The first real victory didn't look like fireworks or parades. It looked like fear in the enemy's eyes.
Two days after the broadcast, something shifted.
Road checkpoints stood unmanned. Propaganda drones flew aimlessly, without signal. And across the once-silent districts, people were speaking again—openly, defiantly. With purpose.
Kirion watched it unfold from a rooftop in Sector 4, where the city skyline flickered with power outages and chants of rebellion. Below, thousands marched—carrying handmade banners, wearing symbols of resistance. What started as whispers had turned into a wave.
"We broke the fear," Nira said beside him, binoculars scanning the horizon. "Now it's spreading faster than they can stop it."
"Because we gave them more than proof," Kirion replied. "We gave them a reason."
Across resistance channels, unexpected support poured in—disillusioned soldiers, retired hackers, former government techs. Even smugglers offered encrypted cargo lines to move people and supplies.
At one outpost, a former propagandist named Jaro defected with an archive of state-manipulated footage. In Zone K, a factory shut down production and converted its systems into makeshift drone builders for the resistance. Even rural farming communes began supplying food, cloaked under barter codes.
Kirion's daughter, now dubbed "The Spark" in underground circles, became a symbol not just of the government's crimes, but of the future itself. Her broadcasts, her courage, her code—every signal she sent inspired more to join.
But momentum came with risk.
At dusk, Kirion received intel from a mole: the regime was planning a full-scale crackdown. They called it Operation Silence.
"We'll have to move again," Nira said. "They're targeting resistance centers within the next seventy-two hours."
Kirion looked at his daughter, then back at the city. "No," he said. "We don't run. We make our stand. Right here."