Dusk bled into night as the unmarked van idled in a shadowy alley several blocks from the old Grand Theater. The building, a relic of a more opulent era, was now surrounded by a quiet, purposeful crowd filtering inside. The mood was not one of celebration, but of grim determination. "Final comms check," Carter's voice was calm in their earpieces. "Remember, we are observers only. In and out. General's orders are explicit: identify the leader, do not engage." "Copy that, Mom," Johnny muttered, adjusting the civilian jacket that felt too tight across his shoulders. "Sit quietly, don't make a scene, watch the crazy people chant. Got it." Kyle said nothing, his eyes fixed on the theater's ornate doors. His instincts were screaming that observation was a luxury they wouldn't be afforded tonight. They left the van and melted into the stream of people heading for the entrance. The crowd was a mix of ages and backgrounds, united by the white masks many carried, though few wore them

The base had become a gilded cage. The high walls and security gates that were meant to keep threats out now served to pen them in. The constant hum of activity was replaced by a stagnant, frustrated silence. The team was grounded, forced to watch the world unravel on screens, their hands tied by political maneuvering and public hysteria. Kyle sat on a bench in a quiet corner of the barracks common area, staring at a wall but seeing nothing. The edited videos, the protests, the hatred directed at him personally it was a constant, grinding pressure. The desire to act, to smash something, to confront Derek West cause he knows somehow it's connected to him..and tear the mask off the whole operation, was a physical ache. A soft presence beside him broke his reverie. Carter sat down, not too close, but near enough to be a comfort. “You’re being awfully quiet,” she said, her voice gentle. Kyle let out a long, slow breath. “What is there to say? We’re sitting here while they

The news played on a loop in the base common room, a grotesque carnival of tragedy and triumph. The same few seconds of chaos from the summit, the announcement of the president’s assassination, the Equalist leader’s hooded, victorious speech. Kyle stood before the screen, not seeing the images anymore, just feeling the cold, sharp edges of the trap they’d been herded into. “What exactly happened in there?” he muttered, more to himself than anyone. “Who shot first? Was it even the Equalists? Or did West have a trigger man to make them look like victims?” Rush was furiously typing at a terminal, his face illuminated by the frantic scroll of code. “I can’t get a clear picture. The internal CCTV feeds from the main hall were hit with a sophisticated scrambler right before the shooting started. It’s not just damaged; it’s wiped. Whatever happened, someone made sure there’d be no objective record. All we have is the aftermath and his version of events.” He slammed his fist on the

The night was Kelvin’s only shield. He moved through the familiar back alleys of his neighborhood like a ghost, his heart hammering against his ribs. The sound of heavy boots and gruff voices echoed a street over Equalist patrols, already enacting their King’s decree. They weren't soldiers; they were neighbors with armbands and a license to hate, and that made them more terrifying than any monster. He pressed himself against a damp brick wall, holding his breath as a spotlight from a patrol vehicle swept the mouth of the alley. The light passed. He darted across the street and into the relative safety of the urban woods that bordered the district. Branches scratched his face, but he didn’t slow down. He ran until the sounds of the city faded, replaced by the eerie silence of the trees. He finally stopped, chest heaving, leaning against a tall pine. He was out. For now. Checking the cheap watch on his wrist, he saw he had time. He navigated by memory and faint moonlight, head

The late afternoon sun cast long, distorted shadows across the dusty main street of the town, known simply as the Crossroads. The air was thick with the scent of baked earth, hay, and something faintly metallic, a permanent aroma that Kelvin was still trying to place. He walked beside Jade, his oversized city boots kicking up little puffs of red brown dust. “So, this is it,” Jade said, her voice a comfortable contrast to the eerie silence he’d left behind in Aethelburg. She gestured with a sweep of her hand. “The beating heart of nowhere special.” It wasn't a city. It wasn't even a proper town by his standards. The buildings were a haphazard mix of aged wood, rusted corrugated iron, and in some cases, stone that looked quarried from the surrounding cliffs. People moved with a deliberate, unhurried pace. A woman with shockingly green hair used a flick of her wrist to levitate a stack of crates into the back of a wagon. An old man sat on a porch, whittling a piece of wood that