Change came like a landslide—fast, messy, and unstoppable. Within three weeks of Caleb Rhoan taking the oath as Mayor of Jinjahan, the city began to shift. Not in whispers or behind closed doors, but loud, defiant, and sharp-edged.
Walls that once bore faded protest graffiti were now splashed with fresh paint—mutant symbols, Zwarten pride flags, Medean slogans. The oppressed didn't wait for Caleb to pass laws. They acted as if he already had.
Resistance groups that once hid in abandoned metros or cluttered comm-links now marched openly in the lower districts. Armed not just with chants, but blades, pipes, and plasma coils salvaged from scrapped patrol drones. They weren't asking for peace anymore—they were claiming space.
To them, Caleb wasn't just a politician. He was a signal. A protector. And maybe even a weapon. In Sector 9, an Alben-owned genetics clinic was torched during a blackout.
In Highridge, an armored convoy was ambushed—its cargo stolen, its guards stripped.
In the heart of Solara Market, a Medean vendor screamed into a public holo-feed, "They caged us, drained us, erased us. Now let them feel the burn."
Even the CPG Peacekeepers weren't immune. Their patrols grew thinner in minority-heavy sectors, hesitant to act too boldly, lest they trigger mass riots. Their silence was read as weakness.
And at the top of it all, Caleb remained composed—his speeches always calling for balance, peace, restoration. But the streets had stopped listening. They didn't want balance. They wanted retribution.
And deep inside a high-rise bunker in Central Tower, General Elias Calloway watched it all unfold with gritted teeth, a whiskey glass trembling in his gloved hand. "Congratulations, Mayor," he muttered to himself. "You've unified them… just not the way you think."
Jinjahan burned—not with flames, but with the raw heat of resentment long suppressed.
Shopfronts in the Alben quarter shattered in daylight. Streets once sterile and guarded now bore the scars of rage—charred cars overturned, luxury billboards torn and spray-painted with words like "Balance Dies With Silence" and "Three Ages of Chains Are Enough."
A wealthy Alben family was dragged from their ground-level townhouse in Sector 12 and beaten in public.
A high-ranking biotech executive was found dead in his magrail—throat slit, body marked with the mutant symbol etched into his skin.
Alben-owned banks and clinics were looted, their vaults emptied not just for money but out of fury.
The riots weren't planned. They were natural. A city's immune response after centuries of infection. And now, the Alben bled.
In pristine towers high above the violence, news anchors with Alben accents kept a calm, professional panic in their tone.
"—multiple reports of aggression targeted at Alben citizens. Authorities claim efforts are being made to contain the violence—however, critics point fingers directly at the newly elected Mayor, Caleb Rhoan—"
"—the question remains: is this the 'change' he promised? Or simply a green light for retaliation disguised as revolution?"
Social feeds were ablaze. Hashtags like #MutantMayor, #AlbenLivesMatter, and #JusticeOrAnarchy clashed in digital space.
And in the heart of it all, Caleb stood at his desk in the mayor's office, silent, staring at three urgent reports on his holo-pad:
District 4 death toll: 17 thousands confirmed. All Alben.
Medean Resistance Leader arrested—but crowds forced his release.
CPG demand meeting with city council—General Calloway requesting emergency powers. Again.
He rubbed his temples. This wasn't how it was supposed to go. He wanted reform. Healing. But what he got was a reckoning.
Outside, a group of protestors chanted his name like a battle cry. Inside, his advisors begged for a curfew and stricter enforcement. And in every Alben-owned boardroom across the city, his face was now the enemy.
And this time, they weren't hidden in shadows—they were polished, legal, and backed by generations of power.
But at last, hush fell over Jinjahan. For the first time in weeks, the city paused—not because it wanted to, but because it needed to hear from the man who had become both a symbol of hope and a trigger for vengeance.
Caleb Rhoan stood beneath the fractured spire of the old Unity Hall, its holographic banners still flickering from the last blackout. The sky behind him was a bruised shade of dusk, neon bleeding through clouds like open wounds. Armed Peacekeepers flanked him, uneasy and silent. All eyes—physical and digital—were locked on the lone podium.
No press. No fancy intro. Just a man in a simple black coat. One of his sleeves rolled up, revealing the telltale marks of his mutant heritage: patterned scars like cracked glass across his forearm. He didn't hide it. He never had.
