The Last Free City
Chapter 1: The Checkpoint
The blast hits before I reach the checkpoint.
One second, I’m running — boots pounding over cracked asphalt, breath sharp in my throat — and the next, the air splits open.
Concrete shatters. Metal screams.
I hit the ground hard, elbows scraping raw. The shockwave rolls over me, filling my mouth with dust and the taste of blood. My ears ring so loud I can’t tell if I’m screaming.
I push up, lungs dragging for air, force my legs under me.
I run.
The checkpoint’s gone — what’s left is a smoldering ruin, twisted barricades, crumpled bodies. I don’t look too closely.
I duck under the wreckage, slip through a gap no wider than my shoulders, heart rattling against my ribs.
The air stinks of burned plastic, scorched metal, something darker underneath — something I refuse to name.
I don’t stop.
If I stop, I’m dead.
By the time I make it three blocks down, my legs are shaking so hard I nearly collapse into an alley.
I press my back to the wall, chest heaving, sweat freezing on my skin. My hands tremble.
That wasn’t the plan.
The plan was: cross the checkpoint at dawn, slip past patrols, make it to the tunnels by nightfall.
Not… whatever the hell that was.
I press a hand to my mouth, force myself to breathe. In, out. In, out.
The concrete behind me is cold, rough. I lean into it like it might hold me up.
I tell myself not to panic.
Julian’s still in the Federal Building.
Julian’s still alive.
He has to be.
Footsteps.
I jerk upright, heart pounding. My fingers close on the knife at my belt before I even register the shadow moving toward me.
“Taryn,” I whisper when I see her face.
She pulls me into a rough, quick hug. “Jesus, Keene. You were supposed to wait for the signal.”
“I did wait,” I rasp. “Then the whole damn checkpoint exploded.”
She pulls back, frowning hard. “That wasn’t us.”
Her sharp eyes flick to the smoke curling into the sky. She swears under her breath, low and vicious — a sound I’ve never heard from her before.
My name used to be Mara Keene — the government’s favorite mouthpiece, the red-lipped smile on national broadcasts, the voice that told America to trust the regime.
I sold their lies. I smiled when they burned the world down.
And then I met Julian Hart.
The man who wrote what no one else dared. The man some call the Voice of the Resistance, others call The Author of the Revolution, but who I simply call my friend and mentor.
He made me see what I was.
He made me stop.
And I repaid him by selling him out.
Now, I run rebel jobs in the last free city, trying to scratch back a sliver of what I destroyed.
Trying to save him — or, at least, to become the kind of woman he once believed I could be.
Chapter 2: The Devil’s Bargain
The Raven’s Nest hums with tension when we slip inside.
It’s packed tonight — fighters, smugglers, spies, all hunched over maps and cracked screens, murmuring in low voices. Mason, the ex-cop, raises his head as I pass.
“You were at the checkpoint?”
“Yeah.” My voice comes out raw. “I was there.”
His mouth twists. “They say it wasn’t us. And it wasn’t the government.”
I swallow hard. “Then who the hell was it?”
Mason glances around, then leans in.
“There’s a name going around.”
The room tightens, breathless.
I grip the edge of the table, pulse thudding in my ears.
He says it so low I almost don’t hear:
“Volin.”
The name slides under my skin like ice.
No one knows where he’s from. No one knows what he wants.
But rumor says he moves ahead of collapse — he’s there before regimes fall, before rebellions crack, before cities break open like rotten fruit.
Some say he’s a contractor for the Republic’s black arm; others, that he’s something older, something that feeds on unraveling.
I don’t know if I can save Julian.
I don’t even know if I can save myself.
But I know this:
San Francisco is not ready for what’s coming.
And neither am I.
We hear about him before we see him.
Whispers ripple through the Nest like electricity, jumping table to table:
He’s here.
He’s asking for us.
He knows everything.
Taryn grabs my arm. “Come on.”
I barely have time to snatch my coat before she pulls me outside.
At the far end of the block, under a lamplight bent crooked by last month’s shelling, they wait.
Four figures.
The tall man at the center leans casually against the streetlamp, cigarette pinched between two long fingers.
He’s dressed too sharply for this city — black coat tailored like a blade, dark hair slicked back, smile curled at the corners like he knows the punchline to a joke none of us can hear yet.
To his right: Bazil, hulking, silent, eyes watching everything.
To his left: Helena, silver-haired, sharp-eyed, tracing a fingertip along the metal rail.
And dancing at the edge of the light: Grigor, a wiry boy, grinning and flipping a coin, feral delight in his eyes.
I can’t move.
