POV: Citizen 17,984 – The Spark Beneath the Iron
They thought we cheered out of loyalty.
We cheered out of fear.
My number is 17,984. I used to be Mira before they stripped it away. My mother cried the night they branded us. My father drank himself into silence. Now we were numbers, stacked like files in their black-and-gold system.
I stood among the thousands during the Dominion Festival, cloaked in rags, the weight of my rank pressing down like chains. And then he spoke—Classic 4. The Guardian, they called him.
But I didn't hear strength. I heard script. Rehearsed obedience.
I didn't cheer.
I clenched my fists.
---
Back at the underground dormitories where surviving citizens slept in clusters, the talk was quiet—only whispers between those brave enough to remember their old names.
"They auctioned babies today," one whispered. "A newborn sold for ten million Blackwood Currency."
"Someone tried to fake their rank. They dragged his wife out and executed her in front of their kids."
"They say the God—Blackwood 1—can't die. But what if he bleeds like the rest of us?"
That last whisper was mine.
And it made the others stare.
Not with fear. With hope.
---
Meanwhile…
POV: Chris – Blackwood 1
I stood by the Dominion Window, overlooking the city as it pulsed with perfect order. For two years, my law had held. No names. Only numbers. Every whisper of rebellion crushed before it could echo.
But then the screen blinked.
Unauthorized transmission detected: Sector 44C. Subject ID: 17,984
I smiled.
Finally.
A new game begins.
And in the game of gods… even the spark of rebellion must be engineered.
---