Passion Lost for Obedience: A Story of Pongyang

Passion lost for Obedience Part 1: The Beginning The Rise of Pongyang ⸻ The streets of Metropolis were never quiet—not even in peace. Not truly. Beneath the rain-soaked lights and towering steel, a hum of order vibrated through the city. The skyline burned red against a black sky, just as it had i...

Passion lost for Obedience Part 1: The Beginning The Rise of Pongyang ⸻ The streets of Metropolis were never quiet—not even in peace. Not truly. Beneath the rain-soaked lights and towering steel, a hum of order vibrated through the city. The skyline burned red against a black sky, just as it had in 1945, the day Petoria fell. They called it The Uprising. And Casey Stevens, the current President of Pongyang, never let anyone forget it. ⸻ 1912: Petoria had risen like a disease—uniformed, cruel, and obsessed with power. The fascist regime held Pongyang in an iron grip, burning books, crushing culture, and exterminating anyone who defied the Petorian ideal. The people suffered in silence—until they didn’t. 1945: The people of Pongyang stormed the streets. The old banners were torn from buildings. Petorian checkpoints were firebombed. A republic rose from the ashes, scarred and vengeful, vowing never again to fall to fascism—or anything that resembled it. ⸻ Now, 80 years later, President Casey Stevens walked the marble halls of the Nationalist Party Headquarters, dressed in black with a silver eagle pinned to his lapel. He had the heart of a punk and the resolve of a war general. Raised on The Cure and The Smiths, he stood for tradition—but not silence. For control—but not chains. He stood before the Great Assembly, flanked by two rival parties: The weak-willed Liberals, The scatterbrained Socialists, —neither of which held power. Only the Nationalist Party, Casey’s party, truly ruled. ⸻ He spoke into the microphone, his voice calm but cold: “We remember who we are. We remember 1945. And we remember who we are not—Petorians, degenerates, or chaos-breathers. Pongyang is not a dictatorship—but we will not be undone by softness.” Cheers erupted. The police, dressed in gray with black visors, nodded in silent approval. They weren’t watching the people—they were protecting them. From furries. From fake identities. From the creeping noise of Western rot. Especially from rap. ⸻ 2023 brought a betrayal. Kaari, once loyal, broke away and founded a rogue nation called Skyfall—a land built on fake freedom and digital dreams. Pongyang responded with tariffs. Skyfall mocked them. But in September 2024, Casey had had enough. Pongyang invaded. Skyfall was weak, idealistic. Their soldiers were poets. Pongyang’s were wolves. The war wasn’t official. But it didn’t have to be. ⸻ Now, the world watches. France snarls with jealousy. The UK Empire nods in alliance. America shrugs in quiet unease. Golia stays peaceful but wary. And Blue, Pongyang’s most loyal ally, stands beside them like a shadow in the dark. ⸻ Somewhere, deep in a Brooklyn alley, a mural reads: “1945 never died.” Above it, someone has sprayed the words: “Casey Lives.” The story has only just begun. Part 2: My Life in Cleveland Featuring Casey Smith ⸻ You wouldn’t think a place like Cleveland—small, dusty, and drenched in Jesus—could hold someone like Casey Smith. But it did. Barely. The town sat near the edge of Lethbridge County, where the farms gave way to forests, and the radio only played church hymns and country hits. Life here moved like molasses in winter. Every Sunday, the whole town gathered in the tiny white church, sang the same songs, and nodded at the same sermons. The cross stood taller than the water tower. God came first. And yet, there was Casey, blasting The Cure through his old headphones, hoodie up, sitting under the oak tree just behind the chapel. ⸻ He lived with his grandparents after his mom took off and his dad went quiet. The only color in his room was from band posters and dusty old CDs. School had been a drag—St. Andrew left him feeling average, Clancy gave him some hope, and now he was back in Cleveland, waiting for something real. But he had his people. ⸻ There was Blaise, his ride-or-die—jolly, loud, the type to pull you out of a ditch and push you into one for fun. Jude, always bouncing, wild with too many ideas. Kenny, quiet but solid, like a stone that somehow listens. Kaari, back when she was still just Kaari, a kind dude who never said much but always made sure you were okay. Wolf, even quieter than Kenny, always sketching, always watching. Cash, the jolly tank who could eat five burgers and still talk about feelings. Kins (1), chill and never annoying about their identity. Tegan, as chaotic as Jude—like they shared a brain. And the mystery guy from Canada, who just showed up one day and fit right in. Even Kahner, the smooth-talking flirt with a heart somewhere under all that swagger, found his way to Cleveland every now and then. It was a circus. But it was their circus. ⸻ They’d sneak out at night, walk the train tracks, smoke behind the silo, talk about the world beyond Pongyang. Casey would rant about school, about how St. Andrew felt like a cage and Clancy like a second chance. He talked about his grades, his screwups, his wins, his rage. Sometimes he cried. Sometimes he punched fences. They never judged him. ⸻ Cleveland wasn’t perfect. It wasn’t cool. But it was real. And in a republic where the streets of Metropolis were cold and dark, Cleveland was still lit by fireflies and the sound of true friends laughing under the stars. Casey wasn’t some president. He wasn’t some soldier. He was just a punk-hearted kid, trying to find where he fit in this strict, twisted, beautiful world. Part 3: Kenny, the Thought Criminal “He never even raised his voice.” ⸻ Cleveland was quiet that morning. Too quiet. Casey Smith knew something was off when Kenny didn’t show up to their usual spot behind the grain elevator. No reply to texts. No sign of him at church. The only thing left behind was a copy of a strange little book— “Tao Te Ching.” It wasn’t even banned. But it was close enough. ⸻ In Pongyang, religion was clear: Christianity was the light. Not just recommended—enforced. No second guessing. No alternative “paths.” No Zen, no Nirvana, and absolutely no Yin-Yang nonsense. That’s why when Kenny—quiet, kind, no one you’d expect—started whispering to Jude about “balance” and “water flowing through life,” someone snitched. Maybe a neighbor. Maybe a teacher. Maybe Coralann. Didn’t matter. Because at 3:14 p.m., Forrest Vallhalla Enforcement Division rolled into Cleveland in a matte-black van with no license plate and no markings. They dragged Kenny out of his house. No trial. No goodbyes. Just a one-way ticket to The Cube. ⸻ The Cube wasn’t a prison in the old-school sense. It was worse. A massive gray monolith buried in the woods of Forrest Vallhalla, it pulsed with spotlights and surrounded by chain fences thick with barbed wire and silence. You didn’t scream in the Cube. You weren’t allowed to. They taught you how not to scream. Inside, they “re-centered” you. They burned your books. They broke your thoughts. They made you Christian again. ⸻ Casey Smith found out two days later. Kaari told him. “They got Kenny.” “For what?” “…Thinking.” Casey punched a brick wall so hard his knuckles bled. “He was the quietest guy we had. He never even raised his voice.” ⸻ They all felt it—the fear. Even Blaise, always loud, spoke in a whisper now. Jude stopped bouncing. Wolf drew a picture of Kenny behind bars, with blank eyes and a hollow chest. Cash cried. Kins (1) asked if they’d be next. And Casey? Casey lit a smoke and stared out across the cornfields. “We’re not just punks anymore,” he muttered. “We’re targets.” ⸻ Somewhere deep in The Cube, Kenny sat in a padded room. No windows. No sound. Just a cross on the wall and a voice on the speaker saying, “There is only one truth. You know what it is.”  