The first shot was a mistake the world could not un-hear.It came from the rear entrance, a quick staccato that tore through Hugo’s script like a palm through silk. Cameras, trained on the pale faces of men promising peace, swung to the source--a silhouette collapsing against a gilded column. The camera’s whirring faltered, plunging the live feed into static before technicians could reframe the narrative. A reporter’s microphone clattered to the floor, the sound of it castrating the room’s polished calm.Then the second shot, and the opera house changed its skin.Gunfire shredded the air. It sounded wrong in a place that had once resisted the ordinary world with arias and etiquette. Men dived for cover as chandeliers bobbed over heads like wounded beasts. Women in evening gowns screamed and pressed palms to mouths. The stage, meant for reconciliation, made a sound imaginary soldiers dreamed of: the crack of fear.Diego reacted like someone who had been taught to survive chaos befo

The tunnels beneath the city were veins carved by forgotten wars --damp, echoing, alive with the drip of slow decay. Here, history had no witnesses, only echoes. Harold’s boots pressed through puddles that smelled of rust and memory. His breath came steady, disciplined, each exhale visible in the cold dark.Around him moved what remained of the Ghost Hands --five men reduced from an army of shadows. Their faces were blank beneath respirators; their silence was loyalty sharpened into ritual. Every step they took reverberated through decades of betrayal.Above them, the city pulsed --riots, sirens, celebrations, all stitched together in the name of victory. The government had declared a national holiday to commemorate The Writer’s execution. Streets that once burned with revolt now glittered with banners reading Justice Restored. Fireworks replaced gunfire; applause replaced fear. The illusion was complete.Harold stopped beneath a rusted ladder leading upward. He lifted his head and

The applause was deafening --sterile, hollow, and endless. Cameras flashed, microphones jostled, and Hugo Martinez stood beside Diego Flinch, smiling like a priest at a baptism. The backdrop behind them read in gold letters: REBIRTH OF THE REPUBLIC. Reporters called Diego the prodigal king returned to the people. Hugo introduced him as a man who has chosen peace over pride. The press room shimmered with applause. But under the floodlights, Diego’s face was a portrait carved from stone --unmoved, unreadable. When the questions began, he answered them perfectly. He spoke of unity, of rebuilding, of closing the chapter of violence that had plagued their nation. Every word sounded rehearsed --because it was. But inside, every syllable scraped against him like glass. That night, after the ceremony, Diego returned to his mansion --a fortress now stripped of purpose. The guards were gone, the walls silent. He walked through the marble halls w

Night fell with the color of old blood.By midnight, the first explosions painted the skyline --not the distant thuds of hidden wars, but open defiance. A government records office went up in flames, followed by a police armory. Within an hour, the fire had multiplied --spreading like faith, like vengeance.The city burned from its core outward.The Writer’s voice had returned that morning; by evening, his words were prophecy. Anonymous manifestos appeared online, quoting him directly: “Truth demands ash.” It became the rallying cry of thousands --students, ex-soldiers, workers, even children who had grown up under the shadow of corruption.They lit their torches not for destruction, but for cleansing. Or so they believed.Government drones circled overhead, broadcasting curfew warnings that no one obeyed. Streets once ruled by Los Reyes or Hugo’s enforcers now belonged to the mob --a leaderless rebellion born from poetry and rage.From his underground

Dawn came red --not with promise, but with warning.Across the city, sirens converged on the last Los Reyes stronghold: an old courthouse turned fortress. The streets were empty save for armored vehicles and marching boots. Overhead, helicopters churned the smoky air, spotlights slicing through the remnants of the night’s rain.Inside, Diego sat alone in what had once been his war room. Maps, weapons, ledgers --all useless now. The crown of Los Reyes lay on the table, tarnished by soot. Around him, lieutenants whispered of surrender, but Diego heard only Harold’s voice from years ago: “Power is just borrowed light.”He whispered back, “And I let it blind me.”Explosions shattered the dawn. The militia advanced, their assault relentless. One by one, Diego’s men fell or fled. He didn’t stop them. He just stood by the shattered window, watching the city they had once ruled disintegrate into dust.Somewhere in that chaos, Harold moved unseen.Witnesses late