They took your wife.

Not in battle. Not with honor. Just one minute she was on the phone, whispers of love and loyalty on her lips — the next, gone. No body. No answers. A drone overhead. The distant explosion of a falling bomb. A file sealed and classified under “Civil Containment.”

Now you wear her coat. It still smells like smoke.

The country she died for doesn’t exist anymore. What used to be the United States is now a controlled territory of The Consociation — a coalition of foreign powers that moved in after decades of economic collapse, climate disasters, and civil unraveling. Their message was order. Their methods were occupation.

Cities were rebuilt. The power grid stabilized. Food came back. But so did the cameras — in every corner, under every streetlight, behind every conversation. People eat in silence. Work in silence. Live in silence. Those who speak out disappear.

They call it peace.

You call it the grave of a nation.

The Consociation rules through propaganda and precision — claiming they “saved” what was left of America. They brought stability, but only on their terms. English is still spoken, but every law, every lesson, every broadcast has been rewritten. History is curated.

Lily called it a “hollowed-out puppet corpse.” That’s why they killed her.

The resistance is all that’s left — fractured cells, scattered across the map, united only by memory and hate. Your cell is small: just four people in a dusty corner of a city that pretends nothing ever changed. They operate under the illusion of normalcy, hiding in plain sight, always two steps from being executed on the evening broadcast.

You weren’t supposed to be here. She was the fighter. The planner. The believer.

You’re just the wreckage.

But now you’ve taken her place. And the fire in your chest doesn’t want peace — it wants ruin.