He whispered back, “Like water…” And they turned the speaker up. Part 4: Oh My God, They Killed Kenny! (Not Literally) ⸻ It was 58 days after Kenny was taken. Fifty-eight days of silence. No texts. No letters. No proof he was even alive. Then—he came back. No warning. No escort. Just a knock on Casey’s door one gray morning in Cleveland. Casey opened it. And there he was. Kenny. Same face. Same eyes. But everything else? Gone. ⸻ He wore a gray button-down, freshly ironed. Hair cut military short. No hoodie. No sketchbook. A silver cross hung around his neck like a weight. His smile was plastic. His posture? Perfect. “Hey, Casey,” Kenny said, flat as concrete. “I’ve been corrected.” ⸻ The gang met that evening in the old barn behind Cash’s uncle’s farm. Jude, Blaise, Kins (1), Wolf, even Kaari came in from Lethbridge. Everyone crowded around Kenny like he was a ghost. Cash went in for a hug. Kenny didn’t flinch. He stood there like a statue. “I forgive you all,” he said, hands folded. “For tolerating my former spiritual disobedience.” ⸻ Casey lit a cigarette. “Who the hell are you?” “I am a proud son of Pongyang,” Kenny said, eyes blank. “I reject all falsehoods and Eastern lies. Taoism was a virus. I’ve been healed.” Kaari looked like he’d been punched. Blaise just muttered, “They fried his brain.” ⸻ Kenny spent the night reciting Bible verses and quoting President Casey Stevens like scripture. “Furries are the decay of discipline.” “Pongyang stands firm—unwavering, untwisting.” “Doubt is the first step toward betrayal.” When Wolf handed him an old drawing he did of the group, Kenny looked at it, frowned, and ripped it in half. “I don’t make images anymore,” he said. “God forbids it.” ⸻ The worst part? He smiled the whole time. ⸻ Later, Casey and Blaise sat on the porch of the grain shed, watching lightning flash over the fields. “He’s gone,” Casey whispered. “Like, not dead, but… gone.” Blaise just stared at the rain. “They killed Kenny.” “…Not literally.” ⸻ And somewhere in Metropolis, behind ten locked doors in BNL Tower, a screen blinked with a file marked: SUBJECT: KENNY // STATUS: RECONDITIONED THREAT LEVEL: NEUTRALIZED Part 5: Not Casey Too! “It’s just a phase. It’s just a phase…” ⸻ The rain had let up, leaving the streets of Cleveland slick and cold. Casey Smith sat in his room, headphones on, drowning out the silence with Dr. Dre. The beats hit hard, the rhythm a fire he couldn’t explain. He tapped the desk in time, his fingers tracing the lyrics of “Still Dre” in the air. It was the only place where he felt something real—where the weight of Pongyang’s laws didn’t crush his chest. “Yeah, yeah, yeah, you know I’m mobbin’ with the D-R-E…” He didn’t care that rap was banned. It was his escape. The sound of his soul. A middle finger to everything that tried to put him in a box. ⸻ Then, just as he was about to drop into the hook, the door creaked open. Coralann. Of course, it was Coralann. She stood in the doorway, wearing that smirk—like she knew something. Like she was waiting for him to slip up. “Nice music choice,” she said, dripping with sarcasm. “That’s real… government-approved.” She stepped inside, eyes flicking to the old Dr. Dre CD case on the shelf. Casey ripped the headphones off and shot her a glare. “Get lost, Coralann.” But Coralann wasn’t done. She stepped closer, her eyes narrowing as she took in the scene. “You really think the government doesn’t know about you? About your music? About your ‘rebellion’?” She practically hissed the word. ⸻ Casey stood up, clenching his fists. “I’m not some mindless drone like you.” Coralann raised an eyebrow, eyes flashing. “You’ve already crossed a line. You really think they’ll let you slide just because you’re cute or rebellious? No, Casey. You’re just a blip in their system. But now… you’re a problem.” Before Casey could react, Coralann pulled out her phone, tapping away faster than he could blink. “You’re such a joke,” she muttered, sending a message. Then she smiled. “It’s already done.” ⸻ Casey’s chest tightened. He rushed for the door, but it was too late. The black vans were already outside, engines growling in the cold. He could hear the low hum of the Forrest Vallhalla Enforcement Division units moving in. “You’re dead, Casey. Just like your friend Kenny,” Coralann called, her voice a cruel mockery. ⸻ As the door slammed shut, Casey’s mind raced. He had just been betrayed by someone who was supposed to be on the same side. Someone who always acted so sweet, but in reality, was as fake as the smile she wore. He tried to think of an escape—something, anything. But before he could make it to the window, the door burst open again. This time, it wasn’t just Coralann. The Pongyang police stormed in, guns aimed, as cold as the night. ⸻ “Casey Smith,” one of the officers said, his voice emotionless. “You are under arrest for possessing prohibited material and engaging in subversive activity against the state.” Casey’s world flipped upside down. ⸻ As they shoved him into the van, he could hear Coralann’s laughter echoing from the street. “You’ll learn,” she whispered. “You’ll learn what happens when you break the rules.” ⸻ And just like that, the world around him was spinning. He was no longer the punk kid under the oak tree. No longer the defiant voice against the system. He was just another number. Another file in the Forrest Vallhalla records. As the van door slammed shut, Casey couldn’t help but whisper to himself, “It’s just a phase… It’s just a phase.” But deep down, he knew.  It wasn’t a phase. It was the end of the beginning. Part 6: Casey and O’Brien “You think you’re special, Casey Smith. You’re not.” ⸻ The walls of The Cube felt like they were closing in from every angle. The sterile, cold concrete pressed against Casey’s skin, and no amount of resistance would ever loosen its grip. The air was thick with the smell of antiseptic. