Embers of Discontent

Aldren’s POV

Aldren slipped into his cramped office beneath the underground press, where the air smelled of recycled paper and cold coffee. His desk was cluttered with stacks of printouts—satirical columns, leaked memos, and hastily sketched cartoons mocking the Council. A single bulb swung overhead, casting shifting shadows that danced like unseen critics.

He powered up his aging desktop and waited for the files to load. The USB from Torian sat in its port, its icon blinking urgently. He double‑clicked the folder labeled “Unfiltered Truth” and watched as dozens of audio recordings and video clips populated the screen. He sighed, running a hand through his ink‑stained hair. Tonight’s task was to distill this chaos into a single explosive exposé—but first, he needed context.

Footsteps echoed in the hallway. Seraphine poked her head in, carrying a steaming mug. “Thought you might need this.”

Aldren accepted the coffee gratefully. “You’re a lifesaver.” He took a cautious sip, savoring the bitter warmth.

Seraphine closed the door behind her. “The council’s tightening the screws. Patrols increased in the southern districts. They found another flyer.”

Aldren’s eyes flicked to the screen. “Which one?”

She sank into the chair opposite him. “Same design as before—‘Truth Over Tyranny.’ This time it was plastered on a corporate billboard. They tore it down in hours, but someone filmed it.” She pulled out a data card and dropped it on his desk.

He plugged it in. A shaky handheld video played: Torian’s flyer pasted over the mayor’s smiling face, camera zooming in on the bold letters. A voiceover—a child’s voice—read each word with solemn clarity:

“Join the silent majority. Laughter is our weapon.”

Aldren paused the clip. “They’re recruiting kids now?”

Seraphine shrugged. “Desperate times.”

He leaned back, eyes narrowing. “Or brilliant.” He tapped the keyboard and opened his draft article. The headline flashed: “When Silence Speaks: How Humor Became the Last Line of Defense.”

He began typing, weaving together the footage, the leaked council recordings, and the rumors from the market. His fingers stuttered over the keys as he crafted sentences that stung like acid and burned like fire.

“In a city where every word is monitored, laughter is the unmonitored frequency. When the powerful tax our jokes and erase our names, the only resistance left is the one they can’t predict…”

He paused, rereading. The words felt hollow without a human face. He minimized the draft and opened a folder labeled “Personal Stories.”

Inside: a portrait of the retired clown from the bus, smiling through cracked makeup; a snapshot of Torian’s apartment door, coffee stains still visible; and a grainy image of Echo, the boy without a name, leaning against the warehouse beam.

He selected Echo’s photo. The boy’s eyes met his across the screen—fearful, defiant, alive. Aldren’s chest tightened.

He dragged the image into the article. Under it, he typed:

Echo: The Ghost Who Refuses to Stay Silent

The bell over the office door jingled. Aldren looked up. Torian and Liora stepped inside, faces set with determination.

“Ready to publish?” Liora asked.

Aldren met their eyes. “More than ever.”

He hit “Publish.”

The screen blinked: “Article Live.”

Outside, a distant cheer rose—faint, but unmistakable.

Aldren exhaled, heart pounding. The city would wake tomorrow to words they couldn’t ignore. And in the echoes of his article, a revolution would find its voice.