They didn't come with suits or silk promises.
The opposition came in worn boots and cracked knuckles, their eyes hard from too many losses, too many compromises. Where the government offered comfort, they offered purpose. Raw. Righteous. Unforgiving.
They found Kirion in a broken-down clinic nestled behind the ruins of an old data center. He was mid-suture, saving a teenager with a shrapnel wound, when they entered. No questions. No introduction.
Just a symbol carved into a medallion: a raised fist over shattered circuitry.
"You're Kirion Vale," one of them said, the words less a question than a certainty.
Kirion nodded once. Finished the suture.
The leader—tall, scar over one eye, old resistance ink on his forearm—stepped forward.
"You've got hands we need. And a mind that's wasted in hiding."
Kirion wiped his gloves. "I'm not hiding. I'm protecting."
"Same thing, sometimes. But there's a war coming. And we don't have the luxury of neutrality."
They laid out their offer:
Freedom to choose missions. Access to safe zones. Resources for his daughter. Protection by numbers. They respected his autonomy, even admired his refusal to take the government's bait.
"You'd be fighting with us," the scarred one said. "But not for us. There's a difference."
And that made Kirion hesitate.
Just a moment.
Because it wasn't the power they offered—it was the validation.
The idea that he could strike back and not be alone.
He spent the night walking the rooftops of the sector, watching smoke drift from a burned ration truck. Below, two factions clashed in the streets—chaos bred from corruption.
He thought about how easy it would be to pick a side. To let vengeance guide him. To finally do something big.
But when he returned to his safehouse and saw his daughter sleeping—cheek pressed against the stuffed animal he'd patched with surgical tape—he remembered his reason.
Not rage.
Not revenge.
Just her.
The next day, he met the resistance scouts again. Looked them in the eyes.
"I appreciate the offer," he said. "But I'm not fighting someone else's war. I'm building something better for her."
He nodded toward the child on his hip.
They were silent for a long moment.
Then the leader nodded. "Fair. When you're ready, the door's not locked."
Kirion watched them disappear into the alleys.
He wasn't ready to join a revolution.
But he wasn't running either.
He was choosing his fight.
And that made all the difference.