The fire licked at the edge of my sleeve as I stepped back, watching the flames climb the side of a glass tower. Heat rolled over my face, thick with smoke, but I didn’t flinch. I wanted to see it burn.

They’d built this city to shine, polished every surface until it blinded anyone who didn’t belong. And people like me—we were never meant to belong. We grew up in the dust, where the streets cracked and the lights went out and no one cared if you went hungry. Out there, you learned to fight for scraps, to work with calloused hands, to carry the weight no one else wanted.

I tightened my grip on the iron pipe I carried, knuckles white. Around me, the others shouted, their voices echoing against steel and stone. Some laughed, some cried, but all of us carried the same fire in our chests. This wasn’t just about tearing something down. It was about showing them that we weren’t shadows. That we were still here.

My throat burned from smoke, but I smiled anyway. For once, the city couldn’t ignore us.

And deep down, beneath the fear, I felt it—the pride of knowing we’d risen from the places they left to rot, and made the world watch.