The shift didn't happen because of some new law or a sudden surge in patrols. It was the city's voice that changed. When the morning bells rang, they hit different—shorter, more jagged, like a drill sergeant's whistle instead of a clock. In the main squares, the big screens that usually droned on about factory output and national holidays had gone dead, replaced by a single, unblinking image.
It was just a silhouette. A dark, featureless shape standing in the ruins of the old temple.
Aren watched it from the shadows of a stone porch. He didn't need some high-tech analysis to tell him what was going on. The administration had realized they couldn't fix their own mess, so they'd decided to invent a ghost to blame for it.
"They don't want a suspect," Aren muttered to himself, his voice swallowed by the morning traffic. "They just want an excuse."
The propaganda was surgical. There wasn't a word about the supply lines rotting or the fact that the checkpoints were a total disaster. Instead, they talked about "interference." They whispered about a "corruptive influence" that had worked its way into the streets—a phantom responsible for every late shipment and every headache the city had suffered for days.
It was a gift to the public: someone to hate.
Moving through the crowd, Aren could feel the vibe turning sour. Yesterday, people were pissed at the guards; today, they were eyeing their neighbors. Suspicion was thick enough to choke on. People weren't just following orders anymore—they were obsessed with them, desperate to prove they weren't the ones causing the "Static."
At a transit gate, a woman snapped at a man for fumbling with his ID. He didn't even snap back. He just went white, looking over his shoulder to see if any guards had seen him "hesitating."
The whole system had stopped being about rules and started being about survival.
Aren headed for the lower districts, where the air smelled of wet paper and burnt coffee. He wanted to see how the pencil-pushers were taking the news. He spotted a group of low-level clerks huddled by a trash chute, talking in frantic whispers.
"They're calling it 'The Static,'" one of them said, white-knuckling a stack of red-stamped files. "New rule: you cause a delay, you get flagged for 're-calibration.' They're not even checking the math anymore. If the line stops, someone's going to the pits."
"But the math is the problem!" another one hissed, his hands shaking. "The orders from the top don't even make sense!"
"Doesn't matter. Pick a name. Put it in the report. Just make sure it isn't yours."
A cold, sharp ringing went off in Aren's head. The truth was officially dead. The system had turned into an animal that would chew off its own legs just to keep standing.
He made it back to the safehouse with his chest tight. When he slipped through the door, Lyra was already there, hunched over the table. She was smoothing out a copy of the morning's decree, her fingers trembling.
"They're calling you the 'Architect of the Static,'" she said, her voice sounding flat, hollow.
Aren took off his coat and folded it. His limbs felt like lead. "It's a smart name. Makes the chaos look like a plan. Makes their fuck-ups look like a defense."
Lyra looked up, her eyes bright with a frantic kind of fear. "They put a price on that silhouette. It's not much yet, but it's enough to turn the city into a hunting ground. They don't even have to find you. They just have to find someone who fits the story."
Aren sat down, his mind tracing the long, dark road ahead. The city wasn't a maze of brick and mortar anymore; it was a maze of lies. Staying invisible wasn't going to be enough. He had to become exactly what they were afraid of, but on his own terms.
"They want a villain," he said, his voice dropping into a low, steady rhythm. "Fine. We'll give them one. But not the one they've rehearsed for."
Lyra leaned in. "What are you thinking?"
"They think I'm the reason things are grinding to a halt," he said, staring at the maps pinned to the wall. "Tomorrow, I'm going to show them what happens when the friction actually stops. I'm going to give them exactly what they asked for: a perfect, silent day."
He looked at her, his gaze hardening. "And when the system still breaks—because it's already rotten at the core—there'll be nobody left to blame but the people holding the leash."
The silence that followed was heavy. The time for hiding was over. The real sabotage was just beginning.