Mikey walked the streets in silence.
The new suit fit clean and sharp, but it couldn't hide the wreckage beneath. His face was swollen — bruises in deep purples and sickly yellows, his eye bloodshot and crimson, like it had been lit from within by the fire still smoldering behind it.
Everywhere he looked, his face stared back.
MICHAEL GRANT: MISSING
SON OF FALLEN HERO YET TO BE FOUND
And yet, no one seemed to recognize him. Maybe they did, but didn't want to believe it. Maybe the suit distracted them. Or maybe they couldn't reconcile the broken boy before them with the polished photo on every screen.
He boarded the E-train. A child tugged at his mother's coat, pointing.
"Mom… is that—?"
"Don't stare," she whispered sharply, pulling the boy close and away.
Mikey stared at his reflection in the glass panel beside the seat — but saw nothing. Just a void. All that remained inside him was the flicker of something red and angry. A quiet fury that refused to die.
The train screeched to a halt. He got off, head low, and walked the winding path toward Vickson Cemetery.
It didn't take long before he saw them — a mass of people huddled around a raised platform at the heart of the cemetery grounds. He stayed at a distance, watching.
Strangers wept. Politicians stood stiff in pressed uniforms. Reporters hovered with drones, angling for the best shot.
They mourned like they knew him. Like Desmond Grant was theirs to grieve.
Mikey stared through them, through their practiced sobs and carefully chosen soundbites.
They didn't know a damn thing.
This wasn't for his father. This was performance — a stage for the Council to sell its version of the truth. Desmond Grant, the honored hero slain by Defector hands. Tragedy repackaged as propaganda. A funeral orchestrated not out of love, but optics. Grief for the cameras.
He couldn't be a part of it.
Mikey turned and made his way up a small hill that overlooked the crowd and the casket. From here, he could see everything — the casket draped in the Council's silver-blue flag, the officials in their formal lines, the people crying for someone they never knew.
He stood alone at the top of the hill, hands in his pockets, the wind brushing the tips of his messy hair.
Let them have their performance.
He wasn't here to play along.
Mikey stood beneath the lone tree atop the hill, shadowed from the crowd below. The wind tugged at his jacket, the black fabric fluttering like smoke from a dying fire. In his hand, he gripped the bag holding his old, blood-stained clothes — a weight he couldn't let go of.
Then the murmurs from below fell quiet.
Someone had stepped up to the podium.
Payne.
Mikey's stomach turned to ice. His jaw clenched so tight it ached. His teeth ground together until it felt like they might shatter in his mouth.
Down below, Payne Morrison straightened his tie, placed a palm over his chest, and leaned into the microphone. The crowd leaned with him.
"Thank you all for coming," he said, his voice smooth and authoritative — the voice of a man who'd spent years perfecting lies. "Today, we honor a patriot. A colleague. A friend."
He paused for just the right amount of time, playing to the silence like a conductor.
"Desmond Grant served this Council faithfully. Fearlessly. He gave his life for our future — for the people of this beautiful state. But let us not forget… the threat still lingers."
The air shifted.
"Those Defectors... those rats in our walls... those murderers! They took Desmond from us. Just like they took his beloved wife, Darla. And now... they rest together. Here. In peace. Finally."
The crowd clapped.
Mikey felt like screaming.
Clapping? They're clapping? For this monster? For this performance?
He dug his nails into the palm of his hand until they nearly broke skin. A low tremble ran through him — the kind that came right before either tears or violence.
They dare speak my mother's name? My father's?
They dare turn this into a stage play? Into a campaign?
The taste of blood hit his tongue — he'd bitten his lip too hard. The copper warmth mixed with the heat building in his throat, his lungs, his eyes. His right eye, still bloodshot from injury. His left, burning red from rage.
The whole system was a lie.
And down there on the stage?
The devil was giving the eulogy.
Payne didn't stop.
He stepped forward, gripping the sides of the podium now like a preacher mid-sermon, eyes sharp with manufactured conviction.
"How much more can they take from us?" he bellowed. "How much more must we suffer?!"
His voice cracked, just enough to sound human — rehearsed to perfection.
"We extended our hands! We offered peace — and what did they give us in return? Lies. Theft. Bloodshed!"
He slammed a fist against the podium.
"They take our medicines, twist our kindness, stab us in the back, and above all- they took my friend! And Desmond Grant is not the first!"
Gasps and cries rippled through the crowd. The sobs. The cheers. All of it churned together into a grotesque symphony.
Mikey stood still at the top of the hill, the sounds below twisting like knives in his gut. He couldn't breathe. Couldn't blink. Could do nothing but stand there and watch the man who murdered his father be worshipped like a savior.
"I swear to you — we will eliminate them! These radical demons! These cultists! These schemers hiding in plain sight!"
The crowd roared. People stood. Cried. Applauded. Ate it up like it was gospel.
And then, in a perfectly timed flourish, Payne raised his hand and pointed toward the sky. A single finger. The pose of a messiah—no a false prophet.
"I swear on my soul..." he said, voice quivering with fake emotion, "...that there will come a day when our children no longer weep for their fathers. That they will no longer have to fear walking our streets."
He let the words hang in the air.
"I swear I will build a future where we are safe. Where we are truly... free."
The applause thundered. A standing ovation. The media drones zoomed in to catch his every righteous breath.
And above it all, Mikey stood still. Trembling.
Watching the man who killed his father sell vengeance dressed as justice.
And no one, not one of them, saw through the mask.
But Payne wasn't done.
He leaned closer to the mic, voice booming with polished power, his words like the final hammer blows to a forged lie.
"The Four Directors…" he said, letting the words simmer. "...With their strength alone, we can topple armies! They will be the sword of justice—our salvation!"
He raised both hands now, gesturing like a prophet mid-revelation. "Even now, our four heroes are working tirelessly to protect this great state! So have faith! Do not falter! Do not bat an eye!"
Then came the dagger:
Morrison snapped his gaze to the nearest drone camera and pointed straight into it, finger aimed like a loaded gun.
"Whenever evil stares you in the face... you do not buckle or yield—you stare right back and you fight!"
"Forever! The Council! Shall Reign!"
The crowd erupted.
"FOREVER THE COUNCIL SHALL REIGN! FOREVER THE COUNCIL SHALL REIGN!"
The chant exploded like thunder rolling off the marble walls of the cemetery:
Over and over. Like a prayer. Like a curse.
Mikey stood on the hill, his fists clenched so tight his nails dug into his palms.
His jaw ached from the way he was grinding it.
His bloodstained eye throbbed with every heartbeat.
And inside—deeper than bone, deeper than pain—rage smoldered hotter than ever.
It was a fire he could barely contain.
One they would all regret lighting.