Subtitle: When the State Struck Back
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They always said it would come at night.
And it did.
At exactly 2:17 a.m., every screen in the capital flickered — televisions, phones, computers — all hijacked by the state. A single image filled the silence: President Victor Langston, seated at his polished mahogany desk, eyes calm, voice cold.
> "This is not a warning. This is an action."
In that moment, Zundaria changed.
---
Miles Wilson had just finished recording another live broadcast. He and James Carter sat in a dim apartment, barely lit by a flickering lamp. Their faces were drawn. Their eyes tired.
"I don't like this," James muttered. "They've been too quiet."
"That's why we have to keep speaking," Miles said. "They think silence means safety. We show them silence is surrender."
Then the power cut.
Complete darkness.
James rushed to the window. "They're here."
Miles followed.
Outside, black vans without plates rolled down the street. Soldiers in unmarked uniforms moved house to house, dragging people out. No knocking. No questions.
One by one, the lights across the city vanished.
Zundaria had gone dark — not from a blackout, but a purge.
---
By dawn, twelve student leaders were missing. Broadcast stations were seized. Known sympathizers were detained without trial. A new emergency law had passed in secret, granting the president full authority "to restore peace by any means."
Miles and James went into hiding.
They moved between safehouses, sleeping in basements, old warehouses, church backrooms. Each day, someone new disappeared. Someone they trusted. Someone they needed.
One morning, they woke to news that struck harder than any arrest:
> Greenbridge University had been burned to the ground.
Nothing left. No records. No survivors.
The message was clear: Erase the past, kill the future.
---
Still, Miles refused to stop. Even as allies vanished, donations dried up, and supporters grew quiet.
He posted one final message on the encrypted network:
> "They think they can outlast us. That when enough of us disappear, the rest will forget.
But they're wrong. Because I'm still here. And I'm still speaking."
He attached one image: a single candle burning in total darkness.
Thousands reposted it. Then… silence.
---
Two days later, Miles received the flash drive.
It arrived in a plain envelope, no return address. Inside: documents, videos, wire transfers, confessions. Enough to bring the entire government down — if it ever reached the public.
"Who sent this?" James asked.
Miles shook his head. "No clue. But whoever it is, they're on the inside."
He stared at the files, already knowing what they were worth.
"Do we release it now?" James asked.
Miles hesitated. Then, calmly: "Not yet. We wait for the moment they're most afraid. When their silence gets loud."
---
That moment would come.
And with it, the fall of everything they'd built.
But for now, the flame was still lit.
And Miles Wilson — battered, hunted, unbroken — remained the last voice in Zundaria.