Solace adjusted the straps of his rifle and stared up the old maintenance ladder leading toward the surface. The metal was cold, flecked with corrosion, and slick from years of leaking runoff. He’d climbed this exact shaft a dozen times before—but tonight, it felt heavier. More final.
Above, the world still burned. Not with fire, but with the slow, suffocating rot of tyranny disguised as order. Streets were patrolled not by lawmen but by enforcers—masked, armored, unrecognizable as anything that once resembled neighbors or fellow citizens. Loudspeakers still blared the same empty mantras:
It was a city where freedom had been willingly handed over—signed away in the flames of riots, given up by a public who thought surrender was salvation.
But not everyone bowed.
Not him.
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