It started with a scream.
Not his daughter's—but someone else's. Raw. Frantic. Close.
Kirion had just finished sterilizing a salvaged dermal injector when the sound cut through the alley like a blade. He moved on instinct, tucking his daughter into the hidden cradle under his med-table, securing the latch, and activating the dampeners that muffled her cries and shielded her warmth.
Then he grabbed his jacket, slipped on his gloves, and stepped into the dark.
The square outside was already thick with fear.
A food vendor lay bleeding on the pavement, his cart overturned, packets of synthetic grain soaked in his own blood. Two Security Enforcers—gray armor, stun rifles, red visors—stood over him.
"Failure to present loyalty clearance," one of them said flatly, as if reading from a script. "Refusal to comply with ration requisition."
The man was barely conscious.
The crowd that had gathered stood back, silent. Not cowardice—just calculation. They all knew the rules: intervene, and you're next.
But Kirion moved.
Fast.
Before the enforcers noticed him, he tossed a capsule at their feet. It burst into a cloud of phosphorescent smoke, stinging and blinding. In that breathless instant, he pulled the man to safety, ducking through alleys, disappearing into a side tunnel he'd memorized years ago.
The man's pulse was weak, but steady.
Kirion worked in silence, hands a blur. He closed the wound, injected an antibiotic cocktail, and stabilized him. When it was over, he gave the man a burner comm tag and a coded location for a safehouse.
"Don't go to any clinics. They'll flag you. You'll be found in an hour."
The man nodded, trembling. "Why… why did you help me?"
Kirion stared at him for a moment. Then quietly said, "Because no one helped me when I needed it."
That night, the resistance reached out.
Word had traveled fast. Anonymous messages pinged his secure node—appreciation, offers, invitations to join. They admired his boldness. Called him a symbol.
But Kirion wasn't looking to be a symbol.
He wasn't trying to lead anyone.
He was trying to protect one life.
Still, he understood something had shifted. The regime was tightening its grip. Public beatings. Daily ration purges. Blackouts used as punishment.
And silence was no longer safe.
Three nights later, he returned to the square. This time, he didn't wait for the violence.
He climbed onto a stack of crates and projected his voice with a stolen comm amp:
"We are not cattle. We are not codes. We are not broken."
Dozens watched. Some nodded. Others looked away. A few, with hollow eyes, whispered prayers.
But one child—filthy, barefoot, no older than ten—clapped.
Just once.
And Kirion smiled.
That's all he needed.
A spark.
Something to build on.
He dropped a handful of medpacks into the crowd, marked with the resistance symbol—a split circle.
Then he vanished.
And the streets remembered his name.