The news reached Ethan while he and Vic were crouched inside a derelict tram. The windows had shattered into honeycomb shards; the wind whistled through, like corpses humming in his ear. Someone stuck their head through the broken door and tossed in a flyer.
Bold letters screamed:"Defector Captured. Order Restored."
Beneath it was a grainy black-and-white photo—Ethan's friend. Even blurred, those eyes still carried their old, icy defiance.
"Damn. They got him. Faster than I thought," Vic muttered.
Ethan stared at the photo, his chest tightening as if a coin were lodged inside. That had once been the only person he trusted—now repurposed as Bureau propaganda, a discount product with a price tag slapped on.
Soon the citywide broadcast blared, its quality harsh and jagged, like a broken loudspeaker screaming in his skull:"Traitor captured! The Bureau guarantees safety! Citizens, please continue lining up for your legal DreamSerum!"
Ethan noticed how obsessively the message repeated—more frequent than prayers. Even the Director must fear people remembering that freedom was once a legitimate word.
He wanted to storm out and rescue his friend. Vic stopped him with a hand and a sneer:"And how will you do that? March into Bureau HQ in a secondhand trench coat? Or convince gunmen with a good speech? Pull that off, and even the nightmares will hand you a medal."
Ethan said nothing. He knew Vic was right, but rage surged in him like fire. His friend had once whispered of secrets darker than nightmares within the Bureau. Now, those secrets might be swallowed alive—reduced to a footnote in some interrogation report.
That night, giant screens in the plaza looped "interrogation highlights." The footage was shaky, faces blurred, but it was clear enough: his friend tied to a chair.The host grinned stiffly:"The traitor has confessed. He will be judged, so that society's boundaries may be restored."
The crowd clapped, though the sound resembled funeral wails.One muttered, "At least we've got a scapegoat now."Another replied, "Good. I can still go to work tomorrow."
Ethan laughed coldly inside. Humanity's survival instinct was simple: when order falters, someone must be nailed to the cross—even if that person once bled to protect them.
"What will you do?" Vic asked, half-serious.
Ethan stared at the pixelated screen as if he could pierce the blur and meet his friend's gaze. Those eyes showed no pleading, no despair—only mockery. As if saying:"See? I told you. The only thing this world does well is selling out its own."
Ethan gave a bitter laugh, like swallowing iron shavings."What will I do? Probably what everyone else does—pretend I didn't see. Except my damned eyes refuse to rot shut."
Vic snorted. "Then wait. Either you save him, or he drags you down with him. This city doesn't have clean roads left."
Ethan looked up at the torn sky and whispered:"The pinnacle of black humor isn't dying with a smile—it's living long enough to applaud someone else's trial, while pretending the clapping is genuine."
And he knew: his friend's capture wasn't an end.It was the start of a new nightmare.