"The price of freedom is memory. The price of truth is blood." - Mzsbo

THE PRESENT 

They say it only takes six seconds to die in a Mujan prison cell.

Five for them to drag you out by the boots.  

One for the bullet.

I've been here seventy-three days. Counted every flicker of that lightbulb.

The camera doesn't blink either. 

I stopped checking if someone's watching. 

They'll say I was a traitor. They'll say I fooled everyone. They'll say I had it coming.

But none of that matters now. 

Because before the handcuffs. Before the headlines. Before the blood on my hands turned warm—

There was a motel.

There was a morning.

THE PAST

I wake up with the other side of the pillow drenched in sweat.

My fingers stretch out, fumbling for the holo remote's warmth but finding only itchy motel bedding and the cold crust of regret. 

My hand grazes the nightstand drawer—wood swollen from moisture, handle half-broken—and there it is. The remote, tucked away like a secret you keep even when you shouldn't.

Routine is what keeps the cracks from showing.

Ever since I left my country, I've clung to the pattern like a lifeline: wake up, turn on the holovision, remind myself I'm still not dead.

The news plays like a funeral playlist.  

Dead celebrity.  

Dead politician.  

Missing child—found dead.

A stacked lineup of rot. No shock there.

Once, this world dressed itself up like a utopia. These days, it's more like a fiery shitpit. 

All thanks to Exodus Day.

You'd think yanking a few weeds would fix the garden. 

Turns out, the roots run deeper. Now the whole system's rotting.

I take a breath, one I didn't know I was holding. 

No mention of me. 

No headlines screaming traitor. 

No grainy surveillance shots of my face splattered across the feeds.

Good. 

That means I get to live another day.  One more, at least.

I prop myself up on one elbow. 

There's just enough light to sting my eyes, making every dust mote swirl in slow motion, like ash from an unburned memory.

I swing my legs off the bed, slide into boots whose leather has learned the shape of my feet, and throw on the rest—trousers, shirt, respirator, and glasses held together with duct tape and quiet desperation. 

On the nightstand, flattened under a half-empty water bottle, is the only photo I managed to save.

A family photo. What a joke.

My step-brother Hyunjin stands beside my mother, her hand gentle on his shoulder. 

My step-father stands stiff, presidential uniform immaculate, smile frozen like it hurt to wear it. 

I'm there, twelve years old, hair uncut, smile trying too hard to look natural.

That was the only time I ever saw my step-father smile.

I take a swig from the bottle and nearly choke. Metallic, bitter—like drinking a wrench.

Figures. 

Shady motel. 

Shady water.

I pocket the photo, sling on my bag and toolbox, and head downstairs.

The man behind the counter looks me over when I ask to pay in Qin instead of Federation credits.

I keep my voice flat. 

He doesn't deserve the truth, and I'm too tired for a lie that would convince him anyway.

He eyes me as I slide over 500 Qin.

"Only people carrying cash these days are either  criminals or on the run. Which one are you?"

"Keep the change, sir."

I walk out before he can ask another question.