Adonis leaned back in his chair, his fingers tapping rhythmically against the wooden table of a dimly lit bar. The establishment, like the two others he had visited that night, was filled with the chatter of workers, merchants, and the occasional disgruntled citizen. The conversations all had a common thread—their frustration with the city's corruption, the growing divide between the rich and the poor, and the suffocating weight of the Council's control.
Adonis quietly nursed a drink as he listened in, his ears tuned to every complaint, every off-hand comment about the state of the city. Some spoke of the unfair wages, others of the rising taxes, and more still of the oppressive businesses that seemed to grow richer while the working class suffered. It was all fuel for his plan. He didn't need to spark a revolution, just a moment of chaos—a spark that would burn just long enough for him to vanish into the shadows.
After the third bar, he had heard enough. The anger was real, the dissatisfaction palpable. Now, it was time to craft his narrative. He returned to his apartment, his mind buzzing with ideas. The people's frustrations were easy to understand. The key was to frame it in such a way that they saw him—Adonis—as a symbol of their fight. A hero standing up against the injustices that plagued the city. His death, staged in the midst of an uprising, would seal the story.
Adonis sat at his desk, lighting a small oil lamp as he took out a pen and a stack of paper. He allowed himself a moment to think back to the conversations he had overheard that night, pulling out the key sentiments, the words that would resonate with the people.
The poor are growing poorer. The Council cares only for their own power. The businesses are draining the life out of the city's workers...
These were the foundations of his story. He would weave them together, adding just enough spice to push the lower class toward rebellion.
He began to write, his pen gliding across the paper:
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"The chains of oppression are tightening. We, the people of the lower districts, are nothing more than pawns in the game of the wealthy and the powerful. They grow richer as we toil in their factories, their businesses, their streets. We are slaves in all but name. But this city was not built by them. It was built by us. The Council has forgotten that simple truth. The businesses, like Burban Wolf's, grow fat on the sweat of our labor, while we starve. It is time to remind them who truly holds the power in this city. We must rise. For justice. For freedom. For our families. We must stand against those who think they can control us. It is time to take back what is ours."
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Adonis read over the words carefully, tweaking a sentence here and there to ensure the message was clear and powerful. It wasn't just about Burban Wolf or any one businessman—it was about the system itself. A system that the people felt had betrayed them. A system that Adonis would now manipulate to his advantage.
Once he was satisfied with the story, he put down his pen and leaned back, exhaling slowly. The uprising needed to feel organic, like it had been simmering for years, waiting for the right moment to explode. His story would be the match that lit the fire.
He spent the next hour carefully crafting two more pieces, each one building on the previous. Each one angrier, more urgent. The people would be given just enough time to grow more furious with each publication, and by the time the final article hit the streets, the lower class would be ready to take action.
The next morning, Adonis made his way to The Elysian Gazette. The sun was barely rising as he strode through the streets, his mind already rehearsing the conversation he would have with the manager. By the time he arrived at the Gazette building, he was fully composed, every word planned.
Inside, he was greeted by Trenton Varnell, who was waiting in his office. The man's sharp eyes scanned him, but Adonis gave nothing away.
"I trust you've been busy," Varnell said, a hint of suspicion in his voice.
Adonis nodded, pulling out the papers he had written the night before. "I've prepared the stories. They need to be published in intervals—every two to three days. Start with this one." He handed Varnell the first piece.
Varnell glanced at the paper, his expression unreadable. "You're sure about this? Stirring up the lower districts is dangerous business. If it goes wrong..."
Adonis interrupted him with a calm but firm tone. "It won't go wrong. By the time the final piece is published, the lower class will be ready to rise. They're already on the edge; all they need is a push. And when it happens, I'll be right in the middle of it. That's what the Council wants, isn't it? To deal with the growing unrest?"
Varnell hesitated, then nodded slowly. "Fine. I'll have the first article published in tomorrow's edition."
Adonis smirked, satisfied. "Good. Make sure it's placed prominently. I want everyone to see it."
Varnell gave a curt nod, clearly understanding the gravity of what he was being asked to do. As Adonis left the office, he felt the weight of his plan slowly lifting off his shoulders. Everything was falling into place. The articles would fan the flames of unrest, the people would take the bait, and when the chaos erupted, Adonis would make his escape.
But first, there were still a few pieces to set in motion. He needed to ensure that the uprising didn't just happen but happened at exactly the right time—ten days from now. That would give him enough time to slip away before the Council could figure out what he had truly been planning.
As he left The Elysian Gazette and walked through the streets, Adonis began mentally preparing for the days ahead. He needed to stay out of the Council's spotlight, continue his research on Elyria, and finalize his plan for leaving the city. And, most importantly, he needed to keep up the façade of the dutiful investigator for just a little longer.
Ten days. That's all he needed. And then, if everything went according to plan, Adonis would be free.
For now, he would wait and watch as the city inched closer to the brink of rebellion, a rebellion he had carefully crafted.