I want to become a killer

The air felt thick with uncertainty, like the city itself was holding its breath, waiting for the next move. The unrest in the streets was growing, but it wasn't just about the protests anymore. This was something deeper—something that had festered beneath the surface for far too long. The truth was that the revolution hadn't really ended; it had only taken on a new form, one that was turning against the very people who had once led it.

Mara and I had spent the last few days meeting with strategists, calling in military units, and trying to prepare ourselves for whatever came next. We knew that the southern districts would be the first to fall, and I had no intention of letting them burn. But the more I thought about it, the more I realized this wasn't about suppressing a few rebels—it was about something bigger. It was about a system that had failed them, that had failed us.

I found myself back in the streets that night, walking through the darkened alleyways, the hum of tension vibrating in the air. The night was too quiet, too still. There were no sounds of celebration, no shouts of hope. There was only the quiet whisper of unrest, like the city was waiting for a match to be thrown into the powder keg.

Mara had insisted that I stay inside, to be ready for the morning's meeting, but I couldn't. I couldn't hide anymore. Not from them. Not from myself.

The people were angry. They were scared. They didn't see hope anymore—they saw failure. And the more I thought about it, the more I realized that we had never really given them what they needed. Not completely.

The truth was, when the revolution had begun, it had been about something pure: freedom, equality, and justice. But over time, it had become about survival. About holding power. About keeping the very thing we had fought to destroy from swallowing us whole.

I stopped at the corner of the district, watching the flickering lights of the protests in the distance. They had grown larger in the last few days, more organized. There was a quiet energy to them—one that could easily turn into something dangerous.

My heart pounded as I saw the shapes moving in the distance. There were faces in the crowd I didn't recognize—young, old, families, workers. They were the forgotten ones, the ones who hadn't been part of the promises we made. And I couldn't blame them. They were angry. They wanted something real. They wanted a world that worked for them, not just for the elite, not just for the people who had once called the shots.

I couldn't just stand by anymore. If I was going to change this, I had to see it for what it was.

The streets were emptying out, the protestors moving in the direction of the central square. I knew that was where it would happen—where they would make their stand. That's where everything would come to a head.

I moved quickly, blending in with the crowds as they headed towards the square. The voices were growing louder now, a chorus of discontent, calling out the government, calling out me. But there was something in their voices that told me they weren't just fighting for a cause. They were fighting for something deeper, something that had been buried inside them for far too long.

I knew what it felt like to be ignored. To feel invisible. To watch as the world around you shifted and moved, while you remained stuck in the same place, waiting for change to come and never seeing it.

I walked further into the crowd, listening to their chants, their angry calls. It was an uprising, yes. But it was also a cry for help, a demand for the thing we had promised but had never fully delivered.

I looked around, noticing how the protestors had started to circle, forming a ring around the central square. I could see the barricades, the signs—DOWN WITH THE TYRANTS, WE DEMAND CHANGE. They weren't just angry at me. They were angry at the system, at the lies we had told them. They were angry at the very thing we had created.

A young man at the front of the crowd caught my eye. He stood on a makeshift platform, shouting into a megaphone, his words cutting through the air.

"We are the forgotten!" he screamed. "The revolution promised us a better world, but all it gave us was more of the same! The same lies, the same broken promises. And now, they call us traitors for wanting something better?"

The crowd roared in agreement, their voices rising in unison. It was a wave of fury, a storm that couldn't be ignored.

I could feel it now, the fire in my chest, the cold sweat that dripped down my back. This wasn't just about the revolution anymore. It was about the people who had been left behind. The ones who hadn't been part of the speeches or the victories. The ones who had no stake in this new world, who had no place in the future we were trying to build.

They didn't want change—they wanted a new world. One that didn't repeat the mistakes of the past. And no matter how much I tried to convince myself that I was doing what was best, I realized, in that moment, that I had lost touch with that simple truth.

I had become part of the problem.

But I couldn't undo it. Not by myself. And if I didn't do something soon, this would be the end of everything.

I stepped forward, the roar of the crowd still echoing in my ears. The square was becoming more chaotic, the police forces arriving to break it up, their riot shields shining under the streetlights. I knew what would happen next—violence. More bloodshed.

But I couldn't let it happen. Not again.

I pushed through the crowd, moving toward the young man on the platform, ignoring the angry shouts as I made my way to the front. I could feel the eyes of the crowd on me now, the weight of their judgment, their fear, their anger.

I stood there for a moment, facing them all. The weight of their stares, their expectations, pressing down on me. I wasn't just facing a protest. I was facing a reckoning.

"Enough!" I shouted, my voice barely rising above the din. But it was enough. The crowd quieted, some of them turning toward me, confusion in their eyes.

"I know what you're feeling," I said, my heart pounding in my chest. "You feel betrayed. You feel like the promises we made aren't worth anything. But listen to me—you're right to be angry. This revolution was supposed to be for all of us, not just a few. We haven't done enough. And for that, I'm sorry."

The words felt like they were tearing through me as I spoke them. But I knew they had to be said.

"We will do better," I continued, my voice steadying as I felt the weight of my own words. "We'll fix the mistakes we've made, not just with promises, but with real action. But you have to trust me—we can still make this work."

For the first time in days, I felt a flicker of hope. But I also felt the enormous weight of the responsibility I had taken on, a burden that was heavier than anything I had ever known.

The silence stretched on, as the crowd seemed to weigh my words. And for a moment, I thought it might be enough. But in the back of my mind, a question lingered—how long could I keep pretending that we weren't just spinning in circles, chasing the same ghosts we had tried to escape from?