He stood at the podium beneath synthetic gold light. Cameras flashed. His voice rang with borrowed conviction—ideals stolen from papers you'd written, fights you'd fought, truths you'd bled for.
You watched from the second balcony. Uninvited. Unnoticed. But no longer silent.
He was charming. Elegant. The kind of politician people rallied around because they hadn't learned to read between lines. He said words like equity. Justice. Innovation. But they sounded hollow now. Like copper coins dropped into a wishing well that had stopped granting miracles.
Then he said your old name.
Not with reverence.
With performance.
"I wouldn't be here if it weren't for…"—and there it was. That twisting cruelty. As if your betrayal had been your gift.
You left before the applause.
Outside, the city was colder.
That night, your network moved. A false leak. A policy shift suggestion. An anonymous fund routed to an institution he once discredited. You planted seeds beneath his throne—just enough chaos to make him flinch tomorrow.
But you weren't done.
In your apartment, the devil whispered again.
"He sleeps soundly tonight. Shall I show you how dreams betray the dreamer?"
You said nothing. But your hand moved to the page, ink spilling truths disguised as riddles. You were building something. A reckoning. Not just for him—but for everyone who clapped when you fell.