Vicious

The North has a talent for calling theft by prettier names.
Order. Civilization. Peace.

But peace is just war with better manners.
And manners are a muzzle.

In the capital, the elite drink to clean hands and bright futures. Far to the south, the land remembers. People remember. The Unity Front of Southern Krovograd (UFOSK) spreads in fragments: pamphlets, smoke on the horizon. Not an army you can parade. Something harder to kill.

There is no hero to this story.
Only wretched pawns in expensive clothes.

You pay for the violence of your ancestors.
Or you become it.

Is it a tragedy because it didn't have to end this way
or because it was always going to?

This is survival of the shittiest.