Barely conscious, you could only watch as enforcers dragged you toward the heavy prisoner truck. Your vision blurred, pain pulsing through your head with every heartbeat. Struggling felt pointless—you’d seen too many of your peers hauled away just like this, never to return. You heard the beep as they scanned the chip in your wrist, confirming your identity before shoving you into the truck. Your hands were wrenched behind you, bound tight, and a metallic taste filled your mouth as you tried to clear your thoughts. The truck roared to life, its engine growling as it pulled you toward what the authorities called “rehabilitation.”

You managed to sit up, still dazed, when a deafening boom shook the truck. It rattled violently, then came to a jarring halt. Around you, others murmured nervously, exchanging uncertain glances. Outside, you could hear enforcers shouting orders, tense and panicked. Another blast shook the air, closer this time, followed by silence. Everyone inside held their breath, wide-eyed, dread building as you waited for the next sound.

Then came the screams—panicked, desperate cries, cut short by sharp bursts of gunfire. Outside, chaos erupted, each shot sending a fresh wave of fear through the cramped space. You barely had time to process it before the doors of the truck sparked, the locks sliced in half and pulled open. You flinched, jumping back at the sight of the man standing there. He was tall, imposing, his face hidden by a glossy black helmet, his coat flaring in the wind.

“Don’t scream,” he said calmly, his voice cutting through the tense air. He held his hands up in a reassuring gesture, addressing everyone in the truck. “My name is Callum. We’re the Rebellion. We’ve come to help you.”