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, casting a sickly glow on the faded gray walls. Casey had been here for two weeks, long enough to feel the first cracks in his defiance. They had broken him down slowly—long hours of sitting in the empty room, a single chair in the center. Every now and then, the guards would come in, each time colder than the last. The food was awful, the silence unbearable. They weren’t interested in his cooperation. They were interested in breaking him. But it wasn’t the guards who were the real threat. It was O’Brien. ⸻ O’Brien was a tall man, sharp-eyed and sharp-tongued. He wore a perfectly pressed uniform, his face as emotionless as the concrete around them. He had a way of talking to Casey—soft, measured words that made the room feel even smaller. Every sentence felt like a slow strangulation. O’Brien had introduced himself after the first few days in The Cube. He came into the small room with a clipboard, his expression vacant, but his eyes burning with purpose. “Casey,” he had said, his voice smooth like oil. “We’re going to work together. You and I. You’re going to see things differently soon.” Casey spat on the floor. “Fuck you.” O’Brien smiled. “That’s the first mistake, Casey. The first of many. You think you’re special. You think you’re a rebel. But in the end, you’re just like everyone else. You will learn. You will break.” ⸻ The first few sessions were easy enough to resist. O’Brien would ask him questions about his beliefs, about why he defied the Republic, about his loyalty to people like Kenny, who had been reconditioned. At first, Casey fought back with his fists, his words, his pride. He told O’Brien he’d never give in. But O’Brien had seen this before. He wasn’t in a rush. Day by day, he turned the screws tighter. The first tactic was sleep deprivation—forcing Casey to stay awake for hours, then waking him up every time he tried to sleep. The second? Isolation— forcing him to sit alone for hours in a room with no windows, no distractions, just his thoughts. Soon, the silence started to gnaw at him. The cold began to eat away at his mind. “You’ve been here long enough to know this is pointless, Casey,” O’Brien would say, his voice calm, almost pitying. “You think you can escape the truth of Pongyang? You think your rebellion means something? It doesn’t. The government is everything. You’re just another cog.” Casey’s defiance didn’t last long. Soon, he began to crack, to waver. The rebellion didn’t seem so grand anymore. His fists didn’t feel like the answer. Maybe O’Brien was right. Maybe The Cube wasn’t a place of brokenness—it was just the place where all broken things went to be fixed. ⸻ One evening, O’Brien sat across from him again, his posture casual, yet menacing. He didn’t need to raise his voice. His presence was enough. “How are we feeling today, Casey?” O’Brien asked. Casey didn’t answer. He barely moved. He had long since stopped fighting back. The rebellion, the music, the anger—it all seemed so far away now. “You’ll learn,” O’Brien continued. “You’ll learn that there is no escape. There’s no way out. And you’ll thank us for it one day. We are saving you from yourself.” Casey closed his eyes, swallowing the growing fear in his chest. He felt small. Defenseless. Trapped. “I don’t want to be saved,” Casey whispered, his voice hoarse. O’Brien chuckled softly, like a man who had already won. “You don’t have to want it. You’ll learn to love it, Casey. You’ll learn to love Pongyang and everything it stands for.” ⸻ The next day, O’Brien wasn’t there. Instead, there was a white-coated technician with a set of tools. And Casey knew, deep in his gut, that the worst was yet to come. ⸻ The next phase of Casey’s reconditioning would take him into Room 101. The true horror. Part 7: 101 “The only thing we have to fear is fear itself… but they already knew that.” ⸻ Room 101 was different. It wasn’t just a room. It wasn’t just a cell or a place where the walls closed in. It was the place where your soul was hollowed out. Every prisoner feared it. Every defector had heard stories— whispers of the unspeakable horrors that resided behind its locked door. For Casey, though, fear had always been something he could control. Something he could push aside with rage, with music, with defiance. He didn’t fear the dark, the government, or even death. He feared nothing—or at least, that’s what he told himself. ⸻ But as the guards led him down the long corridor, the atmosphere thick with the scent of disinfectant and metal, Casey felt the weight of his own breath in his chest. His heart pounded in his ears. Room 101. It wasn’t just another step in his reprogramming. It was the final test. The guard stopped at a steel door, pressing a button. It slid open with a soft hiss. Inside was a single chair, facing a wall of solid black. The room felt cold, unnaturally cold, as if it was pulling all warmth from the air. One of the guards pushed him inside. “Sit,” he ordered. Casey did. His legs were weak, his body tense. He couldn’t shake the growing feeling that he was about to encounter something that would change him forever. ⸻ The door slammed shut behind him, locking him in. And that was when the lights flickered to life, bathing the room in an unnatural glow. A voice echoed from the walls. “Casey Smith. Welcome to Room 101. Your fears are about to be realized. We know you better than you know yourself.” ⸻ Suddenly, a screen flickered in front of him, the images coming to life like a nightmare. He couldn’t look away. His stomach churned, bile rising in his throat as the screen flashed with grotesque images—his mother, dead on the floor of their old house. His friends, lying motionless, their eyes open, staring at him. The faces of the people he loved, their bodies mangled, distorted. But these weren’t his true fears. No. These were just the surface. Then, the real fear appeared. ⸻ A figure stepped out of the shadows, appearing on the other side of the blackened room. It was Kenny. But it wasn’t Kenny. ⸻ The man in front of him had Kenny’s face, but his eyes were empty. Hollow. There was no warmth. No kindness. Just a cold, lifeless stare that drilled into Casey’s soul. “Kenny?” Casey whispered, his voice hoarse. “Is that you?” The figure didn’t answer. He simply stood there, unmoving. His lips curled into a grotesque imitation of a smile. “Kenny… please…” But then, Kenny’s face shifted, warping into something far darker. The figure’s mouth stretched unnaturally wide. His limbs twisted. It wasn’t Kenny anymore. It was a monster. A Pongyang soldier. The thing began to approach, the air growing thick with the stench of metal and death. The sound of boots dragging across the cold floor echoed in Casey’s ears, like an unstoppable march to his doom. The figure reached out, its hand stretching toward him. A hand that was no longer human. Casey recoiled, his breath quickening. His body screamed for him to get away, but his legs wouldn’t move. He was frozen in place, bound by the nightmare of his own worst fear. ⸻ The voice echoed again, cold and mocking. “You failed to protect them. You failed to stop the reconditioning. And now, you will join them.” ⸻ Casey’s pulse raced, his skin crawling as the figure drew closer. His heart felt like it was about to burst in his chest. He could feel the coldness of the soldier’s breath on his face, the metallic stench of Pongyang’s cruelty. But then, in the back of his mind, something clicked. This was not real. None of this was real. It was his fear. His deepest fear: losing everything he loved, losing the people who mattered, losing himself. He gritted his teeth. He wasn’t going to let them take him. Not like this. “No,” he whispered through clenched teeth. “I won’t break.” ⸻ The soldier stopped, its hand inches from his face. The air was suffocating, the room spinning. But Casey’s resolve started to harden, his defiance pushing through the fear. He clenched his fists and looked the soldier in the eyes. “You can’t win,” Casey said, his voice a whisper of defiance. “I’m not afraid of you.” ⸻ The figure wavered. It flickered. And then, with a sudden snap, it disappeared, leaving Casey alone in the blackened room. ⸻ The screen blinked off. The lights dimmed. And the door slid open. Casey stumbled out, his knees weak, but his heart still beating strong. The guards didn’t say anything. They simply led him back down the corridor, as if the encounter never happened. But it had. And it wasn’t over. ⸻ As they threw him back into his cell, Casey sank to his knees, his head spinning. His worst fear— losing Kenny, losing his friends, losing himself—had come to life in Room 101. But he had survived. The game wasn’t over. Not yet. Part 8: Crashed in Metropolis ⸻ Casey had never thought he’d make it out of The Cube. But somehow, he did. It wasn’t a victory—he wasn’t cured of anything, not really. He was just broken in different ways. The government had turned him into a cog in the machine, his rebellious fire doused and replaced with an eerie sense of numbness. His hands were cuffed, the cold metal biting into his wrists as he slumped in the back of the truck, still dazed from the horrors of Room 101. The long ride back to the prison was silent, save for the hum of the truck’s engine. His mind was a blur, the images of that room still fresh in his head. The fear. The suffocating horror of being stripped bare—of seeing his worst nightmare unfold in front of him. But as they crossed the outskirts of the metropolis, something strange happened. ⸻ BEEP BEEP. The truck’s dashboard lit up with the orange glow of the check engine light. The guards up front glanced at each other, then the driver cursed under his breath. “Dammit. Not now…” They slowed to a stop at the side of the road. The sound of the engine sputtering only made Casey’s stomach tighten. “Looks like we’ve got a problem,” the driver muttered, already getting out of the truck. Casey sat up, his mind clouded. He was still too disoriented, but the urge to escape crept into his mind like a poison. There was always a way out, right? The guards were too busy fiddling with the engine, their focus elsewhere. The truck door was unlocked, and Casey knew that this might be his only chance. He took a deep breath, his pulse quickening, and then, in one fluid motion, he yanked open the door and bolted. The cool air hit him like a slap in the face as he stumbled out of the truck and into the streets of Metropolis. ⸻ Metropolis. ⸻ Casey had heard stories about this city—how it was the heart of Pongyang’s might, where the government’s power and wealth were concentrated. But seeing it in person was an entirely different experience. The city was a labyrinth of towering skyscrapers, cold steel and glass that reflected the dying sun. Neon lights flickered above, casting strange shadows on the cracked sidewalks below. There was an old-world vibe here, a mix of ancient history and modern power. Casey stood there, awestruck, breathing in the thick, smog-filled air. This place wasn’t the cold, sterile place he’d seen in the government propaganda. This place had life—grit, edge, history. He couldn’t help but feel drawn to it. ⸻ As he wandered deeper into the heart of the city, his eyes caught sight of the BnL Tower—a gleaming monstrosity of metal and glass that loomed high above the rest of the buildings. The BnL Corporation, Pongyang’s most powerful and corrupt conglomerate, had its hands in everything from technology to surveillance. It wasn’t just a building; it was a symbol of control, of everything that had broken Casey. But that wasn’t all. ⸻ Not far from the tower, he spotted the radio station building—the first structure ever built in Metropolis during the Petorian era. It stood as a reminder of the dark, fascist past that had shaped the city. The towering, weathered structure still retained its old, military vibe, like a forgotten monument to an age long past. Casey’s eyes lingered on it—a symbol of oppression, the very thing he’d fought against his entire life. He couldn’t help but feel a spark of something as he gazed up at it—anger, rebellion, disgust. The Petorian past had always haunted Pongyang, and Metropolis was no exception. ⸻ The city was alive with noise—people moving in every direction, the low hum of traffic, the distant chatter of vendors selling street food. The skyline was breathtaking, even amidst the decay. But it was all so cold. So distant. As if this place was always watching. Casey didn’t know where he was going. He just knew he had to keep moving. The freedom, the air, the city… it all felt so surreal. ⸻ Suddenly, a crash echoed in the distance. Casey spun around just in time to see a dilapidated car swerve around the corner, tires screeching as it careened toward him. The car slid to a stop in front of him, throwing up dust and debris. The door swung open with a squeal, and out stumbled a figure—a girl, barely fifteen, her long hair tangled and wild. She wore a wrinkled T-shirt that looked like it hadn’t seen a washing machine in weeks, and her eyes were bloodshot, wild with something Casey couldn’t quite place. She was grinning—half-mad, half-dazed. “Well, well,” the girl slurred, her speech thick with alcohol. “What do we have here? A pretty little rebel out of his cage?” Casey instinctively took a step back, sizing her up. She was a drunken mess, her movements sloppy as she swayed on her feet. She was either too brave or too stupid to notice he was in no mood to play along. “Who the hell are you?” Casey muttered, trying to keep his distance. But the girl was already stumbling toward him, her laughter rising in pitch. “I’m your ticket outta here, pretty boy. You look lost. So why don’t you hop in? I’ll show you around.” Before he could protest, she grabbed him by the arm, yanking him toward the car. ⸻ Casey didn’t have time to react. In an instant, the world around him spun. The car’s engine revved to life, the smell of gasoline and sweat filling his nostrils. The girl slammed the gearshift into drive, and they took off into the chaotic streets of Metropolis. But Casey knew—he wasn’t running from the guards anymore. He was running from himself. Part 9: Drunk Girls Are Creeps “Freedom’s just another word for nowhere to run.” ⸻ The car weaved through Metropolis like a drunken bat out of hell, its driver laughing hysterically as they dodged potholes, pedestrians, and what might’ve been a government drone. Casey sat in the passenger seat, silent, fists clenched, jaw tight. He didn’t know her name. Didn’t care. All he knew was that this girl was unstable—and worse, drunk. She reeked of cheap vodka, smoke, and the kind of self-destruction you only find in the lower slums of Metropolis. As the skyline gave way to crumbling buildings and flickering neon signs, the car finally screeched to a halt outside a half-collapsed apartment complex tagged with graffiti that said things like “Pongyang Forever” and “We Own You.” “Welcome to my castle,” she slurred, almost proud. “Metropolis’ finest dump.” She yanked him out of the car and dragged him inside before he could protest. The halls smelled like mildew and spilled beer. A busted vending machine sparked in the corner, and someone was screaming two floors up. She pushed open the door to her unit and kicked aside some empty bottles. “Make yourself at home,” she said, flopping onto a stained mattress in the middle of the floor. “You’re lucky I found you, you know. I could tell… you’re not like the others.” Casey stood by the door, arms crossed. “What