1 Eorin, Kinbi 1312. The streets of Jinjahan pulsed with life. Vibrant streamers looped between skyline towers, music thumped from hover-drones, and crowds surged in every direction. For one fleeting day, the city—fractured by centuries of tension—seemed to breathe in unison. No slurs were shouted. No walls marked boundaries. Zwarten children ran beside Alben vendors. Medean teens danced with mutants to pulsing beats of unity. It was, perhaps, the only day every five years when race didn't matter. Election Day.
On a stage raised above Jubilee Plaza, Alben Grastov stood tall. The city's emblem—a silver phoenix rising through blue circuitry—glistened behind him. Aged but sharp, his silver hair combed immaculately, Grastov radiated that polished charisma only a lifetime of carefully curated lies could bring.
His voice, amplified by crystalline audio systems, echoed across the plaza. "Five terms. Five long, proud terms I've stood at the helm of this glorious, chaotic, magnificent city. And in those years, Jinjahan has risen from fractured neon ruins to become the jewel of Edenia."
A round of applause, carefully timed. "But the future isn't mine to hold. It belongs to new voices. New blood. And so I present to you… Daeyang Sohn."
The crowd erupted as Daeyang took the podium. Young by political standards—late 30s, sharp jawline, pristine navy overcoat buttoned to the collar—he exuded charm like a weapon. "Jinjahan is a mosaic," Daeyang began, "but a mosaic without shape is just shattered glass. I intend to redefine that shape. Rearranged districts. Order, safety, dignity—for all. Zwarten, Medean, Mutant, and Alben. Each will have their territory, their sanctity, their voice."
Some clapped. Others murmured. Next came Mubara Teko, the old Zwarten statesman. His coat was worn but clean, his hands heavy with years of writing bills, marching in protests, losing more votes than he won. But when he spoke, the air shifted.
"We do not need territories," Mubara said firmly. "We need bridges. We do not need to be kept apart to be equal—we need to stand together. My people have scrubbed blood from these streets longer than most of you have been alive. We do not need promises. We need justice."
Cheers thundered from the back rows—students, teachers, factory workers. Not all Zwarten. Not anymore. Then came the final candidate. The plaza grew still as the screens revealed his face. Caleb Rhoan. A mutant.
No candidate like him had ever stood for office—not in Jinjahan, not in any city across Edenia. His skin carried a slight shimmer—chromatic, like obsidian laced with oil. His eyes were perfectly human, yet something ancient burned behind them. He didn't wear a suit. Just a simple dark jacket, worn boots, and a pin—Jinjahan's emblem—on his chest.
He stepped to the podium slowly. The silence was deafening. "My name is Caleb Rhoan," he began. "You already know I'm a mutant. And that alone, to many of you, makes this moment... impossible."
He looked out into the crowd—not with defiance, but certainty. "But I was born here. In the lower districts. I was hunted here. I bled here. And I survived here. Just like many of you. You want change? Real change doesn't come from division. It comes when the one never invited to the table carves a seat of their own."
He stepped back. There was no applause at first—just silence. Then, slowly, it built. A single clap. Then dozens. Then hundreds. Not everyone. Not even most. But enough to shake the moment. The days following the parade felt longer than the nights.
Jinjahan's luminous skyline flickered under an uneasy tension. Though laughter had echoed through the streets on 1 Eorin, Kinbi, by the second sunrise, citizens weren't smiling anymore—they were thinking. Not just about charisma or promises, but consequences. The blackouts. The riots. The killings in the lower districts.
The silent whispers in alleyways about Commander Locke. The rise of the Peacekeepers. The curfews. The mutants dragged from their homes under suspicion, the Zwarten harassed in the light of day, the Medean neighborhoods set ablaze and left to fend for themselves. This election didn't feel like celebration anymore. It felt like a verdict.
The polls opened. Holo-booths projected each candidate's name above shimmering interfaces. In every district—north, south, upper, lower—people stood in long lines, quiet, contemplative. And then something unexpected happened.
In Alben-dominated districts like Silverreach and Glasswyn, the votes didn't sway fully to Daeyang Sohn, despite his promises of order. Even in polished, clean neighborhoods filled with suits and tech-sector elites, the silence of good conscience grew louder.
Whispers passed. He's not one of us, but maybe that's the point. At least he's not another polished liar. If Grastov supported Daeyang, something's off.
In lower sectors, where Mubara Teko once held sway, many still backed the elder statesman. But some—especially the younger generation—cast their vote for Caleb Rhoan.
And mutants? They voted in numbers never seen before. They stood in lines even when Peacekeepers watched them with cold, silent stares. They voted despite fear, despite threats, because this time they had someone.
Then, the results. Projected across the city sky in glowing silver text.
