Assassination of The Left-Wing Phoenix

The city woke before dawn, not to sunlight, but to sirens.

Low sirens at first, distant, like the whine of a wounded animal. Then more. Then dozens. Then the collective thrum of unrest vibrating through Westbrook's capital as if the entire city had swallowed a cry it could no longer keep down.

By morning every screen in every café, teahouse, transit station, nightclub, and hospital flashed the same headline:

DASHANAN, THE LEFT-WING PHOENIX, ASSASSINATED AT CLOSE RANGE.

The words were simple.

But they carried the weight of a nation built on fracture.

In the alley next to Parliament soaked with blue flashes of police beacons and burnt smell in the air, Nadya fixed her gaze on the camera lens. She had done this a hundred times, but today her body felt wrong. Too tight. Too aware of the world trembling outside these walls.

She inhaled.

The microphone came alive.

"Breaking news," she said, voice steady but hiding a tremor deep within. "The nation remains in shock following the assassination of political activist Dashanan. He was shot two days ago at a public rally. Despite medical intervention at New Fort Hospital, Dashanan succumbed to his injuries. His body is now under strict security while the government prepares an official statement."

Her throat tightened, but she held the weight of professionalism like a shield.

"Riots have erupted across multiple districts. The government has called an emergency parliamentary session. Tension remains dangerously high across the capital."

Her cameraman, Nick, adjusted the focus with nervous hands.

"Nadya," he muttered, eyes darting toward the window. "It is getting bad out there."

She placed her cigarette between her lips and lit it in a swift practiced motion. The parliament surrounding allowed no smoking, but today no one dared correct her.

"I know," she said softly. "That is why we must be even closer to the place."

"Close to which place exactly."

"Parliament, where history is burning."

She stood, grabbed her press badge, clipped it to her shirt, and headed to the entrance parliament.

Nick followed reluctantly.

He respected her courage.

He hated her courage.

THE STREETS

By the time they reached Parliament Avenue, the whole area looked like a pressure cooker ready to burst.

Hundreds filled the parliament square at the entrance.

Young. Old. Ashen. Valan. Merfolk.

Not divided. Not today.

Grief had fused them into one organism, throbbing with fury.

Posters of Dashanan were held high above heads. Some bore his portrait crowned with laurels, others with his slogan:

Fire purifies only when truth feeds the flame.

Chants echoed between buildings.

"Justice for Dashanan."

"Down with the regime."

"End the lies."

Police in riot gear formed an unyielding wall, shields interlocked, batons ready. Their visors reflected the crowd like shards of broken mirror.

Nadya pushed closer.

Nick held the camera high.

"Stay near me," he urged. "Please."

He knew she would not.

The air reeked of sweat, tear gas residue from earlier clashes, and the metallic scent of rising danger.

"Nick," Nadya said, "if this turns violent, run."

"And leave you here alone."

"Yes."

"Not happening," he muttered.

But panic had a way of forcing decisions faster than loyalty could sustain them.

THE DETONATION

It happened without warning.

A thunderous boom ripped the air open.

Windows shattered.

People screamed.

The shockwave threw Nadya backward, slamming her into a parked car. Her ears rang violently, until the world collapsed into muffled chaos.

Smoke surged upward.

Bits of brick and metal rained down.

A billboard collapsed into the street, triggering new waves of panic.

Nadya tasted dust.

Then blood.

Her vision swam as figures blurred around her.

Police shouted orders no one could hear.

Protesters ran in every direction, desperate for escape.

Nick grabbed her arm. "Move. Move now."

Gunshots followed, crisp and merciless, cutting through the screams like a serrated blade.

Nadya's heart lurched. "S**t. They opened fire."

"On civilians?" Nick gasped.

"No one controls anything anymore," Nadya said, pulling him with her as they ducked behind a toppled cart.

They crouched, lungs burning, adrenaline flooding every limb.

"What was that explosion," Nick asked.

"A warning," she said. "Or a message."

A message from whom.

She did not know.

That was what terrified her.

ESCAPE

They dashed down a narrow alley, stepping over scattered placards and glass shards. Cats hissed and scrambled into gutters. Smoke behind them rose, darkening the sky.