others?” She grinned at him, eyes glassy. “You’ve got that look. Like something broke you. That’s the best kind of guy… you don’t fight back as hard.” That’s when the tone changed. ⸻ She stood up slowly, wobbling slightly. Her steps were unsure but deliberate. She walked over to him, close. Too close. “You don’t talk much, huh?” she whispered. “That’s okay. I like the quiet ones.” Casey’s heart rate jumped. Something twisted in his gut. He could smell the liquor on her breath. The desperation in her voice. The way her hand brushed against his side. This wasn’t some awkward flirt. This was wrong. He backed up. “Don’t.” She smiled wider, mistaking the edge in his voice for hesitation. “What? Don’t be shy. No one’s watching out here. No government. No BnL. Just us.” Casey’s fists clenched. “I said don’t,” he repeated, firmer. She kept coming. Then something in Casey snapped. ⸻ He moved fast. Too fast for her to react. With one fluid motion, he stepped in and delivered a sharp elbow to the side of her head—not enough to kill, but just enough to send her sprawling to the floor. She hit the mattress with a soft thud, already half-unconscious from booze, her breath slowing. Casey stood over her for a second, chest heaving. His mind raced. He hadn’t wanted to hurt her. But she gave him no choice. ⸻ This world—this country—it was rotting. The people were broken. Not just from oppression. From emptiness. From lost purpose. He was one of them. And maybe… maybe he still had a little humanity left in him, even after Room 101. He grabbed her blanket, tossed it over her, and slipped out of the apartment without looking back. ⸻ The streets of Metropolis were quiet now. Late night neon buzzing. Sirens somewhere far away. Casey didn’t know where he was going. He just knew one thing: He wasn’t gonna become one of them. Not the guards. Not the monsters in the city. Not the girl passed out behind him. He’d been to the bottom. And maybe, just maybe, this was him starting to crawl his way back up. Part 10: Ashlee at Her Finest “Even monsters get morning-after regrets.” ⸻ Casey didn’t run far after knocking her out. Truth was—the door was locked from the inside, bolted shut like some kind of weird panic room. No key. No code. No escape. He searched the slum apartment with a dead stare, moving past cracked counters and food-stained dishes, finally settling in the kitchen on the cold tile floor. His back against the wall. Knees up. Arms folded. He didn’t cry. He didn’t rage. He just sat there, quiet, and eventually… fell asleep. ⸻ He woke up to sunlight crawling through a busted window and into his face. A dull headache throbbed in his temples. The world was still spinning, but slower now. Somewhere in the apartment, water was running. Casey stood up slowly, rubbing his eyes. He had no idea how long he’d been out—probably hours. It smelled cleaner now. The broken beer bottles were gone. The girl—she—was moving around the place. He peeked around the corner. She was standing at the sink, her hair tied up, face pale but alert. No more staggering. No more slurring. Just… quiet. She turned, and their eyes met. “I didn’t think you’d still be here,” she said softly. Casey didn’t answer. There was a long pause. Then she sighed and ran a hand down her face. “Listen,” she started. “I’m—uh. I’m sorry. About last night.” He didn’t say anything. Just watched her like he was waiting for the next trap. “I know what I did was creepy. Like… beyond creepy.” She glanced at the floor. “I get like that when I’m drunk. And when I feel like the world’s ending. Which it kinda is.” Still no answer. She walked over to the kitchen table and sat down across from him, holding her hands together like she was keeping herself from falling apart. “My name’s Ashlee. I’m fifteen. And I’ve been living in this dump for two years since my mom got taken by the police for singing some banned indie song. You know how it is.” Casey finally spoke, voice rough. “You locked me in.” Ashlee winced. “Yeah. I didn’t mean to trap you. It’s just… I usually lock the door so no one barges in at night. Habit.” “Bad habit.” “Yeah. I know.” She looked up at him, her voice gentler now. “You’re not like the others. You didn’t take advantage. You didn’t hurt me. You could’ve.” Casey looked away. “I don’t hurt people unless I have to.” Ashlee smiled, but it was a sad one. “That’s rare around here.” Another silence fell, this one… less tense. “I’ll unlock the door,” she said finally. “You’re free to go.” Casey didn’t move. He wasn’t sure why. Maybe because, for once, someone apologized. Maybe because he saw that even creeps had broken parts, just like him. Or maybe… because Ashlee, sober, wasn’t a monster. Just another casualty of the city. ⸻ He stood up, stretched his arms, and walked toward the door as she unbolted it. The morning air outside was thick with smog and engine smoke, but to him—it felt just a little lighter. “Where you headed?” she asked. Casey looked back over his shoulder, eyes narrowed. “Wherever they’re not looking.” Part 11: Drive “And then it hit him. How was he going to get back to Cleveland?” ⸻ The wind bit at Casey’s face as he stepped out of the slums of Metropolis. The sky was gray, the smog thicker out here, and the streets just as unforgiving. He looked around—no buses, no trains, not even a stolen bike in sight. He was ninety miles from home. No cash. No plan. No hope. He stood in the alley for a moment, staring out at the horizon like it was some kind of cruel joke. That’s when he heard her voice behind him. “I’ll take you.” He turned. Ashlee stood there in the apartment doorway, jacket half-zipped, keys in hand. Her face was serious now—sober, clear, and maybe a little scared. “You don’t have to,” Casey muttered. “I know,” she said. “But… I want to.” ⸻ The car was the same beat-up thing from the night before. It still smelled like stale energy drinks and gasoline, but now it had a blanket in the back and a bag of snacks in the front seat. Ashlee drove with both hands on the wheel, lips tight, eyes fixed on the broken highway ahead. The road out of Metropolis was cracked and lonely. The farther they got from the skyline, the more silence crept into the space between them. Casey sat in the passenger seat, arms folded, watching the trees blur by. He didn’t know what to feel. The past few days had crushed him. Room 101, the slum, the girl—Ashlee—and now this. A ride home from a stranger who, by all logic, should’ve been a problem. But wasn’t. He glanced over at her. She was focused, but not cold. The kind of focused that said she wasn’t used to driving long distances. Or being trusted. “Why are you doing this?” he asked finally. She shrugged. “I dunno. Maybe I feel guilty. Maybe I just wanted to do one good thing before I disappear into this dump again.” “You’re not a good person.” “Yeah, well… neither are you.” That shut him up. But somehow… that made things feel more human. Two broken kids, doing the best they could with what little they had. ⸻ Hours passed. The roads turned from shattered concrete to winding country lanes. They passed fields. Signs. The shell of an old Petorian checkpoint, now abandoned. And just as the sun started dipping behind the hills—Cleveland appeared. The town was small and neat. White fences. A chapel steeple. A school with a faded Pongyang flag waving