The narrow alleys of the city buzzed with a quiet intensity as we navigated through them. The echoes of distant chatter and the occasional barking of stray dogs filled the air. The streets were alive but subdued, as though the city itself was holding its breath, waiting for the storm to arrive.Leo led the way, his steps purposeful yet cautious. Rosa followed closely behind, scanning the area for any signs of Elliot’s men. I brought up the rear, my mind racing as I pieced together the fragments of our plan.We were heading to one of the neighborhoods that Elliot’s neglect had hit the hardest—Ashridge. Once a thriving community of factory workers and their families, it was now a ghost of its former self. The factories had closed, the jobs had vanished, and the people had been left to fend for themselves.But Ashridge wasn’t just a symbol of Elliot’s destruction—it was also a potential spark for our rebellion. If we could convince the people there to join us, to fight for something bigg

The city seemed to hum with an energy I hadn’t felt in years. Every corner felt alive, every face I passed carrying the weight of quiet desperation. Yet, amidst the despair, there was something new—a flicker of defiance. The seeds we planted in Ashridge were taking root, and word of our cause was spreading like wildfire.I stood in a small, dimly lit room in the back of a run-down tavern—a place Rosa had deemed "neutral ground." The air was thick with smoke from a cheap cigar someone had lit earlier. Around me was a growing group of people: factory workers, taxi drivers, street vendors, and even a few former employees of Orion Industries.These were the ones brave enough—or desperate enough—to take a stand.Rosa leaned against the far wall, arms crossed, her sharp eyes scanning the room. Leo stood beside me, his jaw tight, his body tense. He was nervous, and I couldn’t blame him. Every new face in this room was a potential ally—or a potential spy.“All right,” I said, my voice cutting

The fallout from the warehouse raid hit faster than any of us anticipated. By morning, news of the attack spread across the city. It wasn’t just whispers in the streets anymore—it was headlines. Reporters speculated about the bold strike against Elliot Morgan’s supply chain, branding it everything from corporate sabotage to a rebellion of the oppressed.The symbol we’d left behind—a sharp, slanted "O" surrounded by jagged lines—had been plastered across screens and newspapers, becoming a rallying cry for some and a warning for others.I sat in the safehouse—a small, nondescript apartment in one of Ashridge’s many crumbling neighborhoods—watching the news unfold on an old TV. The screen flickered as a polished anchorwoman delivered the story with measured intensity.“This morning, authorities discovered significant damage at one of Morgan Enterprises’ key warehouses. Sources report that the attackers left a defiant message behind, marking the site with a symbol that many believe is tie

Elliot’s gaze pinned me like a hawk sizing up its prey. His sharp eyes flicked over me, taking in every detail, every nuance of my disguise. I could feel my heartbeat pounding in my ears, but I forced myself to stay calm. This wasn’t the time to falter.“Mr. Royce,” Elliot said, the corner of his mouth twitching into a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “It’s not every day that someone manages to pique my curiosity. Tell me, what exactly brings you to my humble gala tonight?”His voice was smooth, but the undertone of suspicion was unmistakable. I had to tread carefully.“I’ve been looking for new ventures to invest in,” I replied, keeping my tone light and conversational. “Morgan Enterprises has always been a leader in innovation, and when I heard about tonight’s event, I couldn’t resist the opportunity to see it for myself.”Elliot’s smile remained fixed, but his gaze hardened. “How flattering. And yet, I find it strange that a man of your supposed stature managed to evade my radar u