Caleb Rhoan: 47.2%
Daeyang Sohn: 35.6%
Mubara Teko: 17.2%
It was official. Jinjahan's next mayor would be a mutant. The first in the city. The first in all of Edenia. When the results dropped, the city held its breath. And then—the streets erupted. Not with riots. But with roars. Of disbelief. Of joy. Of horror.
In the broadcasting room, Alben anchors stumbled over their words. Some tried to spin it, others just shook their heads. One young host looked directly into the camera and said, "Well… history's not written by the safe bets."
In the office of General Calloway, a glass shattered against the wall. In the lower districts, people flooded the streets, lighting flares, raising mutant flags, Zwarten flags, even Medean colors side by side.
And across a quiet rooftop, somewhere on the edge of the city, Adrian Locke watched the holo-screen flicker with Caleb's victory.
His jaw clenched. "This city just lit the fuse," he muttered.
Behind him, Iris stepped into the moonlight. "So what now?"
Locke turned, eyes like steel. "Now?" he said. "We show them what a mistake they made."
Meanwhile—deep in the crumbling veins beneath Jinjahan—Kim stood still beneath the flickering light of a busted neon sign, its buzzing hum the only sound echoing through the alleyway near the old sewer gate.
The election results glowed above him in holographic silence, dancing on the surface of a shallow puddle at his feet. Caleb Rhoan: 47.2%
He couldn't believe it.
The city had actually elected a mutant. The same city that hunted their kind. That buried his friends. That once made them kneel on cracked pavement at gunpoint, bleeding, just for existing.
His hood shadowed most of his face, but his eyes—tired, burning—betrayed the storm inside. He turned, vanishing into the shadows like breath in cold air.
The sewer tunnels welcomed him like an old, rotting memory. He walked the familiar path: rusted ladders, graffiti-covered walls, the smell of damp and regret. A small fire crackled in a steel drum as he reached the hideout.
Aisha looked up from her threadbare blanket, rubbing sleep from her eyes. "Kim? You're back early."
Kim didn't answer right away. He dropped to a crate, elbows on his knees, hands clasped, staring into the fire.
Aisha's smile faded. "What's wrong?"
"I saw the results," he said, voice low. "Caleb won."
Her eyes widened. "That's... good, right? That means maybe they'll stop hunting us like animals. Maybe it's changing."
Kim shook his head, slow and grim. "No. You don't understand."
He leaned back, pressing his hood tighter to his scalp as if trying to hide from his own thoughts. "I helped set this up."
Aisha blinked. "What?"
He couldn't look at her. "The riots. The blackouts. The chaos. I followed him. The Masked Man. I believed him when he said it was the only way others would be heard. He told me we'd force the city to look at us."
"And you believed that?"
"I believed him," Kim whispered. "I thought he was a symbol."
Kim finally looked at her, guilt carved deep into his face. "I helped him burn this city from the inside. And now... now he's not done. I know it. This was just phase one."
The fire popped. Somewhere far above, a faint explosion rattled the old pipes.
Aisha reached out, placing a hand on his shoulder. "Then we stop him. We make it right, Kim."
Kim stared into the flames again, haunted. "I don't know if we can," he murmured. "I think we already lit the match. And Jinjahan's sitting on a powder keg."
Aisha's grip on Kim's shoulder tightened—not out of anger, but understanding. As a Zwarten, she'd grown up under the same sky, but a different kind of boot pressed down on her neck. She knew this fear. Not just fear of the power—but fear of hope. Because in Jinjahan, hope was dangerous. Hope got people killed.
She crouched beside him, lowering her voice. "Kim… I know what you're thinking," she said. "I feel it too."
Kim didn't speak. She went on, her tone firmer, eyes lit by firelight. "A mutant mayor… that won't go unpunished by the Alben. Not with their money, their machines, their reach. They'll call it a threat. They'll call it a mistake. And then they'll bleed this city until it learns its place again."
She paused, her own breath catching in her throat. "But if Daeyang had won? Or any other Alben? We'd go back to the same sick cycle. Curfews. Raids. Policies that look like laws but feel like cages. You remember when they split the districts by bloodlines? They called it 'stability'. All it did was bury us deeper."
Kim clenched his jaw. "So what are you saying, Aisha? That we pick a side in a war we can't win?"
"I'm saying it's already started," she replied. "And this time… we've got someone on the stage instead of dying in the audience."
She sat beside him, shoulder to shoulder. "They're going to come for Caleb. For mutants. For us. Harder than before. And maybe we won't survive it. But if we run again, if we hide like rats and let people like Locke decide what 'resistance' looks like…"—she looked at him now, eyes sharp—"then we lose everything. Again."
Finally, Kim whispered, "I don't know how to fight what's coming."
Aisha leaned her head on his shoulder. "You don't have to," she said. "Just stand. When the fire comes, stand. That's more than half this city ever did."