The bunker lights flickered, shadows trembling across cracked concrete walls.
Lacolone's breath was shallow, his voice a whisper.
"We're the last line… if we fail, everything dies."
Maya's hands shook as she shuffled through a stack of worn papers. The ink bled from old moisture, words fading like their hope. Jessica sat across from her, loading a rusted pistol, each metallic click echoing through the silence.
The leader of the Race Unity Group, his face aged beyond years, muttered under his breath.
"We may not get another chance."
The air was thick with fear—so heavy it felt alive.
Even heroes, the world would later say, can become monsters in the name of survival.
Gunfire tore through the bunker corridors.
Their comrades—infected, desperate—had hidden supplies, driven mad by hunger and sickness.
Lacolone hesitated, his finger trembling on the trigger.
Maya's tears streaked down her cheeks as she whispered prayers no one would ever hear.
Jessica's voice cracked. "We can't let them spread it… even if it breaks us."
And when the echoes faded, mercy itself had died.
A young man collapsed before his brother, sweat and blood glistening under the dim light.
"Please…" the sick brother rasped. "End me before I infect others."
The older brother raised his gun, arms shaking. Tears blurred his vision.
"I… I can't…"
The dying man smiled faintly.
"I know you can't… but before I go… I'll tell you something."
Even in death, love remained—fragile, human, and unbearably pure.
He reached out a trembling hand.
"I'll always watch over you… wherever you go."
The older brother lowered his weapon, sobbing. But the sick one—his smile peaceful now—pressed the barrel to his own head.
The gun fired.
The sound shook the bunker, echoing like the end of the world.
The older brother built a pyre with his bare hands.
Flames rose, crackling like whispers from the dead.
Maya and Jessica bowed their heads, the smell of smoke thick in the air.
Even in death, heroes left light for the oppressed.
Days passed. Then weeks. Months.
The survivors tended the last of the uninfected. The maps showed no more red zones. The virus had burned itself out—taking millions with it.
Lacolone watched the flicker of a recovered news broadcast. Shadows of a man—Elito—spoke on the screen.
The world had survived.
But something darker had taken root.
Elito sat upon a golden throne, surrounded by armored Knights.
His smile was cold, perfect.
Screens across the globe showed clean streets, buried corpses, and citizens lined up for salvation.
"Obedience brings life," he declared. "Defiance brings death."
It was called peace.
But it was only a well-dressed genocide.
Flags were lowered. Nations surrendered.
People knelt in silent fear, clutching their vaccine vials like holy relics.
Elito walked among them, hands clasped behind his back, eyes burning with purpose.
From the shadows, the Race Unity Group watched—powerless ghosts of a lost rebellion.
Elito had claimed the world.
A Pharaoh reborn in modern times.
The cities gleamed. But they were silent.
Families whispered in fear. Soldiers dropped their helmets and bowed.
Children stared at screens that told them how to live, how to breathe, how to obey.
Hope was replaced by obedience.
The human spirit had been tamed.
From a distant hill, the survivors watched.
Maya's voice trembled. "We survived… but at what cost?"
Lacolone's hands shook, his eyes hollow.
"We can't stop him," their leader said quietly. "Not now."
Jessica clenched her fists until her nails drew blood.
Survival, they all realized, was not victory.
Screens around the world displayed Elito's throne, replayed endlessly.
Soldiers wept as they knelt. Families clung to each other.
Even resistance itself faded into whispers.
Terror had become the law.
World leaders appeared through holograms, raising their hands in unison before kneeling.
Every nation submitted.
Every city went silent.
"Humanity's arrogance," the leader murmured bitterly, "has annihilated itself."
Elito held up a glowing vial for the world to see.
"The cure," he called it.
But everyone knew—it was a leash.
Children and elders took their doses quietly as Knights watched.
From the shadows, Lacolone and his team observed, the weight of helplessness crushing them.
Salvation had become the price of obedience.
The world was spotless now.
No rebellion. No dissent. Only perfect order.
Maya whispered, "All this… for nothing?"
No one answered.
Hope flickered faintly in the ashes.
Elito appeared again, adorned in golden robes—a modern Pharaoh.
Knights stood at his side, statues of loyalty.
Holograms showed nations kneeling, streets shining with false peace.
"The ruler of all," the screens declared.
The world obeyed.
Lacolone and Maya hid in the ruins, watching Elito's grand procession.
Jessica whispered, "We're shadows now… nothing more."
The leader gripped his weapon, eyes full of ghosts.
They remembered the pyres, the fallen, the price of defiance.
Even heroes, it seemed, could not overturn destiny.
Across continents, cities stood in eerie perfection.
Citizens knelt in silence, vaccine vials clutched like prayers.
Children looked up to the empty sky, wondering what freedom had felt like.
A cleansed world—at a monstrous cost.
Elito sat upon his golden throne, Knights encircling him.
Beneath him, the holographic globe glowed like a captured sun.
Citizens everywhere bowed in unison, their voices muted.
From the shadows, the last remnants of resistance watched, powerless.
The Pharaoh of the modern world had risen—
and nothing would stop him.