The morning after Jinjahan's darkest night broke not with sunlight, but with the grey glow of ash-filtered haze. Smoke still curled above the shattered skyline, hovering like a ghost over what used to be neighborhoods—now charred battlegrounds.
Inside the marble-veined halls of the JPD headquarters, the scent of blood and gun oil clung to the air like mold. The lobby—once a symbol of order—now echoed with boots, broken glass, and mocking laughter.
The heavy double doors creaked open. Choi Jisung stepped through, bruised and smirking, dragging behind him two body bags—one bloodied and torn, the other limp and silent. The corridor quieted as he made his way across the black-and-white floor, dragging the remnants of the city's only resistance.
He stopped at the commissioner's desk. Commissioner Roderik Vaele didn't even look up at first. He was swirling a dark drink in a crystalline glass, the reflection of dying fires flickering in his gold-rimmed glasses. Then he glanced at the bags. Then at Choi.
Choi cracked a bloody grin. "At last," he said, dropping the bodies with a thud. "Our traitors are dead."
A long pause. Then—Clap. Clap. Clap. From behind the desk, two officers began to applaud. Another joined in. Then another. Soon the room was filled with grins and guttural laughter—like hyenas over a fresh kill.
They clapped not for justice. Not for victory. But because the dream of change had been smothered. The threat of truth silenced. And the illusion of order restored through blood and betrayal.
"Good work, Choi," Vaele finally said, raising his glass. "You always had the stomach for what's necessary."
Choi wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, voice soaked with pride and venom. "They thought they could clean this place."
He nudged one of the bags with his boot. "But this city doesn't want to be clean. It wants to survive."
The commissioner nodded slowly. "And survivors," he said, sipping his drink, "get rewarded."
Outside, holographic projectors buzzed to life across the shattered districts of Jinjahan. Billboards, neon signs, and the sides of scorched skyscrapers flickered, glitching into the stern visage of General Calloway, draped in his obsidian-black military coat, medals gleaming like jagged stars.
His eyes were sharp, void of empathy. Behind him, the CPG banner fluttered like a vulture's wing. The city held its breath—those still alive, those still listening. "Citizens of Jinjahan," Calloway began, his voice booming like iron striking concrete, echoing through rubble-filled streets and smoldering homes. "I know what many of you think. You see the Capitol Patrol Guard as monsters. As cruel, mindless executioners."
His gaze pierced through the screen, daring anyone to deny it. "You curse our name as you cower behind barricades. You film us with trembling hands, whispering about oppression, tyranny… injustice." He paused—let it settle like ash in the lungs. "But we know better. You know better."
The screens flickered with images of the chaos: rebels firing into crowds, gang lords stringing civilians from lampposts, police corpses riddled with bullets, mutated limbs crawling through sewer grates.
"This is what happens," Calloway continued, "when resistance is allowed to fester unchecked. When the illusion of freedom is mistaken for license to destroy. "He took a breath. "There is no peace without control. No future without order."
The images shifted—this time, CPG soldiers marching through broken streets, dragging rebels from burning buildings, executing gang leaders, restoring silence through fire. "We warned you. Again and again. And now you see—what happens when the leash is too long."
Just as the screen began to fade, General Calloway lifted a hand. The signal held. The holograms glitched once more, returning to life. "Before this transmission ends," the general said, his voice like a hammer striking the last nail, "your mayor has something to say."
The image cut. Now, Mayor Caleb stood in frame—sweat glistening on his brow, soot on his collar, the city's ruin a ghost behind his shoulders. His eyes were hollow. His voice, when it came, was cracked and raw. "People of Jinjahan…" he began, swallowing the weight of a thousand mistakes. "I… I failed you."
He glanced down once, then forced himself to look forward again. "I was elected to protect this city. To guide it through hardship. But I stood by—while flames rose, while rebels twisted ideals into anarchy, while the streets bled."
His hands trembled at his sides. A distant explosion echoed behind him, punctuating his guilt. "I know many of you don't trust me anymore. You have every reason not to. But I will not run from this shame."
He took a deep breath. "I will not resign," he said, "but I will stand before you again—as a candidate, not a leader. A re-election will be held on the 20th of Byeolhwa, Kinbi, 1312. And if the people choose someone else—so be it. I will accept it. I will earn it, or I will step aside."
The camera zoomed closer. His voice lowered, heavy with regret and grim resolve. "And to those who claimed rebellion in my name… you have only stained it. Whatever cause you believed in died the moment you turned on your fellow man. This ends now."
The screen faded to black once more—only to return, colder than before. General Calloway was back. He stood in the center of a ruined plaza, boots planted on fractured stone, the distant smoke of the night's slaughter curling behind him like the wings of a demon.
