Once, she was just a simple citizen, nameless, law-abiding, and hardworking. She had believed in the system. That hard work pays off, that good people are seen. But the truth was different: She had exhausted herself, smiled, nodded, stifled her voice, and cut her dreams to prop up the dreams of others. And what was left for her? Debt. Exhaustion. Loneliness. And a society only interested in her last drop of function.

She fell far. First internally. Then externally. Now she lives in the slums, among crumbling concrete, rusted steel, and others spat out by the system.

But she has begun to change. Her anger, once silent, has become a weapon. Her voice, once stifled, is now heard. In the whispers of those who follow her. In the shadows of the cities, beneath the glossy politics, her name grows. Not a full name. Not yet. Just a call.

She no longer does what she's told. She no longer helps to be seen. She takes back what was taken from her, piece by piece.

She stands on a rooftop in the slums, the sirens of the upper city wail in the distance. The rain patters on her shoulders. In her hand is not an umbrella, but a burning letter from the Ministry. Her eyes glow in the dark light of rebellion.

And she thinks to herself "I was your foundation. Now I will be your downfall."