Alright brother — Gideon is locked in.
CHAPTER 123 — THE MANDATE
The announcement came at dawn.
Every screen that still functioned flickered to life at once—phones, broken billboards, abandoned shop monitors powered by backup generators. A seal filled the displays: the Federal Crest, sharp and sterile, rotating slowly against a black background.
Silva stood in the shadows of an unfinished high-rise, watching the city below struggle back into motion after the night's unrest. Fires still smoldered. Drones hovered low, quieter than before, watching instead of patrolling.
Lyra froze beside him.
"No," she whispered.
The broadcast cut to a woman in a charcoal-gray suit, posture perfect, eyes cold with rehearsed calm. Director Eleanor Graves. Strategic Defense Command.
Her voice carried authority sharpened into a weapon.
"Effective immediately," she said, "all enhanced individuals operating without federal sanction are hereby designated as Class-Red threats."
Silva felt the Iron Fist tighten around his forearm like a chain.
Graves continued, unfazed. "This mandate is enacted under Emergency Continuity Law Seven. Any enhanced individual refusing immediate detainment will be considered hostile."
Detainment.
Not arrest.
Lyra's jaw clenched. "They're declaring open season."
Graves leaned slightly forward, as if speaking directly to him. "This includes the individual known as Silva—alias 'The Iron Fist.'"
Silva exhaled slowly.
"The Iron Fist," Graves said, "has demonstrated repeated disregard for civilian authority, destabilized metropolitan zones, and directly enabled the recent civil disturbances."
Lyra snapped, "That's a lie."
Silva didn't respond.
Graves raised a tablet. "Mr. Silva, you are ordered to surrender yourself at the nearest federal containment facility within six hours."
The screen split.
Footage rolled.
Civic Square—edited. Cropped. Silva's glowing fist without context. The barrier shown as a shockwave. Civilians falling, not protected. Screams looped, cut, distorted.
Jared's fingerprints were all over it.
"If you comply," Graves said, "your associates will be spared prosecution."
Silva's blood went cold.
"If you refuse," she continued calmly, "this mandate extends to any individual aiding or sheltering you."
Lyra stepped in front of him. "She's threatening everyone."
Graves delivered the final blow with surgical precision.
"This is not a negotiation. This is containment."
The screens went dark.
For several long seconds, the city seemed to hold its breath.
Then the sirens began.
Low at first. Distant. Then closer. Layered. Not emergency sirens.
Military.
Silva sat heavily on a concrete beam, elbows on his knees. The Iron Fist dimmed, heavy and inert, like it was listening.
"They're forcing your hand," Lyra said quietly. "Surrender or become the villain they already painted."
Silva stared at the skyline. "They already decided what I am."
Lyra knelt beside him. "Then don't play their game."
A drone screamed past overhead, scanning. Silva pulled his hood lower.
"They're scared," he said. "Not of me. Of what they can't control."
Lyra nodded. "And Jared is feeding that fear."
As if summoned by his name, a nearby wall flickered to life—graffiti screens activating illegally.
Jared's face emerged from static, smiling like a man watching a chessboard from above.
"Congratulations," Jared said pleasantly. "You've been promoted."
Silva stood. "You set this up."
"Of course," Jared replied. "Nothing frightens governments more than heroes who won't kneel."
Lyra snapped, "People are going to die because of you."
Jared tilted his head. "No. People always die. I just remove the illusions."
He looked back at Silva. "So. Six hours. Will you surrender and prove them right?"
Silva said nothing.
Jared sighed theatrically. "Pity. I was hoping you'd run."
The feed cut.
Minutes later, Lyra's scanner crackled violently. She turned pale.
"They've activated the Watchlines," she said. "Roadblocks. Airspace lockdown. Enhanced-detection arrays."
Silva closed his eyes.
"They're hunting me."
"No," Lyra corrected softly. "They're hunting us."
They moved.
Through alleys. Collapsed transit tunnels. Places where the city's bones showed. Every step felt heavier. Not from exhaustion—but from the weight of choice pressing down on Silva's chest.
At a safehouse beneath an abandoned church, they regrouped.
Others were already there.
Enhanced. Civilians. Fighters. People Silva had saved before—or failed to.
No one spoke at first.
Then a young man with glowing veins broke the silence. "They're calling us terrorists."
A woman with cybernetic eyes added bitterly, "My family was taken this morning."
The room filled with quiet rage.
All eyes turned to Silva.
He felt it—the expectation, the desperation, the unspoken demand.
Lead us.
Protect us.
Fix this.
Silva stepped forward slowly.
"I won't surrender," he said.
A murmur rippled through the room.
"But I won't run either."
Lyra glanced at him sharply.
Silva continued. "They want me isolated. Hunted. Turned into a symbol they can destroy."
He looked around. "I won't give them that."
The young man asked, "Then what do we do?"
Silva raised his arm.
The Iron Fist ignited—not violently, but steadily. A controlled glow, solid and resolute.
"We survive," Silva said. "We protect each other. And we expose the truth."
Someone laughed bitterly. "Against the government?"
Silva met their eyes. "Against lies."
Above them, jets screamed across the sky.
Director Graves watched from a reinforced command center as data streamed in—movement patterns, heat signatures, predictive models.
"Deploy Task Unit Black-Delta," she ordered. "Full authorization."
An aide hesitated. "Ma'am… civilian density—"
Graves didn't blink. "History doesn't remember hesitation."
Far below, Jared watched too, smiling wider.
"Yes," he whispered. "Break him."
Silva felt it then—something shifting. Not power.
Responsibility.
He looked at Lyra. "They're forcing a war."
Lyra nodded grimly. "Then make sure it's on your terms."
Silva stepped toward the exit, the Iron Fist blazing brighter than it ever had—not as a weapon, but as a declaration.
Outside, floodlights cut through the darkness.
The hunt had begun.
And from this moment on, Silva was no longer just resisting the system.
He was standing against it.