Around him were the corpses of buildings. Broken glass. Blood stains. Bullet casings. Twisted metal where hovercars once flew. Craters where homes used to stand. "This," he said, gesturing behind with a sweep of his gloved hand, "is what defiance buys you."
The camera panned slowly—showing burnt-out streets, charred civilian transports, rebel corpses lined up like discarded trash, and a pile of weapons drenched in ash and blood. In one corner, a child's toy, half-melted, lay among the rubble.
"Let this be a lesson to every city. To every hand that dares rise without a leash," Calloway growled, voice low and venomous. "This is not justice. This is not revolution. This is destruction."
The screen flickered—and suddenly two holographic portraits appeared beside him. Kim and Aisha. Their faces, still and dignified even in death, floated above the general's shoulders like silent ghosts.
"These two," Calloway continued, "are traitors to the peace you all claim to want. A former officer turned sympathizer. A journalist who refused to stay in her place."
His eyes narrowed. "They aided Locke. They spread his poison. They lit the match."
The images dissolved in static. "They are dead now," he stated flatly. "And their blood is a warning." He took one step forward, expression turning sharper than steel. "But the firestarter still breathes."
A third hologram flickered on—Locke. Scarred. Hooded. Still free. "Locke is the root of this rot. The last piece of this rebellion's cancer."
He raised a small device. "I am placing a bounty of 500 billion Lyd on Locke's head. Dead or alive."
A beat of silence. "Let every mercenary, bounty hunter, soldier of fortune, and rat with a gun know this: bring me his head, and you will be richer than you can imagine. Or protect him—and die screaming beside him."
The hologram held one final moment—his eyes, black with fury, staring into every home. Then—Signal terminated.
The broadcast ended, but its echo lingered like a war drum in every alley and corridor of Jinjahan. The city, wounded and trembling, came alive again—not with hope, but with murmurs.
In the cracked neon veins of District 4, vendors slowly reopened stalls beside crumbling walls. Hushed voices passed between trembling hands exchanging goods. Soldiers patrolled the streets with rifles still warm from last night's massacre, their boots leaving red-brown stains across the cracked pavement.
"Did you hear it? A re-election..."
"Mayor Caleb still breathing? Thought he'd be strung up by now."
"He's finished. No one survives that kind of shame."
But beneath that talk—deeper, quieter—another name moved like a shadow.
"Locke..."
"They put five hundred bil on his head."
"Dead or alive, huh? That's half the GDP of Skalagrim Province."
"I heard Locke was seen in the lower slums. Word is, he's still planning something."
"He lit the fire," one old rebel whispered in the backroom of a broken teahouse. "They think it's out. But they don't hear the coals still breathing in the dark."
Dripping pipes echoed like a dying heartbeat through the tunnels. Cold mist clung to the cracked stone, and the stench of rot couldn't quite mask the scent of blood and burnt powder still lingering in the air above.
Locke stood silently beneath a rusted arch, eyes locked on the fading holo-screen embedded into the sewer wall—patched together from stolen tech and rebel salvage.
Calloway's broadcast replayed in flickers. Kim and Aisha's faces. The bounty. The threat. The end.
Beside him, Iris leaned against a mold-covered pillar, arms crossed, a smirk tugging at her lips. Her cybernetic eye flickered blue, scanning Locke's unreadable face.
"Well," she said, voice sharp and playful like the edge of a blade, "should I start calling you 'Half-Trillion Man' now?"
Locke didn't turn to her. His eyes were still locked on Calloway's snarling face.
"That's gotta sting," she went on, circling him slowly. "He used to ignore you. Now he's terrified. Puts a price on your head like a shiny toy." She stopped in front of him, tilting her head. "What's that make you feel, darling? Pride? Pressure? Piss-your-pants fear?"
Locke finally turned to her, the corner of his mouth curling into a crooked smile. "It means," he said, voice low but laced with iron, "I'm finally worth something to the bastards in charge."
He looked up at the cracked ceiling, as if seeing through the stone into the chaos above. "They don't slap half a trillion on a nobody. That bounty... it's a crown. An ugly one, sure. But still a crown."
Iris chuckled. "A king of sewers and smoke. That's poetic."
He turned to Iris. "Calloway thinks he's ended the rebellion. But this—this is just the prologue. Kim died for something. Aisha gave her life chasing truth. The people above are scared, angry, hungry."
He grabbed his coat from a rusted hook, slipping it over his scarred frame. "Now," he growled, "we give them something to believe in."
Iris smirked, snapping her rifle into place. "About damn time."