-ˋˏ ༻❁༺ ˎˊ- *Recommendation: If you want a more intense experience, then I recommend playing 'La Nave del Olvido' by Mon Laferte (her version is perfect for this part)."
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"How long could we be a sad song?
Till we were too far gone to bring back to life?
I gave you all my best me's, my endless empathy
And all I did was bleed as I tried to be the bravest soldier
Fighting in only your army, frontlines, don't you ignore me"
𝐀𝐫𝐚𝐛𝐞𝐥𝐥𝐚
I want to bury myself six feet deep.
No, that's not deep enough.
The screen pulses in front of me, each word blurring and sharpening in rhythm with my heartbeat. It's all there. Laid bare in black and white, cold and unforgiving. Every truth I've been too afraid to face, too terrified to even consider, is staring back at me now.
Warner didn't just lie. He didn't just hide bits and pieces, crafting a careful narrative to keep me close. He built a wall of deception so high, so impenetrable, that I never saw this coming. Or maybe I did, and I just didn't want to face the reality. But now, it's right here, unfolding in front of me like some sick nightmare I can't wake up from.
Lucas says something before disappearing but I can't hear him. I can't hear anything. I'm going deaf but instead, I wish I could've gone blind.
He's mapped out every move the rebels could possibly make. Their weak points, their safe houses, their routes for supplies. Every thread of their resistance carefully unraveled, exposed, and cataloged. It's not just strategy. It's extermination. A methodical eradication of every person I've fought for, every ounce of hope we've dared to hold onto.
Then there's the protocol.
My eyes burn as I read the heading again, almost unwilling to process what comes next. But I force myself to go on, knowing that once I start, there's no turning back.
"Protocol 199—Procedure for Enemy Spies."
It's clinical, distant. The kind of language you'd expect in a report about machinery or inventory, not human lives. But as the words sink in, the horror grips me like a vice.
They don't just execute spies. It's not a quick bullet to the head or some clean, merciful death. No. They want to break them. Break us. They want to tear us apart from the inside out, to shatter every ounce of defiance, every scrap of loyalty. Tortures I wouldn't wish on my worst enemy are described in precise, almost scientific detail.