That man lifts his gaze. His eyes meet mine like he’s been waiting just for me.
He takes one last drag on the cigarette, drops it, and crushes it under his heel.
Inside, Volin lounges in Mason’s usual chair, legs crossed, fingertips tapping the table.
I stand across from him, arms folded tight.
“Say it plainly,” I snap. “What do you want?”
Volin’s smile widens.
“I can free Julian Hart.”
The words slam into me like a fist.
He leans forward, voice soft.
“Your lover. Your martyr. Your rebellion’s last heartbeat. I can pull him out of that steel tomb before dawn.”
I force myself to steady.
“And the price?”
Volin shrugs lightly.
“A party.”
“A party?” Mason growls from the back.
Volin spreads his hands, mock-innocent.
“A celebration. A ball, if you will. Invite your rebels, your warlords, your smugglers, your spies. Open the doors, and I will do the rest.”
Taryn’s hand clamps hard on my arm. “Don’t,” she hisses. “You don’t know what he is, Mara. You don’t know what you’re inviting in.”
She’s right.
Every instinct in me screams run.
But then I think of Julian — his voice, his hands, the way he used to look at me like I was worth saving.
I think of all the nights I’ve woken shaking, knowing I was the one who handed him over.
I meet Volin’s gaze.
He raises one brow, waiting.
I exhale, slow.
My hands stop trembling.
“Fine,” I whisper. “I’ll host your goddamn ball.”
Chapter 3: The Midnight Ball
The old theater on Geary is a hollowed-out skeleton — once velvet and gold, now stripped raw by fire and time.
I stand at the center of the stage, heart hammering as people pour through the broken doors.
Warlords in scavenged armor.
Smugglers wrapped in silk and leather.
Hackers with glowing lenses.
Rebels carrying their scars like medals.
Spies, their smiles too sharp, their loyalties too thin.
They all come.
Because word has spread:
Tonight, the game changes.
Tonight, the last free city hosts the Midnight Ball.
And I — Mara Keene — am the woman at its center.
At midnight, the doors swing open.
Two men drag a figure between them: thin, pale, head bowed, hands bound.
My breath stops.
My knees nearly give.
“Julian.”
I drop to my knees beside him, fingers fumbling at the ropes.
He lifts his head, eyes dazed, lips cracked.
“Mara… what did you do?”
I choke on a laugh, a sob.
“I did what I had to.”
Behind me, Volin claps his hands once, sharp and ringing.
“Beautiful,” he purrs. “Truly beautiful.”
I turn, still kneeling.
“What now?”
Volin tilts his head, eyes glinting.
“Now, dear Keene… now we show them what they really are.”
Chapter 4: The Collapse
The ground trembles.
A low, sickening crack shudders through the floorboards.
Volin sweeps his hand.
“Who among you serves the Republic?”
Gasps.
Shouts.
Weapons half-drawn.
The room fractures — trust unraveling in real time.
Mason lunges, roaring, “You’re a plant!”
A smuggler draws a blade, screaming, “You sold us out!”
The theater explodes into chaos.
Julian clutches my arm.
“Mara — run.”
But I can’t.
I turn, eyes locking on Volin, heart slamming in my chest.
“You did this.”
He smiles softly.
“No, Keene. You did.”
And then he vanishes, swallowed by shadows.
Chapter 5: In the Ashes of Morning
By dawn, San Francisco is quiet.
Not the quiet of peace — the quiet of after.
Julian’s thin hand grips mine as we walk the streets, our footsteps soft over ash and broken glass.
We pass the Raven’s Nest — doors ripped off, windows blackened.
We pass the market stalls — empty, silent.
We pass the murals, the pirate towers, the old slogans.
Ruins.
All of it.
We are just ruins now.
At the water’s edge, I sink to my knees.
Julian sits beside me, resting his head on my shoulder.
Neither of us speaks.
There’s nothing left to say.
And then, just as the sun breaks the horizon, I see him.
Volin.
Standing at the far end of the ruined pier, coat fluttering in the wind, silver eyes gleaming faintly.
He smiles — soft, amused, almost fond — and inclines his head, as if tipping an invisible hat.
And then he’s gone.
I close my eyes, feeling the weight of everything I’ve done.
Everything I’ve lost.
Everything I can never get back.
I’m not the state’s mouthpiece anymore.
I’m not a rebel.
I’m not a lover, or a leader, or a savior.
I am what’s left when the city falls.
And as I sit in the cold dawn light, holding Julian’s trembling hand, I realize:
This is the price I chose.
This is who I am now.
I open my eyes to the broken city, knowing I will carry its ruin, the lives lost, and the weight of my choices forever.
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