2025-12-16 17:19:58
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The Fall of Los Reyes
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
Brother Against Brother
The rain fell in heavy, unbroken sheets --as if the sky itself sought to drown the sins of the city. Sirens wailed in the distance, blurred by thunder, but here, at the edge of the ruins that once housed two boys’ dreams, only the sound of water on ashes remained.Diego found him there.Harold stood beneath the charred frame of what used to be their living room, a notebook clutched against his chest, eyes reflecting firelight from the city below. For a long time, neither spoke. Only the storm dared to fill the space between them.“You came,” Harold said softly, not turning.“I had to,” Diego replied. His voice was rough, the kind that had screamed too long and too often. “Everything’s gone, Harold. The city’s burning. You did this.”Harold finally turned. His face was pale, rain tracing down the scars time and war had carved into him. “No,” he said. “We did this.”The silence that followed was thicker than smoke.Diego stepped forward, boots sinkin
The City Burns
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
The Writer’s Voice on the Radio
The morning began like any other under the new “peace.” Commuters trudged through streets still stained with the memory of blood, digital billboards pulsed propaganda about unity and reform, and the news anchors spoke with mechanical warmth about the “nation’s healing.”Then, at exactly 7:17 a.m., the airwaves changed.Every major radio frequency in the city went silent for six seconds --long enough for hearts to pause, for coffee cups to hover midair, for soldiers to glance at one another in sudden unease. Then a voice emerged, soft and deliberate, like ink soaking into paper.“Once, a man built a city of lies and called it order. When it collapsed, he blamed the fire, never the spark.”The cadence was unmistakable --low, precise, hauntingly calm. The Writer.Traffic froze. In cafés and offices, people leaned toward speakers, some gasping, others whispering prayers. In a newsroom downtown, Lucia Navarro dropped her pen, her pulse hammering in her throat. Sh
Diego’s Guilt
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
Diego’s Funeral
Rain fell the way time does when it wants to forget --slowly, without mercy, washing over marble and mud alike. The capital had not seen a funeral of this scale in years. Every screen, every station, every square showed the same image: a black casket draped in gray silk, not the royal red or gold of the old empire. A single white lily rested on top, trembling each time the rain struck it.They called it a national day of remembrance.They called Diego Flinch a patriot, a visionary, a cautionary tale.But no one called him what he was --the last king in a city that had learned to live without thrones.The streets overflowed with mourners and opportunists, tears and cameras. Soldiers stood at perfect attention beside politicians who had once plotted Diego’s fall. Former gang leaders, now rebranded as businessmen, stood in the front rows in expensive black coats, heads bowed in counterfeit reverence. The church bells tolled with mechanical precision, ringing through an air heavy with
