The days that followed the protest were a blur for Elias. Though the factory had momentarily stalled, it soon resumed its relentless march. The machines turned on, indifferent to the hopes of the workers. The gates, once symbols of defiance, now stood silent.

Elias kept his distance from the others, unwilling to allow his actions to define him. The protest had been but a fleeting moment, a spark quickly extinguished by the cold reality of the factory’s unyielding power. He had hoped for change, but now, he understood the truth: the factory would never bend. It was a force too great to be challenged by a mere handful of men.

Each day, Elias returned to the factory floor, his hands moving with the mindless precision of the machines around him. His thoughts were consumed by the growing emptiness inside. The machines were no longer mere tools of labour; they had become reminders of his own failure. No matter how fast he worked, no matter how hard he pushed himself, he could not escape the truth: he was naught but a cog in the machine.

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And yet, there was something deeper than regret gnawing at him. It was a sense of betrayal—not by the factory, but by himself. He had once believed that he was different—that his work was his own, a reflection of his skill and pride. Now, that belief seemed foolish. The factory had taken everything, and in return, had offered nothing but emptiness.

He had thought that by standing with the workers, by striking a blow against the machines, he could change something. But now, as he stood in the same factory, day after day, he realised that nothing would ever be the same again.

The silence of his own rebellion echoed louder than the machines ever could.