Counterfeit ✓

Chapter 1

As the sun dipped low, its golden rays danced on the water pooled at the guard's boots. He couldn't hide his impatience, drumming his baton against the ground. Mila Whitaker found herself at the tail end of the bread queue, acutely aware that daylight was slipping away. Anxiety gnawed at her, but she dared not glance back, fearing she'd lose her spot in the line.

The guards' watchful eyes, like hawks circling their prey, were poised to punish any hint of defiance with brutality-a bullet's cruel kiss or, even worse, public torment in the heart of town, where families were forced to bear witness. To distract attention from the grim reality, Mila squinted her eyes and drew in a slow, steadying breath.

A pact with her father to secure bread on time had faded to insignificance in the current perilous moment. Mila's backpack, laden with supplies, dug into her shoulders, and the weight of medicine boxes sank to the bag's depths. The thought weighed heavily on her: a search by the guards now would spell certain doom.

Years of belief had painted the guards as nightmarish enforcers serving the nation's leaders, but today was a stark revelation. Mila, too, confronted her inner beast, realizing that she, like the guards, had exploited the vulnerable to secure her comfort.

Before standing in the bread line, she had taken vital medicines from an elderly woman, a desperate act born of necessity to save her ailing grandmother. The memory of that encounter throbbed in her mind, the pills now a lifeline for her kin, but the guilt burrowed into her like a worm as she remembered helping lay older adults woman to rest.

The queue inched forward at a snail's pace, and her anxiety swelled. She mimicked the steps of those ahead; her gaze locked onto the cracked pavement. The older boy in front, a neighbor from just two blocks down, met the guard's eyes to the left for a fraction too long. Mila's heart skipped a beat as she held her breath in shared dread.

Suddenly, the guard's baton extended like a striking snake, and it collided with the boy's back. A tortured scream erupted from his lips, echoing through the tension-choked air. Mila instinctively sidestepped, unwilling to provide the guard with a reason to turn his brutality on her. Yet, within her, self-loathing churned, for it had become a cruel survival game where every soul fended for themselves.

With every savage blow that rained down on the boy's back, it felt like a jagged knife twisting in Mila's chest. She clenched her fists, her nails digging into her palms, biting her trembling lip until it bled, yet she clung to silence. They were within arm's reach of the table bearing the precious bread, but the boy lay sprawled where he had been struck, a crimson river oozing from his battered frame, staining the ground.

Mila's chance to reach the table and grab bread slipped away as the initial alarm blared into existence. Panic surged through the crowd, and a human wave dispersed in frantic attempts to reach the refuge of their homes. Some stumbled over their haste, while others exploited the chaos to snatch bags of bread. This time, she spun around in alarm. The alarms held a peculiar sanctity in the eyes of the guards - their wrath only descended when the third and final siren cried out.

She refused to linger for the third alarm, surging through the throng and sprinting around the square's corner. Desperate individuals pounded on doors, hoping for refuge, despite the grim understanding that it was a futile plea. Every unfamiliar face inside a home during a post-third-alarm inspection spelled doom for the entire hosting family. No one dared to take that chance.

Mila found herself a half-hour's journey from the safety of her home. If she didn't reach it in time, she'd need to evade the relentless manhunt. The guards took perverse pleasure in tormenting and ending the lives of those who roamed the streets, and breaking curfew was the prime provocation for their ruthless retribution.