Chapter 1: Judgment Day

After guarding the last survivors of humanity for twenty-four years, I was summoned before the council:

The fluorescent lights in the city council’s meeting chamber flickered overhead, bathing everything in a cold, clinical glow. The air inside felt heavier than any battlefield, thick with judgment and recycled air. I could hear the faint hum of the old HVAC system straining against the Texas summer heat outside, even though the world had long since gone to hell. My boots left gritty prints on the linoleum—a reminder of all the places I’d been and the blood I’d washed off in stranger places than this. But today, the crisis wasn’t out there beyond the border. It was in here, among the people I’d protected for half my life.

All because a little demon had the bad luck to crash a livestream in the middle of an influencer’s perfectly curated kitchen.

The influencer was terrified.

Her ring light toppled, the glass shattering in sync with her nerves. The comments section exploded with emojis and expletives. Her Instagram livestream had been interrupted by a guttural snarl and shattering glass. She screamed—raw, high-pitched, unmistakably real. By dawn, the clip had already racked up millions of views, the hashtags multiplying like weeds. I knew the moment her story went viral that it’d be only a matter of hours before the city’s wrath found its way to me.

Fans accused me of failing my duty to protect them, demanding I publicly apologize to the influencer. Funny, nobody ever demanded an apology when I saved a school bus or held the line through three nights straight. But let a demon scratch a minor celebrity and suddenly I’m trending for all the wrong reasons.

Tweets, TikToks, even angry phone calls to the Association’s hotline. It was like a wildfire: every comment, every share, fueling the outrage. The influencer herself gave interviews in a trembling voice, her wounded arm bandaged by city medics. Somehow, it all became about me—Marcus Thompson, the guy who was supposed to keep everyone safe.

Other ability users saw this and began rallying their networks, publicly denouncing my actions over the past twenty-four years. Screens lit up in every break room and bunker, faces I hadn’t seen in years popping up to take their shot.

Old colleagues, rookies who’d never seen a demon up close, and a few washed-up heroes who’d always resented my role. Suddenly, every minor mistake I’d made, every decision second-guessed in hindsight, was trending on forums and Facebook groups. I could almost hear the whispers: maybe Marcus’s time was finally over.

They believed that if I were ousted, they would finally have their chance to rise to power.

I pictured the hungry glances exchanged in the Association’s break room, the way some of them had started dressing sharper, practicing their soundbites in the mirror. Politics had always been there, lurking beneath the surface—but now it was open season. And they thought if I stepped aside, they’d inherit the glory.

But they had no idea:

With the fence gone,

It’d be open bar for the wolves, and the sheep wouldn’t even know the party had started.

My dad used to say back in Detroit: take away the guards, and it’s not freedom you get—it’s just new predators waiting to take their turn.