. Bureaucrats swapped loyalty for luxuries, selling influence like snake oil in the dying days of Rome. Votes were auctioned. Rights were rented. And those too proud or too poor to play the game were left to rot in the alleys of forgotten infrastructure.

Most people accepted it. They waited in lines, filled out forms no one read, and blamed rival tribes for their suffering. They’d fight each other in the streets over crumbs before daring to question those who sat in the gilded towers downtown. It was easier that way. Rage was a currency now—spent lavishly, but always misdirected.

But Kade had grown tired of rage. He wanted meaning.

He scavenged old books, learned what life was like before the decay—when people built things, fixed things, dreamed. Not perfect, no. But compared to now? It was legend. He wasn’t trying to restore the old world—he wasn’t that naïve. But he carried within him a spark, a stubborn idea that somewhere beyond the tribalism, beyond the dependency and decay, something better could be planted.

He moved between zones by night, delivering forbidden books, helping people learn to purify water, fix generators, mend tools. Quiet resistance. The kind that didn't need banners or slogans—just hands, minds, and time.

The officials called him a threat to "order." But there was no order. Only theater. Only grift.

And Kade was done playing along.