Screams tore through the air like sirens.
People ran in every direction—some barefoot, some bleeding, all terrified. The sky, once blue, now burned with smoke and flame. Gunshots cracked in the background, sharp and merciless like the slap of war.
A mother clutched her child as she stumbled over broken glass. An old man dragged a bloodied leg across the dirt road. Shops exploded. Homes collapsed. And in the heart of it all, chaos ruled.
Another gunshot. Then another.
"They're shooting at civilians!"
A voice shouted through the smoke—raw, angry, unafraid. It echoed louder than the bullets.
From atop a half-burnt van, a figure rose. Black hoodie. Black glasses. Fist clenched high.
Very Dark Man.
Phones pointed at him from all angles. A livestream was already climbing to hundreds of thousands of viewers.
"This is what they do to us. They burn our homes. They shoot our brothers. And then they go on TV and call us animals," he shouted, megaphone in hand. "But WE are the people. We are the fire they can't put out."
Behind him, a flag—charred and torn—blew in the wind. Not the national flag. A handmade one, soaked in red, black, and pain.
The air was thick with smoke and tension.
Suddenly, a military truck tore around the corner. Soldiers jumped out with guns raised. No warning. No mercy.
"Everyone run!" someone screamed.
But VDM didn't move.
He stared at the soldiers, defiant.
He knew the cameras were rolling.
He knew the whole world was watching.
"Shoot me, and make me a martyr," he said under his breath, more to himself than to them.
The soldiers hesitated. Only for a second.
But that second was enough. Enough for his words to flood social media. Enough for his name to trend worldwide. Enough for history to start rewriting itself.
And in that moment, as buildings crumbled and screams echoed across the city…
A revolution was born.
The sun had barely risen, but the streets were already painted in ashes.
A smoky silence hung over the city, broken only by the distant hum of drones and the buzz of phone notifications. Overnight, clips of Very Dark Man standing before armed soldiers had gone viral. #VDM was trending across Twitter, Instagram, TikTok—even news channels that used to ignore the protests were now calling him a "symbol of hope" and "the voice of a generation."
But inside a dim, one-room apartment, VDM sat quietly.
No hoodie. No crowd. No cameras. Just a man, tired and alone.
He stared at his cracked phone screen, watching himself on loop.
"Shoot me, and make me a martyr."
He didn't feel powerful. He didn't feel heroic.
He felt… hollow.
The truth was, he almost ran.
But if he had, the revolution might've died right there in the smoke.
A knock at the door.
"It's me," came a voice—Tayo, his tech guy. The brain behind the livestreams and viral edits.
VDM opened the door. Tayo entered, laptop in one hand, blood on his sleeve.
"They took Halima," he said grimly. "She was live when they stormed the protest base. They smashed everything."
VDM clenched his fists. Another friend lost. Another voice silenced.
"They're trying to cut the head off the movement," Tayo said.
"But it's too late. You've already become the spark."
VDM sat back down, silent.
He didn't want to be a spark. He wanted to be free.
But now, he was both leader and target.
On the wall beside him, a map of the city was covered in pins, strings, and notes.
His next move wasn't just a protest.
It was war.
A war of truth.
A war of influence.
A war for the soul of a nation.
And in that war, betrayal could come from anywhere.