A revolution was more than battles.
It was infiltration. Illusion.
Adaptation.
And Kirion had learned the value of shadows.
The Arc introduced him to a woman named Nyza—a master forger, rogue theater director, and ex-government mask designer. She lived in the bowels of an abandoned metro line, surrounded by mannequins and scent-coded fabrics.
"You want to become invisible?" she asked, examining Kirion's face. "Or do you want to become everyone?"
Kirion paused. "Both."
The training was grueling—not physical, but psychological.
Mannerisms. Speech patterns. Body angles.
The way a government officer held his hands behind his back.
The timing of a tired bureaucrat's sigh.
The lazy gait of a soldier who'd seen too much.
Nyza stripped him down to silence.
"You're not Kirion here. You're a canvas. Blank until needed."
In two weeks, he became five men.
In three, he slipped into a government checkpoint with forged documents, posed as a logistics officer, and walked out with full troop maps.
The guards never blinked.
Sera built facial-mapping scramblers from leftover holo-tech.
Together, they built a rotation of identities—couriers, doctors, inspectors.
One persona, "Dr. Karris," even became semi-famous inside state hospitals, known for his "miraculous calm."
Only Kirion knew the irony.
He'd once begged for a real job in medicine. Now, under a lie, he saved lives in plain sight.
It wasn't all missions.
Sometimes disguise was protection.
For fugitives. For whistleblowers. For children whose parents had disappeared into interrogation chambers.
Kirion guided them through cities, donning cloaks of different names and professions.
To the regime, he was everywhere and nowhere.
The media began spinning theories: "Resistance employs shape-shifters."
One broadcast showed grainy footage of five different "Kirions" in five different cities.
They weren't wrong.
But they weren't right either.
One night, Nyza handed him a cracked mirror.
"Who do you see now?"
Kirion stared.
He didn't answer.
Because he wasn't sure anymore.
But he knew what he stood for.
And in a war like this, that was all that mattered.
The master of disguise had become something more:
A myth.
And myths don't bleed.
They burn.