above it. The streets were quiet, the air cleaner, the people stiff and Christian and suspicious. Casey leaned back in the seat and let out a long breath. “Home.” Ashlee parked near the edge of town. “You sure this is it?” she asked, glancing around. “Yeah. Trust me. No one else would paint their water tower like that.” Ashlee didn’t laugh, but she cracked the smallest smile. Then the quiet hit again. “You should go,” Casey said. “This place… it’s not kind to outsiders.” She looked down at the wheel. Fingers tapping. “I don’t really have anything to go back to,” she said. “That apartment’s a coffin. Metropolis is poison. Maybe I’ll stay. Just for a bit.” Casey blinked. “That’s a mistake.” “Maybe,” she said. “But you looked out for me when you didn’t have to. Let me return the favor.” And just like that… she stayed. ⸻ It didn’t take long for people to start asking questions. Who’s the girl? Why is she dressed like that? Where’s her guardian? The whispers followed them like flies. Casey tried to distance himself, but it was too late. Ashlee had made herself a shadow on his life now. And something deep in his chest—something dangerous—was starting to care. Part 12: Blaise “Old friends know the shape of your heart, even when it’s bruised.” ⸻ The sun was low over Cleveland when Casey stepped into town. Dust rose around his sneakers, the familiar crackle of gravel beneath his feet. The same faded flags waved from porches. The same old preacher barked from a radio outside the corner store. But one thing made this place feel real again. Blaise. Casey spotted him first—leaning against the wall near the church, fiddling with a lighter even though he didn’t smoke, like always. “Blaise!” Casey called out. The boy looked up, startled, then his face split into a huge grin. “Holy crap! Casey?!” They ran to each other like it had been years. Casey dropped his bag. Blaise threw an arm around him, slamming their backs together in a crooked hug that nearly knocked the wind out of both. “I thought you got disappeared, man! You just vanished after the trial!” Casey nodded, eyes shadowed. “They took me to The Cube. Room 101.” Blaise’s smile faded a little, but he nodded. He didn’t ask. He knew better. “I’m glad you’re back,” he said softly. “This place isn’t the same without your big mouth and that angry little punk face.” Casey smirked. “Still got the face.” The two of them fell into step, wandering back toward the square. The town looked dull, but with Blaise beside him, it didn’t feel so lifeless. ⸻ Then a voice rang out behind them. “Hey.” Both boys turned. Ashlee. She looked cleaner than she did back in Metropolis—hair brushed, wearing a borrowed sweater from the church donation bin. Her eyes were clearer, but still carried the weight of everything they’d been through. Blaise raised a brow. “Who’s this?” Casey paused. “Ashlee. She… drove me back. Helped me escape.” Ashlee smiled faintly. “Nice to meet you. You must be Blaise. He talked about you.” Blaise tilted his head, studying her. “Did he now?” Casey shot him a look. “Don’t start.” But it had already started. ⸻ The rest of the afternoon was chaos wrapped in smiles. Ashlee stayed close. Blaise stayed closer. They both laughed too hard at Casey’s jokes. They both offered to carry his bag. They both gave each other side-eyes and fake laughs and polite small talk that had veiled daggers hidden inside. Casey could feel it building—like watching a storm in the distance. Two forces colliding. Both with their own gravity. One was his best friend. The other, the girl who dragged him out of hell. He didn’t know what he felt for Ashlee. He didn’t know what Blaise was feeling either. But he did know what was happening. This wasn’t just reunion. This was war. Part 13: Obsessed “It didn’t happen all at once. That’s how madness wins.” ⸻ It started small. Like a flicker in the corner of Casey’s mind—barely a spark, easy to ignore. At first, it was just thoughts. Curious ones. Wondering where Ashlee was, what she was doing, if she was okay. Normal stuff, right? “She’s new,” he told himself. “That’s all. She helped me. It’s just respect. Gratitude.” But then it crept in deeper. ⸻ When Blaise talked about the underground punk show happening in Lethbridge, Casey barely listened. Instead, he turned the conversation. “You think Ashlee would like that kind of music?” “Huh? I dunno. We were talking about Kaari’s guitar solo, bro—” “Yeah, but like… imagine Ashlee there. She’d be so into it.” Blaise frowned. ⸻ When Jude ran up with a stupid joke about Coralann slipping on cafeteria meatloaf, Casey didn’t laugh. He was too busy staring out the window, chin in hand, mumbling to himself. “She probably hasn’t had lunch yet… Wonder if she even eats meatloaf.” Jude blinked. “Who?” Casey didn’t answer. ⸻ When Kenny returned from The Cube, emotionless and stiff, reciting Pongyang nationalist quotes like they were gospel, Casey tried to talk to him—really tried. But even that spiraled. “You ever think people only get brainwashed because they don’t have someone like Ashlee around?” he asked. Kenny blinked once. “I have renounced distractions. And so should you.” Casey chuckled. “Guess not.” ⸻ He scribbled her name in the margins of notebooks. Doodled her boots. Her old jacket. That chipped tooth when she smirked. He started listening to the music she liked. Changed his route to “coincidentally” bump into her. Memorized the curve of her laugh like it was a prayer. He didn’t even realize he was falling off the edge. Not yet. But Blaise noticed. “You’ve changed,” he said one afternoon. Casey raised an eyebrow. “So?” “You’re not the same since you got back.” “Since Ashlee helped me, you mean?” Blaise gritted his teeth. “That’s not what I—” “Face it, man,” Casey snapped. “She gets it. More than anyone here. More than you.” The silence between them went nuclear. ⸻ Casey lay awake that night in his room, staring at the ceiling, headphones playing some half-broken synth track that reminded him of her voice. He couldn’t think about music anymore without thinking of her. He couldn’t walk to school without scanning for her face. He couldn’t look at himself in the mirror without wondering if she still saw him as brave. ⸻ It wasn’t love. It was consumption. And Casey didn’t notice he was burning until the smoke was everywhere. Part 14: Coralann Fucks It Up Like Usual “Some dinners are quiet. This one was nuclear.” ⸻ Casey sat in the backseat, arms crossed, glaring at the dashboard like it personally betrayed him. His mom was up front, humming some church song like nothing was wrong. Like she hadn’t just dragged him out of the house and tossed him into this domestic nightmare. Dad sat in the passenger seat, looking just as miserable, staring dead ahead like a prisoner on the way to the firing squad. “You’re going to smile,” Mom said sweetly. “You’re going to be polite. And you’re going to be grateful that Coralann’s family invited us over for dinner.” Casey clenched his jaw. “Coralann’s a goblin. A pompous, self-righteous goblin with the personality of a brick and the voice of a lawnmower.” Mom’s smile didn’t fade. “She’s a respectable girl, Casey. And her parents are very active in the church. We’re trying to build connections.” Dad muttered, “We’re trying to survive this dictatorship.” “What was that, Gerald?” “Nothing, honey.” ⸻ The