6 a.m. The television blared like a funeral bell. Karl twisted the dial on an old radio, tuning into the news. The anchor's professional smile looked like it had just signed death warrants over breakfast.
"Breaking news—The Bureau has officially declared former Special Operative Ethan a traitor, confirmed as a mole for the Black Curtain Organization. His existence poses an extreme threat to public safety."
Karl glanced at me, expression twisted as if he'd swallowed a live cockroach.
I lit half a cigarette and exhaled smoke. Finally.
I'd been hunted, framed, and slandered before—but "traitor" was the real funeral. Clean and efficient, it dumped both my past and future into the incinerator.
The broadcast rolled with professional editing:
Clip one: Karl and I fighting in the ruins, repackaged as "slaughtering civilians."
Clip two: the Black Curtain emblem, pasted over my shadow like destiny itself.
Clip three: some official pounding the table: "This man must be eliminated!"
The anchor concluded sweetly: "Betrayal is the vilest of crimes."
I laughed out loud, the sound echoing through the empty floor like a rabid crow.
"You… alright?" Karl asked carefully.
"Alright? I'm a traitor now—how could I be 'alright'?" I spread my hands. "But hey, it's convenient. Before, they had to invent reasons to kill me. Now it's just one word: 'traitor.'"
The label spread like a virus. My face plastered on every screen, eyes edited to look sinister, mouth twisted into a villain's grin. Shoppers cursed me while buying bread, as if I'd stolen their grocery money. Kids played cops-and-robbers, shouting: "Catch the traitor!"
Humans are funny. Yesterday you're their hero, today their enemy—so long as someone tells them so. If tomorrow the Bureau declared me an alien, they'd probably cheer louder.
We hid in a warehouse. Karl spread a map, hands trembling: "Maybe… the border? No one cares there if you're a traitor."
"The border?" I sneered. "By the time we get there, my wanted poster will be printed on toilet paper. People will wipe their asses with my face."
Karl said nothing. We both knew there was no escape.
That night, I found my old Bureau ID. The photo showed me young, clean, almost naïve. I stared a long time before burning it. Black smoke stung my eyes but felt cleansing.
"From now on," I whispered, "they don't need me, and I don't need them."
The next day, the bounty escalated:
Anyone seeing me must report.
Anyone sheltering me shares my guilt.
Anyone killing me gets double the reward.
They didn't just want my death—they wanted the world to participate.
Karl cursed: "They've turned you into everyone's prey. This is total betrayal."
I shrugged. "I'm used to being a bad joke."
That midnight, footsteps outside the warehouse. Armed men stormed in, shouting: "Traitor!"
I laughed, raising my gun like an actor greeting his audience:"Welcome to the Traitor Show."
Gunfire roared. The warehouse became a theater, bullets and flames my monologue.
Maybe I'd die—but at least after total betrayal, I finally had an identity that was mine.