The first offer came wrapped in velvet words.
A woman in a crisp gray suit appeared at the clinic door just after sunset. She wore no insignia, no weapon visible—just a thin earpiece and the kind of smile that had been practiced in a mirror for years.
"Kirion Vale," she said, voice smooth as glass. "I represent a division of National Wellness and Integration."
He didn't invite her in.
Didn't need to.
He could smell government on her breath—sterile, rehearsed, and poisonous.
"We've monitored your independent activities," she continued. "Your medical skills. Your growing influence. We'd like to offer a contract."
Kirion leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, unreadable.
She pulled a data slate from her case. Displayed numbers—credits, resources, facility access. A digital ID pre-registered with benefits. And then, what they thought would tip him: a Class-3 citizen's allowance for his daughter.
"All we ask," she said gently, "is that you join our Public Health Unity Taskforce. Help us stabilize unrest. Heal the nation."
He stared at her for a long moment.
Then asked, "And who do I heal first? The child you just tear-gassed, or the mother you evicted for having an unapproved birth?"
She faltered. Just for a breath.
He closed the door in her face.
The next offer came with less charm.
A box, unmarked, appeared on his safehouse steps two nights later. Inside: top-tier medical supplies—things he hadn't seen since his hospital residency. A note lay on top:
> "Accept the future, Dr. Vale. Or be buried by the past."
He burned the box.
But it didn't stop.
A drone dropped encrypted files offering clemency. A former classmate working for the Ministry reached out, claiming he could "make things easy." A field officer even tried the guilt angle—framing cooperation as the best way to ensure his daughter's safety.
Kirion didn't waver.
Not once.
Because he understood the core of their offers wasn't opportunity—it was control.
And he'd been controlled enough for one lifetime.
One night, after patching up a wounded courier from the underground, he sat beside his daughter's crib and watched her sleep.
"I was offered comfort today," he whispered. "In exchange for complicity."
She stirred, brow twitching in her dreams.
"I said no."
He smiled softly, brushing a finger across her tiny hand.
"And I'll keep saying no. Because I'm not raising you in a cage—even if they promise it's gold."
Outside, the city pulsed with tension. Protests sparked and fizzled. Sirens howled. Hope clung to shadows.
Inside, a father chose defiance.
And that was more powerful than any offer on paper.