They Erased My Name from History — Now I Burn Their World
Chapter Three: A Spark in the System
The virus spreads faster than I could have ever anticipated.
As I finally emerge from the labyrinthine access tunnels that snake beneath the city, my senses are assaulted by chaos. The skyline above is ablaze with sirens wailing their piercing cries, harmonizing eerily with the infernos that rage behind me, flames licking the sky like a fevered dream. Everywhere I look, screens pulse with frantic energy, flickering like strobe lights in a disorienting display — every towering structure, every bustling plaza, and every handheld device in the grasp of a panicked citizen now reverberates with my message.
"You tried to erase me. Now I erase you."
This is far more than simple data disruption.
It's a resurrection of identity itself.
Every name they thought they had obliterated is making a triumphant return. Every falsified record they meticulously crafted is now fraying at the edges, unraveling before their very eyes. The false idols they had propped up with carefully curated narratives are beginning to crumble — and from their digital graves, the real heroes arise once more. At the heart of this all, the Dominion's formidable network quakes in panic, thrashing like a beast ensnared within its own seductive coils.
They prided themselves on a level of control that they claimed was flawless.
But, in truth, it has always been nothing more than a fragile illusion.
And now?
Now it's splintering.
I stride onto the upper promenade of Sector V, a district of gleaming glass and chrome, where the polished walkways were designed for the elite — those who luxuriated in power without a moment's thought to the bloodstains beneath their immaculate boots. The expression on the faces of the people gathered here ranges from terror to disbelief. Some bolt in the opposite direction, consumed by panic. Others drop to their knees, surrendering wholly to fear. A few simply stand frozen, entranced by the unfolding chaos, their eyes glued to the shimmering screens above.
They don't yet grasp who I am.
But they will come to know me soon enough.
In that instant, a sudden shadow descends with force in front of me, landing gracefully on the polished walkway. Knees bent, feet planted. A dark cloak billows momentarily before settling, and a figure rises from the ground — tall, imposing, and clad in matte black armor that seems to absorb the light around it. His face is obscured behind a featureless helm, adorned with a silver sigil that begins to pulse with a menacing red hue.
It's a Dominion Ghosthunter.
An elite operative, trained for silence and lethal efficiency. Raised to eliminate threats like me — the ones who slipped through the cracks of their draconian regime and returned, louder than the agonizing silence they had imposed upon society.
"You're not on the map," his voice slices through the air, distorted yet cold, rendering an eerie sense of authority.
Neither are you, I want to retort, but I choose to keep my lips sealed, calculating my next move.
In a blur of motion, he draws twin plasma knives, their humming blades radiating an unmistakable danger. His posture is impeccable, honed through countless hours of training — surgical, with not a single wasted movement. It's clear he has been anticipating a confrontation like this for a long time.
Good.
In one seamless motion, I make the first advance.
What ensues is a flurry of velocity and desperation. Blade clashes against blade, sparks fly into the air like miniature stars caught in a cosmic battle. His strikes are pinpoint accurate — every blow calculated to subdue, to capture, not to kill. That is their critical error; they still operate under the illusion that they can take me alive.
But I ceased to be alive the moment they stripped my name from existence.
With a swift feint, I catch him off-guard and disarm him, driving my knee into his armored chest. The blow is dampened by the suit's defensive capabilities, yet the impact causes him to stagger momentarily. Seizing the opportunity, I twist behind him with the grace of a dancer and press my own blade firmly against the vulnerable skin at his throat.
"Do it," he hisses, his voice laced with disdain and defiance. "Finish it."
"No," I whisper back, my tone low but resolute. "You're going to deliver a message."
He snarls in response, contempt dripping from every syllable. "You really believe that anyone will pay attention to you? You believe one virus, one name, one ghost can mean anything to them?"
I lean in closer, our faces mere inches apart, my voice dropping to a steel edge. "I'm not a ghost. I'm the fire they buried beneath layers of concrete and falsehood."
With that, I plunge the neural disruptor deep into the base of his neck. Like a puppet with its strings cut, he collapses to the ground, lifeless and heavy.
His system will reboot in seven minutes — more than enough time for me.
I slip away into the swirling crowds that are now flooding the streets — confused, enraged, and, finally, awake. Some people appear petrified, frozen in disbelief, while others have their hands deftly reaching for concealed weapons they may never need. A few murmur the words they had just witnessed on the screens above.
"You tried to erase me…"
In the distance, the sky already burns.
And somewhere beyond that skyline, nestled in a penthouse exquisitely designed with white marble and fortified with walls of surveillance glass, a man stirs from his stupor like a predator sensing the shifting winds.
Mavros.
The very architect of the Dominion. The one responsible for orchestrating the erasure of my family, the man whose signature had once sealed the fate of countless innocents beneath extermination orders, only to sleep soundly and unburdened afterward.
As he gazes out at the conflagration blooming from the tower's peak, a grim stillness envelops him.
His aide turns sharply, panic etching lines of fear across his face. "Sir, the fire is spreading across all major sectors! We've attempted to disconnect the nodes, but something keeps reestablishing the connection—"
"It's her," Mavros declares, his voice calm, perhaps unsettlingly so. Too calm for a situation so dire. "The girl we erased."
"But sir, she's not in any records—"
"She is now," Mavros mutters, his gaze fixated on the flames with the reverence and trepidation of an ancient god witnessing a harbinger of prophecy. "And we taught her exactly how to burn us all."
To be continued...