Despite Mayor Caleb's public plea for peace—a broadcast shown on every holo-screen, repeated in a dozen languages, and endorsed by even the Temple Elders—chaos did not subside. It got worse.
The streets of Jinjahan, once a gleaming artery of Edenian progress, became the feeding ground of rage.
Alben women walking home from work were spat on, their hair pulled by mobs of youths who screamed, "Where were you when your fathers bled us dry?"
Some were cornered, groped in alleyways, forced to recite apologies to camera lenses before being shoved into the dirt.
One was dragged from her auto-pod taxi, her blouse ripped as a crowd circled, livestreaming her humiliation. The video hit the Net within minutes. No one stepped in. Everyone watched.
Murals of old Alben war heroes were splashed in red paint, some torn down and burned on the spot.
Even Alben children weren't spared—mocked in schools, chased by packs of other students, and teachers too afraid to stop it. In the lower districts, an Alben boy was beaten with metal rods after his older sister posted support for peace.
Shops owned by Alben families were torched at night. Not looted. Destroyed. Their windows shattered and painted with crude messages—"Blood for blood."
The city's pulse became violent. And in the shadows, someone was fanning the flames. Masked men—their eyes glowing faintly behind cracked riot helmets—distributed weapons in back alleys. "Self-defense," they said. But they knew it was more. It was gasoline. And the city was already on fire.
Each passing day twisted the knife deeper. By the second week after Caleb's speech, worse things than the day before had become the new norm. What was once rare became routine, what was once shocking became expected. The Alben—especially the women—were no longer safe in the streets. They were no longer safe anywhere.
Every morning, drones recorded trails of blood on metro rail platforms, smashed glass near corner stores, and graffiti written in human waste. The city's clean-up bots couldn't keep up. No sooner was one wall sanitized, another alley was defiled. Alben girls were hunted like prey.
One, barely sixteen, was chased into the underlevels—those forgotten places of the city where pipes leaked steam and old tech groaned beneath metal grates. She was dragged into the sewers, her screams echoing in damp tunnels.
The next day, the video was everywhere—a shaky feed from someone's neural lens, showing her face bruised, eyes wide with terror, a group of masked boys laughing as they beat her, one holding her by the hair as he shouted. "Smile for the Net, sweetheart. Your people filmed us for centuries. Now it's your turn."
It went viral in under ten minutes. Ten million reuploads. Forty million likes. But no arrests. Another woman, an Alben social worker known for helping mutant children, was stripped on a public bench and smeared with sewage.
The crowd watched. Some threw coins. Some clapped. Others recorded. Police drones were either hacked, sabotaged, or too late. Reports stacked in the mayoral office like corpses in a war zone—Harassment, arson, assault, rape, murder.
More and more Alben families fled the city under cover of night. More and more non-Alben called it justice. Every race had their grievances. Zwarten elders recalled the sterilization policies of a generation ago. Medean scholars remembered the housing discrimination, the firebombings. Mutants didn't need to remember—their scars walked with them every day.
Kim stood silently in the dark of the underlevel, his face half-hidden beneath his hood. The flickering blue light from an old, malfunctioning holo-ad bathed the walls in a cold glow. On it, yet another video played—an Alben woman dragged through a crowd, screaming. No one helped. Again.
Aisha sat beside him on the rusted pipe they'd claimed as a bench. Her arms wrapped around herself, not from the cold, but from the ache in her chest. The air around them smelled of rust, mold, and something far worse—regret.
Kim finally spoke, his voice hoarse. "This… this wasn't what I wanted, Aish." He didn't look at her. He couldn't. "I just wanted to matter. To walk in the same street as an Alben and not feel like a shadow."
He swallowed. "I didn't want this… revenge carnival."
Aisha didn't respond immediately. She was watching the screen too. Her eyes didn't blink, even as tears welled at the corners. "You think I didn't dream the same thing?" she whispered, her voice raw. "I just wanted to ride the levrail without being asked where I stole my ID. I wanted to go to school without some prick asking if I knew my father."
She wiped her cheek with the back of her hand, annoyed at herself for crying. "But now? We're not fighting for justice. We're watching a slow genocide, just with different victims this time."
Kim's fists clenched. His knuckles turned white. "It was Locke," he spat. "The Masked Man. He played me. Played us all. Made me believe I was part of something greater. That I was helping. But all I did was help him light the fuse."
Aisha touched his arm gently. "I don't care if they're Alben, Zwarten, Medean or mutant. I care if they're scared, bleeding, or dead. I care if they're human."
The mayoral office—once a beacon of modern authority with its marble floors and sleek holo-terminals—now felt more like a war bunker. Windows were reinforced, security detail tripled, and outside the gates, protestors raged day and night.
Caleb stood alone before his desk, sleeves rolled up, tie loosened, eyes fixed on the holographic message looping before him.
"Mayor Caleb. The instability in Jinjahan has reached unacceptable levels. Violence against Alben citizens continues unchecked. National trade, security routes, and Edenian diplomatic reputation are at risk. You have one week. Either restore control... or Central will authorize Operation Glass Rain."
The message cut to static. Caleb stared at the dying blue light, jaw tight, breath shallow. Operation Glass Rain. He'd read about it. Emergency urban lockdown, mass detainment of dissenters, sweeping lethal force if needed. In short—military intervention to wipe out the problem by any means.
