Zango, they call it. The slums. The place where dreams go to die. You could feel it in the air—stale, like the faintest whiff of corruption stuck to everything you touched. It wasn’t just the filth on the streets or the rotten food stalls on every corner. It was the way the people moved—sluggish, beaten down, desperate. But not me. Not Nasir.

I was different. I had to be. My old man taught me that.

I stared at the screen of my terminal, fingers moving fast across the ancient keyboard. The soft hum of the outdated system filled the small room, barely big enough for the cot I slept on and the desk cluttered with old hardware and cables. Outside, the shrill wail of an enforcement drone sliced through the night air, but it didn’t faze me. They could fly all they wanted. I’d learned to hide long ago. And they never came this far down anyway.

The code on my screen was old, but that didn’t matter. Solidity was solidity, even if the model I was working on was outdated by over a decade. I was tweaking a set of old contracts, experimenting with ways to get around the blockchain tolls. Zobocoin, the new global currency, wasn’t just a way to pay for things—it was the means by which MegaCorp controlled everything. To get access to the blockchain, to mine anything, to even exist in their world, you needed Zobocoin. And if you didn’t have it, you didn’t matter.

But I could get around it. I could feel it. I was close.

Then I heard the familiar creak of the door opening behind me, and I knew what was coming. I didn’t need to turn around to know it was him—my father, the man who’d always taught me that the system wasn’t worth trusting.

“You’re messing with that old code again, Nasir?” His voice wasn’t angry, but it carried the weight of years of disappointment. My father had long since given up on being just another cog in the machine. He had tried, like everyone else, to make things work. He’d tried to teach me, to make sure I didn’t make the same mistakes.

“I’m not messing with anything, old man. Just trying to make something work. It’s all about the code.”

“Don’t tell me what it’s all about. You know what happens if the authorities catch you messing around with code like that,” he said, stepping into my tiny room. I could feel the heat from his body as he crossed the threshold, the smell of his worn clothes and sweat mixing with the musty air.

I kept my eyes on the screen, letting my fingers dance across the keys. "I’m not afraid of them," I muttered.

My father sighed, a deep, tired sigh. "I know you’re not. But you should be. This is dangerous work, Nasir. Dangerous even for someone who knows what he’s doing." His voice softened. "You know why we’re here in Zango, don’t you?"

I stopped typing for a second, my fingers frozen on the keyboard. Of course, I knew why we were here. I knew the story as well as I knew my own name. My father had once been more than a man scraping by in the slums. He had been part of something much bigger—something powerful. He had been a part of the early revolution, the rise of Bitcoin and the dream of a decentralized world. But dreams had a funny way of dying when they collided with the reality of power.

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“You told me. Blockchain was supposed to free everyone. Decentralized, equal access for all. But the rich just took it, didn’t they?” My voice dripped with bitterness.

He placed a hand on my shoulder, his grip strong but tender. “They didn’t take it, Nasir. They bought it. They always knew it was going to be about power, not freedom. They saw it coming. The Netizens—those bastards who control the nodes—took over everything. They control the data, the flow of Zobocoin, the access to the blockchain. The revolution was hijacked, Nasir. It’s just the same game with a new name.”

“Then why didn’t you do something about it? Why didn’t you stop them?” The words slipped out before I could stop them. I wasn’t mad at my father—not really. But I was mad at the world, at the lies, at the way everything had gone wrong. My father was once a man of action, a man who believed in the dream. Why had he given up?

“Because I didn’t want you to end up like me,” he said quietly. “I didn’t want you to lose your life fighting a battle we can’t win.” He turned to leave, but paused at the door. "You’re a smart kid, Nasir. Too smart for your own good. But if you want to change anything, you have to understand one thing: the system’s too big. We can’t beat them. Not from here. Not from Zango."

I didn’t say anything. He was wrong, I thought. They didn’t control the world. They didn’t control me. I was going to find a way. I was going to bring them down, piece by piece.

I could feel the anger boiling in my chest. But I didn’t show it. I just returned to the terminal, my fingers flying across the keys, rewriting the old code.

Later That Night.

I was up for hours, tapping away at the terminal. It was almost dawn when I heard it.

The sirens.

They were louder than usual, sharper. They were close.

I didn’t know what was happening at first. The hairs on the back of my neck stood up, and my fingers froze. I listened harder. There was shouting outside, the unmistakable sound of the Netizen enforcers coming down the alley.

Then, a voice I recognized—my father’s.

"Nasir!" he shouted, fear cracking his voice.

I shot up from my seat, heart pounding. My father never sounded like that. I rushed to the door, but before I could open it, the sound of footsteps—too many, too fast—echoed in the hall.

Then the door slammed open, and they were there.

Two enforcers in black armor, their faces hidden behind mirrored visors, stepped into my room. One of them grabbed me by the arm and yanked me back.

“Where is he?” the enforcer barked. His voice was distorted through the helmet. “Where is your father?”

“Stop! Don’t hurt him—” I began, but my voice was swallowed by the rough hands that grabbed me and pushed me against the wall.

“He’s gone,” the enforcer said coldly. “And you’re next.”

I tried to struggle, but there was nothing I could do. I was just a kid, and they were the law. The enforcer held up a data pad. I could see the red warning flashing on it—something about illegal code, violations of MegaCorp’s terms.

My father had been compiling the codes. He was working against them, just like I’d suspected.

But it was too late now. My father’s face flashed in my mind—his tired eyes, the way his hands had trembled when he talked about the world. I felt a cold, bitter rage fill me.

And then the door slammed open again. I caught a glimpse of my father, hands cuffed, blood streaming from his forehead. He looked at me with wide eyes, but the words never came.

Before I could move, one of the enforcers raised a weapon and fired. My father’s body jerked violently, and then he collapsed.

I didn’t move. I couldn’t. It all happened too fast.

The enforcers dragged his body away like it was nothing, leaving me alone, numb, and empty.

The day my father died, the world changed. I swore right then and there that I’d bring down MegaCorp. I’d find a way. Whatever it took.

They took my father from me. Now, it was my turn to take everything from them.