Ain't No Easy Way Out

Above ground, the city was dying in slow motion.

The smoke hung heavy over Los Angeles like a shroud, glowing red from within as if the city’s soul had caught fire and couldn't find a way out. Sirens no longer wailed. They had been drowned out weeks ago by the sharper screams of the desperate and the dull thump of boots on pavement. Buildings stood half-collapsed or blackened with soot, their windows smashed, their signs hanging askew like broken limbs.

Flames licked the sky from half a dozen different directions, casting the skyline in an ever-shifting dance of destruction. Streetlights flickered with no rhythm or purpose, powered by what little juice remained in the crippled grid. Gunshots echoed through the canyons of concrete, sharp cracks that ricocheted off glass and steel.

It hadn’t started all at once.

There had been rumors first—quiet, disconnected murmurs of power outages, missing police patrols, and neighborhoods left unguarded. Then came the footage. A mob flooding Wilshire Boulevard. Fires set in front of City Hall. Looters dragging generators down Sunset in broad daylight, grinning at the hovering drones that filmed it all for no one.

And when the National Guard pulled out—told to stand down by politicians who had already fled—Los Angeles was left to cannibals in the flesh and the spirit.

From atop the skeletal remains of a burned-out overpass, a lone figure watched the city rage. Smoke curled around his silhouette, hiding the grime and blood that covered his coat. His rifle dangled at his side. He wasn’t here to fight today—just to remember.

Below him, in what used to be a grocery store parking lot, rival gangs roared as two prisoners were dragged into the light. One was barely conscious, the other defiant even as the boots came down on his ribs. This wasn’t justice. It wasn’t even war. It was theater. Punishment as public entertainment.

To the north, the Hollywood Hills flickered like kindling, luxury homes reduced to charred skeletons. To the south, Downtown had collapsed into itself, skyscrapers gutted and remade into strongholds by those who claimed dominion now.

This wasn’t about territory anymore. It was about dominance. Fear. Control. The city was a carcass, and every gang and warlord wanted a bite.

But the figure on the overpass knew something they didn’t.

Beneath all this chaos, under the feet of the looters and killers and tyrants, there were still people. Still survivors. Still fighters.

People who had fled into the tunnels not to hide, but to wait. To plan.

He looked toward the scorched horizon, past the plumes of fire, and whispered to himself, “They think we’re gone. That was their mistake.”

Then he turned, disappearing into the shadows, heading for a forgotten access hatch beneath a graffiti-covered wall. The city might have burned above, but below, resistance was being forged in silence and steel.

And soon—very soon—it would rise.