Embers of Discontent

The city hummed under a thick layer of twilight, its skyline a jagged row of teeth biting into the smog-heavy sky. Torian stood alone in the narrow stairwell of an aging apartment block, the USB drive heavy in his pocket like a ticking clock. Above him, someone was arguing through a wall. Below, a radio crackled through static, the broadcaster’s voice garbled—intentionally, maybe.

He waited.

Aldren was late.

Torian had never met him—only heard the name whispered by the woman in the alley like it was half-prayer, half-inside joke. He’ll know what to do, she’d said. Torian wasn’t sure if she meant the USB or everything.

A shadow moved beyond the door. Then a soft knock. Three taps, then one.

Torian opened it.

The man who stepped inside looked nothing like the sharp-tongued satirist plastered across illicit zines in the city’s undercurrent. Aldren wore a stained hoodie, smelled faintly of ink and burnt toast, and carried a duffel bag that jangled with mismatched metal. His eyes flicked over Torian like he was scanning headlines.

“You don’t look like a liar,” Aldren said.

“You don’t look like a hero,” Torian replied before thinking.

Aldren grinned. “Good. We’ll probably get along, then.”

The door closed behind them, locking out the world’s noise for a moment. Torian pulled the USB from his pocket and held it out, palm open.

Aldren didn’t take it.

“Do you know what’s on it?” he asked instead, voice lower now.

Torian shook his head. “Only that it’s proof. Of something important.”

“Important,” Aldren repeated, as if trying the word on for size. He finally took the drive and turned it over in his fingers. “This—if real—shows classified internal planning meetings. Council officials joking about how many citizens they can misplace without press coverage. Supposedly leaked by someone on the inside.”

Torian blinked. “You already knew?”

“I hoped,” Aldren corrected. “But hope’s cheap. Verification isn’t.”

He moved to a cluttered desk in the corner, waking a dented laptop with a slap of the spacebar. The screen flickered to life, casting faint blue light over his lined face. As he slotted in the USB, Torian leaned in, unsure what he was expecting—screaming, alarms, a secret code that unlocked the truth.

But what came first was laughter.

A file opened. A recording—grainy video. Four men in suits around a polished conference table. Their voices were clear, their laughter unfiltered.

“…and if anyone leaks this—”
One of them snorted.
“—they won’t have time to. We’ll just ‘reassign’ them to the Northern Sector. Nobody questions what doesn’t come back.”

More laughter. One mimed a stamp, the word Compliant whispered as a joke. Another raised a glass of mineral water in a mock toast.

Torian felt bile rise in his throat.

Aldren paused the video and looked at him. “Now do you see why they fear laughter? It’s the only thing left they can’t control. The only sound that echoes up instead of down.”

Torian nodded slowly. His hands curled into fists.

“So,” Aldren said, dragging the file into a secured folder. “What do you want to do with this?”

“I want to help.”
“You already are.”
“No—I mean really. Not just pass a file and hide.”

Aldren studied him for a beat too long. Then, with a strange smile, he said, “Okay. Come back tomorrow night. Bring no one. Leave your fear at the door.”

Torian exhaled. “What’s happening tomorrow?”

Aldren stood, stretching like a man preparing for a performance.

“We air it.”

The city outside buzzed, unaware that a single video file might crack its foundations. Inside the dim apartment, the fuse was officially lit.