The hatch clanked shut behind him.
Solace crouched low beside a shattered tram shelter, scanning the empty street. Concrete was broken and uneven, veined with creeping moss and vines reclaiming the forgotten edges. Storefronts were blackened, their windows long blown out or barricaded with sheet metal. Digital billboards flickered weakly, displaying corrupted slogans in broken segments:
UNITY IS…■■■… YOUR DUTY
REPORT… DEFECTORS… FOR REWARDS
CONSUME | CONFORM | OBEY
He stayed motionless.
A soft wind carried the smell of ash, burned plastic, and the faint, acidic scent of decaying tech. He rose slowly and moved forward, ducking behind a skeletal bus frame, careful not to silhouette himself in the moonlight bleeding through the haze.
Then he saw it.
In the distance—beyond the husks of old civic buildings—a smoldering fire, orange and steady, curling upward like a ghost.
It wasn’t a riot fire. It wasn’t wild or chaotic. No—this was controlled. A signal. Or a warning.
Solace lowered his rifle and crouched at the edge of a broken statue pedestal, watching the flame for a long time.
He’d seen this before.
The enforcers burned locations that had been cleansed—former homes of resistance cells. This one was recent. The kindling was still red. Embers rose like moths, vanishing into the black sky.
He clenched his jaw.
This wasn’t just about territory. This was psychological warfare. They weren’t stamping out opposition—they were salting the earth, trying to kill memory.
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