Official War, Real Wounds

The sky above Zone 6.2 was dark.

Not because of the night.

But because of the smoke.

The Faction Adjustment Unit arrived before dawn.

Armed to the teeth.

Helmets covered in enchantments.

Weapons that could cut off resonance with a single shot.

They did not come to kill.

But Reed had said:

"If you come with weapons to plant a direction,

then you have chosen your form of war."

And the world responded.

The first barricade was built from dining tables, broken doors, and leftover roof tiles.

It was completely ineffective.

But it remained.

And as the Faction team crossed it,

the first bullets came out—from the hands of their own citizens.

Not from the army.

Not from Adrasteia.

An old man fired from a second-story window.

His left shoulder was instantly sliced ​​open.

But he fired again.

And again.

As his body fell,