The sun hung high and merciless, casting no shadows over the City Centre. The air was unnaturally still. It wasn't the silence before a storm—no. This was the silence before mathematics.
Caesar stood on the raised execution platform. To the resistance, he was a monster. To the citizens, the Parahuman. His white suit was immaculate, untouched by the dust choking the fractured city.
In front of him, kneeling on the scorched pavement, were the variables.
"The equation of order requires subtraction," Caesar's voice boomed, amplified by drones orbiting overhead. "To maintain stability within the Sector, sixty-six units must be removed."
A holographic list glowed above his wrist.
40 men.
20 women.
6 children.
Behind the energy barriers, a crowd of nearly two million held its breath. They were the Statics—the ones who stayed perfectly still to avoid becoming variables. Kael stood among them, heart pounding so hard it rattled his ribs. His nails dug into his trembling palms as he watched the Parahuman begin.
Caesar descended the steps with the rhythm of a metronome.
Click. Bang. Step.
Click. Bang. Step.
One bullet per kneeling head. No hesitation. No emotion. He was processing paperwork with a trigger finger.
When the men were gone, he moved to the women. He stopped at number sixty—Elara. Her hands were tied, her body shaking. Sweat glued her hair to her forehead. And her belly… swollen, round with unborn life.
"Please," she croaked, voice shredded from crying. "The count… the count is sixty-six."
Caesar paused, head tilting like a curious bird.
"Correct."
"I am two," she whispered, eyes wide and wet. "If you kill me… you kill the child. That makes sixty-seven. You exceed the quota."
Her voice cracked. "You break your own calculation."
A tremor ran through the crowd.
She used his logic against him.
Caesar studied her, then tapped his chin thoughtfully.
"You present a logical fallacy. The quota must not be exceeded.
But the quota must not be unmet."
He leaned to his lieutenant, whispering something. The soldier stiffened beneath his visor, then nodded with dread.
"Bring the apparatus!" the lieutenant barked.
Soldiers dragged forward a heavy iron table and a massive, industrial cauldron. They set it in the center of the square. A burner roared to life below it. Within minutes, the oil inside churned violently, releasing thick pillars of grey smoke.
Elara screamed as she was strapped to the table.
"We shall separate the integers," Caesar announced.
He used no anesthesia. Only a blade.
Her screams ripped the city's quiet to shreds. Kael wanted to close his eyes, cover his ears, run—anything—but any movement risked becoming a variable.
Abruptly, the screaming stopped.
Elara's body fell still.
Caesar stood holding the infant—slick with blood, umbilical cord hanging like a red wire. The baby wailed softly, unaware of the nightmare it was born into.
Caesar raised the child for all to see.
"This unit is surplus," he said. "It was not on the manifest."
He approached the boiling cauldron. The oil spat violently.
"It cannot be executed," Caesar continued calmly. "That would ruin the count."
He opened his hand.
The baby dropped.
Splash.
A sound that would haunt the city forever.
The crowd snapped.
A raw scream tore from someone's throat—the sound of pure, primal horror. People shoved, pushed, and stampeded, smashing against the energy barriers, clawing to escape.
"Disorder," Caesar sighed. "Predictable."
He raised a hand.
Snipers on the roofs opened fire.
Runners fell like scattered marbles.
Caesar wiped his hands with a silk cloth, glancing into the bubbling cauldron.
"I executed sixty-six," he said to the few frozen survivors. "I just fried that one."
A cold smile curved across his face.
"The math remains perfect."