He sank into his chair, fingers laced together as he stared at the surface of his desk. There were still bloodstains there, not cleaned properly since the last protester forced his way into city hall.
The door opened behind him. Chief Administrator Ren, a calm and calculating Medean woman in her forties, entered without knocking. She held a tablet in one hand, her expression already tense. "Was it from Central?"
Caleb didn't look up. "They want blood. One way or another."
Ren's jaw twitched. "Then you know what that means."
He nodded. Slowly. "We either fix this city, or we let them burn it down."
She placed the tablet on his desk. Live updates from across Jinjahan: more assaults, Alben families fleeing districts, growing numbers of Zwarten and Medean gangs seizing checkpoints once patrolled by CPG.
Ren whispered, "The fire's already lit. You need to decide now—will you be the one to smother it, or will you let them flood it in gasoline?"
He looked toward the skyline beyond his reinforced windows—neon lights flickering in the distance, smoke curling from a distant riot, airships looming like vultures. "Prepare an emergency council. Bring every faction head to the table. Zwarten leaders. Medean elders. Even mutant enclave reps."
Ren blinked. "And the Alben?"
"Especially the Alben," he said grimly.
"If this city has even a chance left to breathe… it won't be from silencing one group—it'll be from making all of them listen."
Meanwhile in the heart of Jinjahan. Central Park was supposed to be a sanctuary—a breath of peace in a suffocating city. That morning, the air shimmered with warmth. Joggers passed each other with nods. Street musicians played soft jazz under the shade of bio-engineered trees. Merchants shouted playful banter, trying to outdo each other's deals. Then it changed.
The chaos didn't come with gunfire or explosions. It came with a stage. Hastily built, planted like a thorn in the heart of the park. A crowd formed fast, drawn by noise and chants. Young radicals—Medean, Zwarten, and mutants, mostly under thirty—rallied around the structure like it was a shrine. And at its center… her.
Everyone in Edenia knew her name: Lilienne Vaestra. Crowned Jinjahan Princess three years in a row. The living embodiment of Alben beauty and charm. Snow-pale skin that glowed even in shadow, obsidian-black hair that flowed like water, and lips like ripe cherries. Her form was celebrated in every holo-ad from Edenia to the Border Colonies. A thousand artists tried to paint her, and still they never captured her fully. But now, the image was broken.
Lilienne stood—or tried to—her arms bound to the central pole. Her once-elegant dress was in tatters, dragged and dirtied. Her hair, usually a cascade of flowing perfection, now hung in damp, tangled knots. Her eyes, once bright as polished sapphire, were swollen. Her body bore the signs of abuse—not the kind to be paraded, but the kind meant to shame. To break..
Her once-immaculate gown, a symbol of her untouchable status as a three-time Jinjahan Princess pageant winner, lay in tatters around her feet. The fabric had been ripped away with deliberate cruelty, exposing her flawless Edenian body to the merciless gaze of the diverse crowds. Her snow-white skin, now marred with bruises and slick with sweat, glistened under the harsh midday sun. Cascading black hair, usually a silken cascade of perfection, clung in tangled strands to her face, framing full cherry-red lips that parted in shallow, defiant breaths. Her high, pert breasts rose and fell with each ragged inhale, nipples hardened against the warm breeze, while her narrow waist flared into wide, curvaceous hips that begged for hands to claim them. Long legs, made for wrapping around a lover's waist, trembled slightly against the rough wood of the pole, her wrists tied above her head with coarse ropes that bit into her skin.
"Alben's pride becomes our vessel" screamed a Medean, gripping her chin as if she were a relic. The mob convulsed. Clapping. Howling. A mutant slashed the air with a banner: EQUITYTHROUGHERASURE". They spat her name like a curse and a prayer—as if repetition could transmute her from martyr to messiah.
"She carried their lies! Now she'll birth our truth!" Zwarten youths jeered, hurling petals that stuck to her sweat-smeared skin. The irony hung, a woman once untouchable, now a communal prophecy. The child she'd bear—no one's, everyone's—was touted as Edenia's "great equalizer."
"This is your icon, your trophy! Held high as the pride of the Alben elite! But today…"
He gestured to the crowd, to Lilienne. "…today, she becomes the symbol of change. Of reversal."
The crowd didn't cheer at first. Some gasped. Others watched in uncertain horror. Then the chanting started. "Unity. Unity. Unity."
It was twisted, not a call for peace—but for vengeance disguised as justice. The speaker lifted his hand. "For too long, the Alben walked above us. On gold floors, drinking clean water, breathing filtered air while we begged for scraps in the undersewers. She was their crown—now, she will be our mark. She will carry the weight of all they've done."
No one dared move. Even the regular citizens, who stumbled onto the scene by chance, were rooted in place by a mixture of dread and disbelief.
The radicals chanted her name—not out of admiration, but as a mocking anthem. "Lilienne! Lilienne!" Over and over, until it sounded like thunder.
And all she could do… was stand there, trembling. Silent. From afar, hidden behind a broken fountain, Kim and Aisha watched it unfold. Neither could speak. The revolution they thought would bring balance had spiraled into something else—something unrecognizable.
"This wasn't justice," Aisha finally whispered. "This… this is vengeance pretending to wear justice's face."
Kim clenched his fists, eyes wide. "We wanted a voice. Not this. Never this."
And above them, drones captured everything. Within hours, the broadcast would reach Edenian networks. Central Command. The CPG. And there would be no going back.