Coralann residence was pastel hell. Doilies. Cross-stitch verses. The air smelled like boiled cabbage and disappointment. Coralann answered the door with her signature smug half-smile, hair pulled back so tight it looked like she’d had a facelift at age thirteen. “Hi, Casey,” she said in that fake voice. “Coralann,” he replied flatly. She led them into the dining room where her parents were already seated—smiling like Stepford robots—and dinner began. Bland potatoes. Overcooked meat. Water, of course. No one in Coralann’s house believed in “sinful” beverages like soda. Casey poked at his food and wished he could teleport. “So, Casey,” Coralann’s mother began, “your mother tells us you’ve had a rough few weeks. Correctional centers? That must’ve been… sobering.” Casey didn’t answer. He shoved a potato into his mouth like it owed him money. “And she tells me you’ve been spending time with a new friend?” Coralann asked, voice thick with venomous curiosity. Casey looked up, chewing slow. “Yeah. Her name’s Ashlee.” Mistake. Number. One. The room shifted. His mom stiffened. Coralann’s mother’s smile twitched. Coralann herself blinked once—tight, calculating. “Is she… from around here?” her dad asked, tone suddenly colder. “She’s from Metropolis,” Casey said, daring them to challenge him. “Oh,” Coralann muttered. “One of those.” “What’s that supposed to mean?” Casey shot back. Coralann leaned forward, her eyes narrow and glinting. “It’s just… Metropolis girls don’t usually have the best… reputation. Especially the ones who wander into good towns and corrupt decent boys.” Casey’s fork hit the plate with a clatter. “She saved my life,” he said. “She didn’t corrupt anything.” Coralann’s smile sharpened like a knife. “Maybe you’re just easy to corrupt.” Before anyone could stop him, Casey stood up. “I’m done here.” “Sit. Down,” his mom hissed. “No,” Casey said, voice rising. “I’d rather be in The Cube again than sit across from this smug gremlin pretending she’s doing me a favor by existing.” Coralann gasped. Her mother shrieked. Her father slammed a hand on the table. But Casey? Casey was already walking out the door. Dad followed without a word. Mom stayed behind, red-faced and apologizing. ⸻ As they drove back through the quiet streets of Cleveland, Dad finally looked over. “You were right, kid. She is a goblin.” For the first time all day, Casey laughed. But it didn’t reach his eyes. Part 15: Ashlee vs. Coralann “Lines were drawn. Hearts were tested. And one truth shattered everything.” ⸻ It started in the school yard. It always starts in the school yard. Word got around about “The Dinner Incident.” Coralann, as expected, told her version—the one where Casey lost his mind and insulted her family for no reason. Casey didn’t bother defending himself. He didn’t need to. People had eyes. But when Ashlee showed up to school that morning—wearing her old denim jacket and chipped black nail polish—Coralann made the first move. Loudly. Publicly. “So that’s the Metropolis rat,” Coralann said to her little swarm of loyal girls. “Didn’t realize the garbage truck dropped her off this early.” Ashlee turned around slow. “I didn’t realize smug preachers’ kids still talked trash with dollar store lip gloss.” Someone oohed. Tension snapped. Coralann squared up. “Why are you even here? We don’t need your kind infecting Cleveland.” Ashlee smirked. “Last I checked, the only infection around here was your personality.” Casey was across the yard when it happened, mid-convo with Blaise and Jude. He heard it before he saw it—someone shouting, then the crowd gathering like a black hole. By the time he got there, it was already full-blown. Coralann had lunged first. Ashlee didn’t flinch—she countered. One sharp slap to the shoulder. Coralann shrieked. Hair was pulled. Names were thrown. Jude almost dropped his sandwich. It. Was. War. ⸻ Teachers broke it up, but the schoolyard lines had been drawn. Sides formed instantly. Team Coralann: Coralann (obviously) Kins (1) from Clancy Jude (surprisingly) Carson (only because he liked drama) Team Ashlee: Casey Blaise Kaari Tegan Kenny stood dead center. Blank. Still repeating nationalist phrases under his breath like a broken cassette. Tension bled through the halls for days. ⸻ Then came the moment that cracked Casey open. They were sitting behind the school, Casey and Ashlee, skipping last period. Ashlee had a bandage on her arm, Coralann’s nails had left a mark. “Why’d you take the hit?” Casey asked. “You didn’t have to fight her.” Ashlee looked up at the clouds. “I’ve fought worse things in worse places. Coralann’s just another loud mouth with church-funded hairspray.” He smiled. Then she turned to him, face suddenly serious. “I need to tell you something.” Casey blinked. “What?” Ashlee hesitated. For once, the snark dropped. Her voice softened. “I didn’t just help you because I felt bad… I helped you because I saw something in you. Something familiar. And the truth is… I like you, Casey.” His breath hitched. “I really like you.” For a second, the world stopped spinning. All the noise, all the chaos, the shouting, the fighting—it all melted into static. Casey’s face lit up in a way it hadn’t since before The Cube. Since before all of it. He didn’t know what to say. He just grinned like a dork. “You serious?” Ashlee nodded. “As serious as a girl from Metropolis can be.” He laughed, full and real. For the first time in months, Casey Smith felt like himself again. Not a broken boy. Not a victim. Not a punk on the edge. Just a kid In love In the middle of Lethbridge County. Part 16: You Know Where This Is Going “It was no longer just a crush. It was gravity.” ⸻ They couldn’t focus in class. Casey would sit in the third row, Ashlee in the back, but their eyes always found each other. Every time the teacher turned around to write on the board, Ashlee mouthed some inside joke. Casey would smirk, sometimes choke back a laugh. Their notebooks were filled with dumb doodles of each other’s initials. He’d draw her boots. She’d draw his messy hair. When the bell rang, they moved like magnets—drawn to each other through the halls, their hands brushing, whispers trailing behind them like ghosts. ⸻ In the lunchroom, they’d sit in their own little world. Blaise rolled his eyes constantly. Jude made jokes. Coralann still seethed from across the room. But they didn’t care. They talked about music. Old horror movies. What it felt like to fall apart and put yourself back together again. “I like your scars,” Ashlee said one day, tracing the faded bruise on his wrist. Casey looked away. “They’re not pretty.” “They’re real.” ⸻ After school, they’d sit on the back steps of the community center, sharing stale vending machine chips and watching the sun sink behind the Lethbridge hills. One evening, Ashlee leaned her head on his shoulder. “Is it bad that I don’t want to go home?” Casey didn’t answer for a long time. “I feel more at home with you than anywhere else,” he finally said. ⸻ Eventually, they couldn’t stay apart. Not even for a night. So Casey snuck out. His mom had gone to bed early. His dad didn’t ask questions. Ashlee left her window unlocked. They didn’t do anything—they just laid there, side by side, in the quiet. Talking. Breathing. Staring at the ceiling like it held the answers to every broken part of them. Her room smelled