Chapter 415
Bella sat in the command room like a queen on a high throne.
Around her, twenty secretaries waited-each one a machine with a name and a job. Their eyes tracked every screen; their fingers hovered over keyboards.
They waited for Bella’s next order.
“The Los Angeles internet is down,” Bella said.
“Alfred ordered a blackout-no feeds, no leaks. He wants this city blind while he does what he’s doing p>
Outside the blackout, the military, police, and the truly connected elite still got updates through satellite links.
They weren’t going blind. Only the masses were.
“I want every line severed. Cut the city off from the world-land, cellular, and satellite. Six hours. Absolute blackout p>
She looked at two secretaries. “You two, make that happen p>
“Roger. We’ll link to the hackers and fire up the jammers-sweep starts now,” one replied immediate.
“Good.” Bella nodded and the two moved to the console, fingers already dialing, voices already routing contacts.
“Last week we set the special comms for our people and the rebel leaders,” Bella added.
“Keep that channel secure. We will move them to the target on my mark p>
“We’re linking with the rebels, Vermont’s elite soldiers, the homeless leaders, LA gangsters, and VIPs,” another five secretaries said as they slid into their stations and took over the logistics feed.
They were now responsible for every connection.
Bella began issuing orders-sharp and exact-directing thousands like a conductor bringing an orchestra to a single, brutal note.
Her commands were small, clean bullets: one instruction, then the next, no wasted breath.
The field answered in rhythm.
Up on a famous Los Angeles rooftop, a different kind of storm was unfolding.
LA’s rich and bored gathered to watch the city burn. They stood with champagne, smoke and light painting their faces.
“This is the best party ever,” one young adult shouted, voice thin with inherited arrogance, raising a glass.
“After this purge, Charles Kingston promised me fifty young women,” another slurred, grinning like a wolf. “Imagine what we can do with that many p>
“He promised me one hundred twenty strong people to play the life-and-death game,” someone else said, eyes glittering with excitement.
“We should stream the real squid game live. We could bet money while they bet their lives. Now that’s entertainment p>
“The Los Angeles governor’s the best,” a voice crowed, pride and cruelty braided together.
A harsh laugh cut the rooftop.
“He’s pure greed,” the man said, voice flat with contempt. “Came from poor Vancouver and now money’s his god-he’s lost both heart and head p>
“Promise him cash and power and he’ll become your lapdog,” another said, eyes cold. “I’ve heard he’d sell his only daughter for the price p>
“Perfect,” the first replied, a slow smile. “No conscience, no restraint. We can do whatever we want p>
Below, the city burned and clawed at the dark. Crowds shoved, screamed, fought, and killed—each one desperate to protect their own life.
Above, the parties still glittered. Champagne poured, music roared, and money kept the lights bright while the city below drowned in chaos.
“Our internet’s dead!” someone at the rooftop suddenly shouted, panic cracking through the laughter.
“What?” a man frowned. “But that old greedy Kingston promised the feeds for us would stay up p>
“The wifi are cut too,” another added.
“Forget it,” someone else barked, forcing a laugh that didn’t reach his eyes. “Keep the party-after tonight, Los Angeles will belong to us p>
A dozen people carrying semi-automatic weapons pushed through the revolving doors and stormed into the hotel lobby.
The receptionist and servants rushed forward, faces tight with a welcome they’d been waiting to offer.
A lean maid cut through the crowd without hesitation.
“I’ll lead you to the rooftop,” she said, low and steady.
The rebel leader nodded. Ten hotel security men, room boys, and kitchen hands fell in behind-shoulders squared, eyes hard.
“Give us arms,” they pleaded. “We’ll help you take them down. They started killing our people-now it’s time to pick a side p>
The rebels handed over the weapons. “Fear not. After tonight, Los Angeles will belong to the people p>
They filed into the elevator. The maid swiped her access card to the penthouse; the lift hummed upward. Her hands trembled.
“Please,” she whispered through tears.
“Kill them all. They’ve been molesting us for years. They get away with it because the Governor shields them. They’re bolder, meaner-time to end them p>
“Justice may be delayed, but never lost.” The rebel leader lifted his hand. “Let’s pray p>
Heads bowed. Even some men who didn’t believe in God nodded-because tonight there was no choice between faith and survival.
“True Source,” the leader breathed, voice low and raw, “in this hour of kill or be killed, we have no other path p>
“Bless what we must do. Let us punish the wicked and free this place. If we fall, welcome us home. If we prevail, let peace find us, our families, and everyone.” “Amen,” the crowd answered, a ragged chorus of hope and rage.
The elevator dinged and the doors slid open to the penthouse.
Twelve rebels and ten hotel staffs burst out at once, rifles up, faces set.
Then, with a roar, they pulled their triggers.
The gunfire thundered through the penthouse, bullets hunting for souls as hot shells clattered across the floor.
Men had become beasts, driven only by the need to survive.
The elite were still celebrating, drunk on light and power.
They laughed at the flames, at the screams, at the moans, at the distant crack of gunfire—sure that money wrapped them in armor, sure they were untouchable.
Then the first shots ripped through the penthouse, cutting the air in half.
Laughter died in an instant, replaced by shrieking panic that echoed the chaos on the streets below. Rich or pool every face looked the same when fear and death came calling s
Bullets seared the night, shredding silk and flesh alike. Men fell mid-toast, beer spilling from their mouths and mixing with blood on the marble.
Women screamed, clawing at the wounds, smearing their jewelry red.
They forgot the truth-they weren’t invisible either. The poor had broken through, and now the rich stood face-to-face with the very people they had once crushed.
The rain of lead did its work-tearing flesh, snapping bones, claiming life after life without pause.
Private bodyguards answered, guns flaring.
The rooftop became a furnace of smoke and blood. Some rebels dropped under return fire.
A hotel staffer went down fighting, bullets tearing into him as he stood his ground.
As he fell, his life spilled out in fragments.
All he’d ever wanted was honest work-something he could do with his heart, something to put food on the table for his wife and children, something that would let him grow old watching his son and daughter grow taller. s
He had done no harm, yet he was marked because he was poor. His body hit the
floor with a heavy sound.
“Forgive me, child,” he whispered.
Nearby an elite tried to run. A bullet caught him in the back. He collapsed, his face landing inches from a hotel staffer’s face.
Tears streaked his cheeks as he gasped, “Mom, father, I just wanted to be happy p>
It was the cruel irony of the world-everyone searching for a little happiness, everyone spilling blood instead of finding it.
The rich and the poor died on the same floor, eyes searching for some last
meaning in the blur of life and death.
Bodies tumbled like broken dolls until the final shots faded.
More lay dead than alive.
If this life wasn’t wrong, it sure wasn’t right either.
The same scenes played out in hotels across the city-servants and porters and
poor guests joining uprisings, penthouses turning into slaughterhouses.
Where the rich had expected paradise, they found a verdict written in bullets.
The rebel leader knelt in the blood, eyes fixed on the sky.
“True Source, I only wanted to
protect my two children. But to do that ve killed hundreds each one a
chita to someone else, each with parents who will grieve forever.” s
“I’ve taken their sons and daughters in the name of saving my own p>
Tears streamed down his face.
“Ashes, ashes-all fall down p>