Sleep came in fragments.
Two hours at a time. No dreams. No rest in the way most people understood it. His body shut down because it had been trained to—because it had learned that anything more was a liability. He woke when the internal count ended, eyes opening instantly in the dark.
The den was silent, cold concrete holding the night's chill. Emergency lights beyond the sealed door flickered faintly, their hum barely audible through layers of rubble and steel. He sat up from the cot without hesitation and checked the time.
Another cycle finished.
Hunger pressed in—dull but insistent. He ignored it. He always did.
He moved through the space with practiced efficiency, checking his gear, running his fingers over weapons and equipment. He opened the supply box beside the cot, already knowing what he would find.
Almost nothing left.
Food first. Medical supplies second. Both were becoming problems.
He sealed the den behind him and moved into the underground, ascending slowly and methodically until the city breathed again around him.
The rain was gone.
Fog clung low to the streets, rolling through alleys and broken infrastructure like something alive. Cold air cut through the seams of his armor as he reached the surface. It was early—just before five.
The hour when the city woke but did not yet move.
No civilians.
Only towers.
He climbed.
Rooftop to rooftop, black armor dissolving into shadow and steel. He paused often, scanning the streets below, listening. Nothing moved. Supply routes in this sector were dry. No convoys. No patrols worth the risk.
Then he stopped.
Across the street, mounted to the side of a massive residential block, a single panel came to life.
Light cut through the fog.
A propaganda broadcast—the morning cycle.
He crouched at the edge of the rooftop and watched.
These broadcasts played in every household in the city at 5:30 every morning. Watching was mandatory. Every screen was monitored. The System knew who complied and who didn't.
Failure to watch was followed by harsh punishment.
A calm, measured voice filled the air, carried by speakers mounted across the district.
"Rebirth marked the end of chaos."
Images shifted—the plague, the cure, the collapse of the old world. Carefully edited. Carefully framed.
"NeuroVax-30 saved humanity when nothing else could."
The Man did not move.
The broadcast explained the calendar: Before Rebirth (BR)—before the cure. After Rebirth (AR)—after salvation. It explained why the old years no longer mattered. Why history itself had been rewritten.
Then the imagery changed.
Archival footage, artificially restored. The narrator's tone shifted—almost reverent.
A man appeared on the screen.
Alistair Crowe.
Founder of VitaCore Industries.
First President of the Global Order.
"Visionary. Savior. Architect of survival."
Then came his descendants—son, grandson—
—and finally, his great-grandson.
Victor Crowe.
The so-called Fourth President of the Global Order.
He was an old man, carefully preserved rather than aged. His posture was straight, his movements economical and deliberate. White hair was swept back from a face untouched by hardship. Not a wrinkle out of place. Not a flaw allowed to remain.
He wore a tailored dark suit, immaculate in cut and fabric—the kind reserved for ceremonies, not people. A single insignia of the Global Order rested at his collar, subtle but unmistakable.
His expression never changed.
Calm.
Composed.
Untouchable.
His eyes were sharp and distant—eyes that did not look at people, but through them. When he smiled, it was slight and controlled, the smile of a man who had never needed to raise his voice to be obeyed.
Power clung to him not through force, but inevitability.
He was presented not as a ruler, but as a constant.
A symbol of stability.
Of order.
Of salvation.
And yet, to those watching from the shadows, he was a monster.
A man untouched by the world he ruled.
"Under President Victor Crowe, the Global Order stands unbroken."
The moment Victor Crowe's name was uttered, something inside the Man tightened.
His jaw locked.
His hands clenched before he realized it.
Anger rose—not explosive, not wild—but dense and heavy, like pressure building behind steel. It did not burn out. It stayed. It waited.
He watched Crowe's face in silence, studying every measured breath, every false calm expression crafted for control. He saw past the tailored image, past the polished cruelty disguised as order.
This was the man who turned survival into obedience.
This was the man who replaced need with fear.
This was the man who made monsters necessary.
The propaganda spoke of unity. Of sacrifice. Of rebirth.
All he saw was blood.
Executions. Labor camps. Broken bodies in white armor lying in the rain. Lives reduced to numbers under Crowe's rule pressed against his ribs like a blade.
The Man did not look away.
Hatred like this required clarity.
Because one day—when the screens went dark for good—he wanted to remember this face. Not as a symbol. Not as a god. But as what Victor Crowe truly was:
A vile man hiding behind order.
A dictator who ruled without ever dirtying his hands.
A tyrant who would never hear the sound of a blade until it was already too late.
The feeling inside him had only one name.
Hatred.
But he had to move on.
As he turned to continue his search, a quiet click sounded.
At his hip—beside the weight of his guns—a compact transmitter vibrated softly against the armor. Old System hardware, stripped down and illegally tapped into the Global Order's logistics channels. Rebuilt to listen, not speak.
Static hissed.
Then a coded burst slipped through the noise.
A supply van departing its station.
Route confirmed.
Escort minimal.
Food. Medical crates. Close enough to matter.
He stopped.
And began calculating.