The city didn't sleep that night. Sirens screamed in the distance. Smoke rose like flags of defiance. The Voice had struck again.
This time, it wasn't just a message—it was a coordinated strike on one of the outer Spire's food supply depots. Explosives hidden in cargo crates. Dozens injured. Three dead.
Zion watched the footage on the central screen in the command tier, his face carved from stillness. Mari stood nearby, arms crossed, jaw clenched.
"This isn't messaging anymore," she said. "It's a declaration."
Zion nodded. "They've turned their audience into soldiers."
Behind them, Blaze entered, dust and ash smeared across his neck. His eyes burned with restrained rage. His fists were clenched at his sides, knuckles white. He had just come from the site.
"I want the names," Blaze said.
Zion turned slowly. "We don't know who planted the bombs."
"Then find out."
"Blaze—"
"No more waiting. No more speeches. We hit back."
Zion held his gaze. "And become what they claim we already are?"
"I'm not interested in their claims. I'm interested in keeping our people alive."
Mari stepped in. "Both of you. We can't fracture here."
Blaze exhaled through his nose and stalked out.
---
Later that night, Blaze stood at the edge of the Southern perimeter wall, eyes scanning the ravaged streets below. He had six operatives with him—each one loyal, skilled, and willing.
Their mission: track a Voice cell suspected to be hiding in the ruins of an old subway station under District Nine.
He dropped down into the ruins first. The tunnels were cold and smelled of oil, rust, and death. The silence was suffocating.
Then a sound. Barely a whisper. Movement in the dark.
He motioned to the others.
Two moved forward, cautiously.
A flash of light erupted from the darkness.
Gunfire. Screams. Chaos ignited in the shadows. Blaze dove to the side, rolled behind a support pillar, and returned fire. The firefight was brutal and erratic. The assailants were untrained but desperate. Improvised weapons. Homemade explosives.
Blaze surged forward through smoke and blood. His baton cracked bone. His boots kicked weapons aside. He moved like a storm, swift and merciless, fighting with a ferocity that echoed down the tunnels.
When the dust cleared, five of the assailants lay unconscious or bound. Three had fled. One of them left behind a small device.
A communicator.
Back at the command tier, Zion stood beside Blaze, inspecting it.
Encrypted.
"I've never seen this interface," Zion muttered.
Blaze cracked his knuckles. "Then break it. We need to know where they're gathering."
Zion nodded. No further words were exchanged.
---
At the same time, Mari monitored street reports. Protests were spreading. Coordinated messaging campaigns had begun on underground channels. The Voice wasn't just reacting anymore—they were organizing.
That night, Blaze stood on the rooftop again, staring at the Spire skyline. Rain poured down, soaking his shirt, matting his hair to his forehead. Neon reflections shimmered in the puddles around him.
He didn't hear Mari until she spoke behind him.
"Don't let them turn you into what they fear."
He didn't turn around.
"I'm already there," he said.
"No," she said quietly. "You're not. Because if you were, you wouldn't still be here."
He turned slowly. "You should be with Zion. Not cleaning up my war."
She stepped forward. "It's our war, Blaze. But we each fight it differently."
He studied her, then nodded once.
She touched his shoulder briefly, then left. The rain washed her footsteps away.
---
Two days later, Zion cracked the device.
A location. Old power substation, District Twelve.
Blaze assembled his team.
This time, he brought heavier weapons.
They struck at midnight. The compound was fortified but not invincible. The battle that followed was long and vicious. Blaze moved through it like a ghost—his strikes deliberate, his anger cold.
Inside, they found propaganda rooms, illegal printing equipment, and crates of crude explosives. They seized the entire operation. Files. Devices. Names.
But what chilled Zion most was a room filled with printing presses—and hundreds of pamphlets.
Each one with the same headline:
"Zion Vale is the next tyrant."
Below it: a manipulated image of Zion giving a speech with rows of faceless soldiers behind him. His eyes altered to glow. The message was unmistakable.
Mari stared at the image. "They're trying to pre-frame you as the villain."
Zion felt something coil inside him. "They want to own the narrative before it forms."
"They're smart," Blaze said. "But not invincible."
Zion held one of the pamphlets in his hands. The ink was fresh.
"They're moving faster than we thought."
"They're scared," Zion said. "That means we're doing something right."
But Blaze stared at the pamphlets and felt something else:
This wasn't just fear.
This was calculation. A slow blade.
And it was drawing blood.
---
After the raid, Blaze requested a full unit analysis. Cross-referenced names, images, speech patterns from audio files, and even graffiti tags from the tunnels.
One name kept surfacing—Rix Cortan. A former city engineer turned rogue propagandist. Exiled years ago for attempting to smuggle information out of the Spire's archives.
"Cortan is the architect behind their visuals," Zion noted. "If we find him, we cut out their eyes."
"Then I want him," Blaze said. "Alive."
Mari narrowed her eyes. "Why?"
"I want to know how deep this goes."
Zion nodded. "We'll find him."
---
That night, Blaze returned to the underground arena.
It had been a while since he'd fought in the ring. The crowd roared as he entered, fists raised. He needed the noise. The pain. The clarity of combat.
The match was brutal. Fast. A blur of fists and blood.
And when Blaze stood victorious, breathing heavily under the ring lights, he didn't raise his fists again. He just looked out at the crowd—at the hundreds of eyes watching.
And he realized something:
This fight was just a metaphor.
The real war was coming.
And this time, it wasn't in the shadows.
It would be out in the open.
We have to be prepared.
---