Nadya pressed her palm to a wall to steady herself.

Her hands were shaking.

Not from fear.

From fury.

"Nick," she said, breath ragged. "Remember this moment. They will rewrite it. They will bury it. But we saw it."

Nick stared at her, chest heaving.

"You are bleeding."

She wiped her lip. "That is the least of our problems."

They moved again, deeper into the alleyways.

A QUESTION THAT CUT TOO DEEP

Once the noise faded enough for conversation, Nick exhaled sharply.

"Are you hesitating," he asked suddenly, "because you are Merfolk. Because you do not want to blame your own people for this."

Nadya froze.

Her eyes snapped to his, sharp as a blade.

"I rejected every privilege that came with that identity," she said. "I built my career without the Merfolk handouts. I owe nothing to a government that weaponized my race to suppress others. Do not reduce me to my blood."

Nick swallowed.

"Sorry. It is just... today is madness."

"Today is truth," Nadya said. "And truth is always madness."

***********************************************************************************************

PARLIAMENT

Inside the grand chamber, the atmosphere felt suffocating.

Prime Minister Isaac Rafe stood before the ministers, face tight, suit immaculate, voice engineered to sound fatherly and composed.

"Ladies and gentlemen," he began, "Dashanan's death, tragic as it is, has created a national vulnerability. Riots threaten to destabilize the capital. We must make difficult decisions."

Defense Minister Alvaro leaned forward.

"Cremate the body quickly. A burial becomes a shrine. We cannot afford martyrdom."

Opposition leader Riz Wendigo rose slowly. His presence filled the chamber like a gathering storm.

"What you call martyrdom," Riz said, voice low and dangerous, "the people call justice. You want to erase him, not honor him."

The two men locked eyes.

Riz continued. "Dashanan spoke for the poor, the workers, the forgotten. You want to burn him before the nation can say goodbye."

"His presence is inciting violence," the PM retorted.

"No," Riz said, "your policies are inciting violence. His death only revealed the truth you kept hidden."

Voices on both sides escalated.

Tables were struck.

Papers slammed.

Accusations cut the air like blades.

But numbers won.

The ruling coalition imposed:

A seven day lockdown.

State controlled cremation.

No public procession.

No independent autopsy.

Dashanan's life, turned into ash.

His narrative, confiscated.

A SECRET THAT SLIPPED THROUGH THEIR FINGERS

As the ministers began leaving, Defense Minister Alvaro stopped the Prime Minister.

"We have a problem."

Rafe's patience thinned. "What now."

"The classified documents of Dashanan. We cannot find it."

Rafe's eyes went cold.

"You lost it."

"We searched his home. His office. Interrogated his close circle. Nothing. We believe someone took it."

Rafe leaned in, voice dropping.

"If that document leaks, we are finished. Not just politically. Historically. Find it or start digging our graves."

He walked away.

Alvaro's hands trembled.

THE MESSAGE

Back in the battered streets, Nadya checked her phone. It buzzed with notifications.

A video tribute.

A montage of Dashanan from childhood to global influence.

Crowds crying.

Crowds vowing revenge.

Nick scoffed. "People worship him like a saint."

Nadya ignored him.

Instinct told her the world was shifting.

And she was standing in the epicenter.

Then her phone vibrated again.

One voice message.

Unknown number.

She pressed play.

A woman whispered, frantic, breathing hard.

"I do not know who to trust. I am sending some stuffs related to Dashanan to your home. He said the truth must be revealed. Please... protect it. They are coming for me. I do not have much time. May God help you."

The message ended abruptly.

Nadya's stomach dropped.

Nick's eyes widened. "What was that."

"We need to leave," she said. "Now."

"Was that real? What is this stuff of Dashanan?Look around us. Whatever that stuff is, it will get us killed."

Nadya grabbed his wrist.

"Pack everything. We are not going home. Not yet. Someone knows our names."

They rushed through back alleys that reeked of sewage and smoke. Posters curled off the walls. Sirens wailed again, closer now.

Nadya could feel it.

A presence.

A pressure.

Like unseen eyes pinned to her spine.