📘 The Last Voice in Zundaria
Subtitle: Every Revolution Has a Judas
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Miles Wilson always knew the real danger wasn't just the bullets outside — it was the silence inside.
And on the seventh day in hiding, that silence turned deadly.
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The new safehouse was deep in the outer district of South Ridge, tucked behind a mechanic's garage. No cameras. No signals. No one in or out without a password.
It should have been safe.
But safety, like truth in Zundaria, was just a story people told themselves to sleep.
James Carter paced by the window, scanning the streets below. "We've moved three times this week," he said. "We're running out of places."
"We're not running out of people," Miles replied. "Not yet."
He looked down at the flash drive in his palm — worn, scratched, burning with evidence too dangerous to touch twice.
A knock came at the door. Three short, one long — the signal.
Emily Grant entered. She was a former journalist, now working underground, coordinating the resistance media teams. Her hands were shaking.
"They found Joseph," she said, voice cracking. "They dragged him out of his mother's house in the middle of the night."
Miles clenched his jaw. Joseph had been their youngest speaker — 19, fearless, brilliant.
"And worse," Emily continued, "someone inside this network gave up his location."
James went still. "You're sure?"
She nodded. "Positive. It was fed through an internal drop-point only three of us had access to."
Miles looked between them. "Then we have a traitor."
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Later that night, a storm rolled in. Heavy rain. Thunder like artillery. It washed the city, but not its sins.
They sat together in silence — Miles, James, and Emily — each wondering who had broken first.
Then the power flickered again.
Miles stood slowly. "We move tomorrow," he said. "But before we do, I'm sending the drive to every press outlet left outside Zundaria."
James looked up. "They'll trace it."
"They already know where we are," Miles replied. "The question is—why haven't they come yet?"
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The answer came at 2:43 a.m.
Three loud bangs on the garage door.
Emily scrambled for the back exit. James reached for the backup laptop. Miles stood calmly, pulling the flash drive from his coat.
He turned to James. "If I don't make it out—finish the upload."
James opened his mouth to argue, but before he could—
BOOM.
The door exploded inward.
Gas. Lasers. Shouting.
Everything blurred.
Through the haze, Miles caught a glimpse of a familiar face standing with the soldiers.
Michael Reeve — one of their own.
He had joined the movement six months ago. Passionate. Smart. Miles had even mentored him.
And now, he was pointing a rifle at his chest.
"I'm sorry," Michael said quietly. "They had my sister."
Miles nodded.
He understood.
But he didn't forgive.
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By dawn, the building was rubble. News stations reported it as an "anti-terror operation." No survivors. No names.
But what the headlines didn't know was this:
The flash drive was already gone.
James had slipped it to a contact on a motorbike during the chaos — a quiet woman named Hannah Wells, a teacher-turned-messenger, now heading for the border.
The truth had escaped.
Zundaria wouldn't stay silent for long.