It started with the power grid.
One by one, the lights of the outer sectors blinked out—first homes, then streets, then hospitals. A blackout unlike any before. Not just darkness. Deliberate silence.
Then came the drones.
They descended before dawn, slicing the sky with red beams and metallic hums. The government called it a "containment operation." The resistance knew better.
It was retribution.
Kirion watched the chaos unfold from the rooftop of a gutted tenement. Fires burned in the distance. His comms buzzed nonstop: arrests, disappearances, raids. Entire safehouses compromised in less than an hour.
He turned to Nira, who was already loading ammo into her pistol. "We need to split the network. Now."
She nodded, tossing him a tablet. "They've mapped our routes. I don't know how."
His daughter's voice broke in over the encrypted channel. "I do. They hacked the satellite mirrors. They're using heat signatures—movement, breath, even heartbeat rhythms. I've got ten minutes before they re-triangulate my location."
Kirion's blood went cold. "Cut and run. Reboot the lines and kill your IP."
"No," she said. "I'm ghosting their signal. Give me five more. I can burn their mirror link for good."
"Nira, go with her," Kirion ordered. "Protect her."
"I work better with a knife than a keyboard," Nira said, smirking.
"Then bring both."
As they fled into the tunnels, Kirion stayed back—laying traps, redirecting patrol bots, drawing attention.
By the time the government stormed the building, he was gone. Smoke. Shadow.
But so were dozens of resistance fighters, swept into black vans or left bleeding on city concrete.
Later that night, Nira and his daughter rejoined him at a hidden checkpoint. Both alive. Both shaken.
Kirion said nothing at first. Just looked at them—proof that his fight still had meaning.
"The war just escalated," Nira muttered.
"No," Kirion said, eyes like steel. "It just got personal."