He leaned into the mic. His voice wasn't booming—it was tired, worn raw by the weight of the last few weeks. "Jinjahan," he began, "I stand before you not as your mayor today… but as someone who knows what pain looks like in the mirror. I know what it's like to be stopped on a train for how you look. I know what it's like to be denied medicine because your blood isn't 'pure' enough. I know what it's like to grow up thinking survival is the best you'll ever get."
The crowd stirred. Some clapped. Most listened. "But what I've seen these past weeks… the burning, the killings, the targeting of innocents… that isn't justice. That's vengeance gone blind. That's trauma with a trigger. And if I say nothing now—if I let this keep going—then I've failed you all."
He paused, swallowed hard. His jaw clenched visibly. "I didn't come into this office to let mutants, Zwartens, or Medeans rise by pushing someone else down. I didn't take this oath to become the leader of a reversed tyranny. I took this seat to heal a wound, not carve a new one."
The holo-cams zoomed closer, catching the way his voice cracked slightly. "I know many of you feel this city owes you. You're not wrong. The Alben-led policies of the past were brutal, greedy, and deaf to your cries. I know some of you feel this is the only language power understands. I've felt that too. But if we answer centuries of injustice by becoming the monsters they once were… then what have we changed? Nothing."
He raised a hand, not as a command, but like someone begging for calm. "If we want a Jinjahan where no child is born already hated… where no one needs a weapon to walk home… then we cannot build it on blood. I will not lead a city that eats itself."
He took a breath. A long, human breath. "Starting tonight, I'm assembling a Truth & Reconstruction Council, composed of representatives from every race, including the Alben. We will root out the corruption that bled this city. We will open the books. We will hold the guilty accountable—on all sides. Not through mob justice, but real justice. But I ask—no, I beg you—stand down. Let me lead this with dignity. Let me prove that we can be better than our enemies. Otherwise, I've already lost. And worse... so have all of you."
Inside the obsidian walls of the CPG High Command, where the glow of the city barely touched and silence always came with sharp edges, three men stood before the holographic projection of Mayor Caleb Rhoan's speech.
"So that's it?" Commander Silas Morrigan muttered, folding his arms across his chest. He was a tower of steel and bone, face half-covered in a high-tech respirator, veins on his neck faintly pulsing with silver tracer compound. "He wants peace after the fire's already started?"
Across the war table, Grand Inquisitor Cassian Veil remained seated, legs crossed, fingers steepled under his sharp chin. His uniform was immaculate, pitch-black with crimson runes woven into the cuffs—Black Watch insignia. He raised an eyebrow, expression unreadable. "He speaks like a man already preparing to write his memoirs. He won't last six months."
"Then we help him fall faster," Silas snapped. "I've got over two dozen sleeper cells in Jinjahan alone ready to act. Mutants going rogue. Zwarten radicals arming up. Medean gangs claiming street blocks. Let me deploy Sentinel Corps—surgical strikes, containment, blood for balance."
Cassian leaned back lazily. "You still think blood solves ideology. Kill three radicals and ten more are born. What you'll do is martyr them, Commander."
Silas' eye flashed. "And what would you do? Whisper threats into the ears of children? Black Watch's playbook is built on secrets and shadows, not peace."
Veil grinned faintly. "Exactly. Let the chaos devour itself. We eliminate the sparks before they reach the powder room. Assassinate the hidden leaders. Leak the right scandals. Discredit Caleb quietly. Let the people beg us to intervene."
"You're both blind." The voice was slow, graveled—belonging to High Judicator Alistair Graves. Cloaked in ceremonial black with gold trim, his face weathered by decades of unflinching law. His gavel hung from his hip, a symbolic weapon that had seen blood and verdicts alike.
"This is not a military problem, nor one for knives in the dark. This is a legal reckoning." He stepped forward. "Rhoan is mayor. That office must be held accountable—not sabotaged, not slain. If he fails the Charter of Unity, I'll bring him to trial. In public. Let justice prove its strength—not a blade."
Silas growled. "And if that trial turns him into a hero? If he wins hearts while the city burns?"
Cassian chimed in, voice smooth as venom. "Or worse… if he actually succeeds?"
"Then we'll live in a world where a mutant led the one of the greatest cities of Edenia back from the brink."
His gaze met both of theirs. "And maybe that's the judgment we all fear."
They stared at one another for a long time—three wolves circling the future, each seeing a different prey.