The streets were empty.

The deserted roads stretched like a vast, dark mirror, reflecting nothing but the void of the night. The neon lights shimmered on the wet pavement, their distorted reflections stretching and twisting, as if the city itself were taking shallow, uneven breaths.

The telescreens cast a cold, bluish glow into the darkness, hovering like unblinking, omnipresent eyes. On their flickering screens, the same message repeated endlessly:

"Silence is justice, loyalty is freedom, obedience is happiness."

The letters warped in the dim light, exuding a sense of invisible pressure—an unspoken decree. Curfew had begun.

In Oceania, the law was absolute: anyone found on the streets after 22:00 was a potential disruptor. They could be arrested on sight. Or executed.

The air carried the sterile stench of disinfectant and cold metal. Surveillance cameras rotated with measured precision, sweeping every corner of the city. Patrol drones glided through the night, their dark silhouettes shifting under the artificial glow. In the distance, loudspeakers continued their monotonous recitation of the Party’s decrees, their droning voices echoing like whispers from the depths of hell.

The atmosphere was suffocating, as if an invisible hand had wrapped around the throat of the world.

Elijah Raymond sat at his desk in the Enforcement Bureau, flipping through a newly assigned case file. His uniform was immaculate, his posture straight, and his steel-gray badge bore the insignia of Ingsoc—a clenched iron fist encircling the world. The document contained details of a subversive suspect, complete with several grainy surveillance images.

He stared at the photographs, yet a dangerous thought crept into his mind—was this the original version of the file?

The moment the thought surfaced, he crushed it.

His breath remained steady as he forced himself to suppress the impulse. Do not doubt. Do not question. His fingers instinctively brushed the metal badge on his chest.

Rumors claimed the badge did more than just track locations—it monitored thoughts.

He would never dare test that theory.

From the telescreen mounted on the wall, the Party’s latest propaganda played. A smiling worker stood proudly against the backdrop of a factory, with a slogan beside him:

"Loyalty is freedom. Obedience is happiness. Ingsoc is eternal. Traitors vanish."

The rhythmic clatter of keyboards filled the office. Each investigator worked with calculated precision, their fingers tapping in a synchronized display of productivity—not out of dedication, but as a performance of loyalty.

Elijah’s gaze drifted across the room, stopping at his partner—David.

David was a brute, towering and broad-shouldered, his uniform straining against his massive frame. He cared little for investigations. He preferred his greatsword over words. It hung across his back, longer than most men’s legs.

David glanced up, flashing a yellowed grin. “You’ve been staring at that file for a while, Raymond. Don’t tell me you’re overthinking things.”

The story has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

Elijah shut the folder casually. “Just verifying the details.”

David scoffed, propping his feet onto his desk. He picked up another report, skimmed a few lines, and tossed it aside. "Details don’t matter. In the end, everything’s settled with fists."

A voice crackled through their earpieces:

“DI Raymond, incident reported in D-142 district.”

David’s smirk faded into a look of indifference. “Looks like we’re up.”

Elijah stood, draping his coat over his shoulders as he strode toward the garage. The patrol vehicle’s doors slid open at his approach.

A mechanical voice confirmed their mission:

“Destination: D-142. Estimated arrival: 6 minutes, 12 seconds.”

The night air howled outside. The neon billboards cast warped reflections onto the rain-slick streets, their crimson glow pooling in puddles before rippling away beneath the tires. Far ahead, the telescreens flashed with their looping slogan:

"Loyalty is freedom."

The light pulsed like a massive, unblinking eye, watching, waiting.

Elijah tapped his fingers against the armrest, unease curling in his chest.

A faint metallic scent lingered in the air—disinfectant masking something else. The street cameras rotated methodically, tracking every pedestrian. Their faces were obscured by the dim glow, but Elijah could sense their rigid, hollow movements.

Even in his own district, the unease gnawed at him.

D-142 was his home.

Tonight, it felt foreign. Cold. Hostile.

When they arrived, the streets had already been sealed off. The Thought Police stood in an unbroken formation, their black uniforms blending into the night. The harsh white glow of telescreens reflected off the pavement, casting eerie halos on the blood-streaked ground.

The silence was unnatural.

Then, Elijah heard it.

A faint, ragged moan.

His hand instinctively went to his sidearm.

The sound was coming from the church.

He moved swiftly through the darkness, stepping past the grand archways into the sanctuary. By the baptismal font, a figure lay motionless.

Albert, the priest.

A pool of darkened blood spread beneath him, soaking into his robes. His chest bore a puncture wound—a clean, precise kill. His frail fingers trembled, still clutching a paper bag. Its contents—a bottle of milk and a few loaves of bread—had spilled across the marble floor.

A simple meal. Now, a silent requiem.

The candlelight flickered against the blood-stained water of the baptismal font, sending crimson ripples across the surface.

His lips quivered, whispering words barely audible.

“Amazing grace… how sweet the sound…”

His breath was shallow. His gaze unfocused. But there was something in his fading eyes—as if he saw something beyond this world.

His voice cracked, slipping between reality and delirium.

“They… build fortresses from lies…”

Elijah leaned closer, straining to hear more.

Then, the back door creaked open.

The DCI stepped in, his calculating eyes scanning the scene.

“Is he still alive?”

Elijah hesitated. “Barely.”

A heavy pause.

Then came the sound of boots.

David was here.

Elijah’s grip tightened.

David didn’t leave survivors.

The priest twitched. His fingers, slick with blood, moved with surprising speed. Before Elijah could react, a small scrap of paper was shoved into his sock.

No one noticed.

His heartbeat thundered in his ears, but his face remained stone-cold.

"Dispose of the body."

The order was given.

The body was hauled into a featureless black van. The doors slammed shut. The engine roared.

And just like that—he ceased to exist.

That night, Elijah locked his door the moment he stepped into his apartment.

His breath hitched. His hands trembled as he reached down, pulling off his boot.

From his sock, he retrieved the priest’s final gift.

A small, bloodstained scrap of paper.

There were only a few words:

“Society must accept the Rainmen.”

His stomach twisted.

But what shook him more was the photograph tucked beside it.

A golden-haired priest, dressed in ceremonial robes, smiling beside a bald, well-dressed official. Their hands clasped in an unshakable grip.

And beneath the image, a name:

Thomas.

His grandfather.

Elijah’s breath turned shallow. His father had forbidden him from ever mentioning that name.

His fingers tightened.

He had just stepped onto a road with no way back.