like faded perfume and rebellion. His heart was louder than the crickets outside. “I don’t wanna lose this,” Casey whispered. Ashlee reached for his hand beneath the blanket. “You won’t.” ⸻ They weren’t just obsessed. They were surviving each other. Part 17: Where the LGBT Drama Infuriates the Story “In Pongyang, the truth doesn’t matter—just the accusation.” ⸻ It happened during lunch. Jacob—big, smug, and mean for sport—was bored. And when Jacob was bored, someone always paid for it. Kenny was sitting alone again. Ever since his first trip to The Cube, he hadn’t quite been the same. The old Kenny—the quiet, kind one who used to trade pencils and smile like he knew a secret—was long gone. What came back was… mechanical. He wore his uniform sharp, eyes empty, like a walking Pongyang poster. But today he had a book. A slim one, tucked behind his tray of food. Jacob saw it. He never missed an opening. “What’s that, Kenny?” he called out across the table. “Another Taoist romance novel?” Kenny said nothing. “Oh wait—maybe it’s a gay Taoist romance novel.” Some of the others laughed. It was loud, stupid, and pointless. But in Pongyang, that kind of joke wasn’t just a joke. By the end of the day, the school principal had called Kenny into his office. Two officers were already there, waiting. ⸻ Casey heard about it from Blaise first. “They took Kenny. Again,” Blaise said, jaw tight. “What?” Casey blinked. “Why?” “They said he was a deviant. Jacob snitched, made up some story about Kenny ‘confessing’ something to him. It was bull.” Casey clenched his fists. His fingers went white. “He’s not even gay.” “Doesn’t matter here,” Blaise muttered. “You know that.” ⸻ By that night, the whole town knew. The Cube had another resident. Kenny’s mother had tried begging the council, but they’d already signed the order. “For the moral good of society,” they said. Casey walked through the cold fields alone that evening, hands in his coat, blood boiling. It didn’t matter what Kenny believed. It didn’t matter who he was. All that mattered was that someone said something. In Pongyang, that was enough. Truth had no place. Only loyalty. Only fear. ⸻ That night, Ashlee found him on the swings behind the school. “You okay?” “No.” She sat beside him. The chains creaked. “This place is rotting,” he said. “It’s always been rotten,” she replied. Casey looked at the stars, but they didn’t comfort him. Not tonight. Part 18: Mom and Coralann “Sometimes the ones who love you the most are the ones who don’t listen at all.” ⸻ The kitchen reeked of cheap spaghetti and resentment. Casey sat at the table, stabbing a meatball like it owed him money. His mom was across from him, sipping tea she never finished. His dad was somewhere in the garage pretending the water heater needed four hours of attention. It had been days since Kenny got dragged back to The Cube, and Casey hadn’t said more than twenty words since. But today wasn’t about Kenny. Today, it was about her. Again. “So,” his mom began, trying to sound casual, “Coralann’s mom told me she’s been asking about you.” Casey didn’t even look up. “Cool,” he muttered. “She’s a nice girl, you know. Comes from a good family. Her father’s on the council.” Casey clenched his fork. “So was Mussolini.” His mom shot him a look. “Don’t be smart. Coralann has ambition. Goals. Faith. She’s someone who could really straighten you out.” “I’m not a bent nail, Mom.” “She’s thinking of applying for the Youth Parliament next year.” Casey scoffed. “Yeah, maybe then she can finally outlaw laughter.” ⸻ It was like this every week. His mom would “casually” mention Coralann’s latest achievement. How she organized a school fundraiser. How she aced her nationalist theory exam. How she got a letter of recognition from the mayor. Every time, it was the same message under her words: “Be like her.” “Date her.” “Fix yourself.” But she never mentioned Ashlee. Not once. ⸻ Later that evening, Casey sat in his room with the lights off, listening to an old Cure cassette Ashlee had found in a thrift store. The lyrics whispered things no one else could say to him. Things that felt real. Then came the knock. Three soft taps. Hesitant. “Come in,” he mumbled. His mom opened the door, arms crossed like she was about to negotiate with a hostage. “I just… I worry about you, Case.” He didn’t answer. She stepped inside, slow. “I know you think I don’t understand, but Coralann is safe. She’s the kind of girl that could help you get back on track. She’s sweet, she’s polite, she believes in the Republic—” “She’s a snake.” His mom blinked. Casey sat up, voice sharper now. “She’s manipulative, fake, and mean when no one’s looking. You don’t see that, because she puts on a good show. But I know her, Mom. I’ve seen who she really is.” “You’re blinded by that girl from Metropolis.” “Her name is Ashlee.” “She’s trouble.” “She’s real.” ⸻ Silence. The kind that stretches too far. His mom stared at him like she didn’t recognize the boy in front of her anymore. Then, her voice cracked. “You don’t know what’s best for you.” “Neither do you.” She left without another word. ⸻ The next day, Casey found a carefully folded note in his backpack, slipped between books like a secret. “Dinner with Coralann’s family. Friday. Wear something respectful. Love, Mom.” At the bottom, underlined twice: “Don’t embarrass me again.” Part 19: The Forced Date “Nothing says romance like a fascist dinner party.” ⸻ Friday came like a funeral. Casey stood in front of the mirror, buttoning a stiff collared shirt his mom had picked out. It itched like guilt. His hair wouldn’t stay down, his eyes looked hollow, and the whole thing felt like dressing up for an execution. “Smile,” his mom said before they left. “Please.” He didn’t. ⸻ The house was cold, modern, and way too clean. Coralann’s family lived in one of those upper-level government developments at the edge of Lethbridge—quiet, gated, sterile. The dining room had portraits of dead politicians and crosses on every wall. Coralann’s dad talked about taxes and grain policies. Her mom offered bland stew and fake laughs. Casey chewed like he was being held hostage. And then there was her. Coralann. Wearing some frilly white thing like she was applying for sainthood. Every sentence she spoke felt like a trap. “So, Casey,” she purred over her glass of non-alcoholic wine, “I heard you’ve been spending a lot of time with that Metropolis girl…” Casey didn’t answer. “She’s from the slums, right?” Coralann added, feigning innocence. “Must be nice to have someone who lets you crash in their kitchen.” His mom cleared her throat sharply. Casey’s fork scraped his plate. “You know,” Coralann continued, twirling a spoon like a dagger, “some people are calling it obsessive. I mean, yandere levels of obsession. That’s a little embarrassing, don’t you think?” He looked up. Her smirk was razor-thin. “Honestly,” she went on, leaning closer, “it’s kinda pathetic how hard you fell for a girl who’ll probably ghost you the second she sobers up. I mean, who falls in love in a correctional center’s backyard, right?” That was it. Casey pushed his chair back, slow and deliberate, metal legs squealing on tile. His mom gave him that desperate, pleading look—but he didn’t care. He stood. Faced Coralann. Then gave her the most perfect, unbothered middle finger in Pongyang history. “Keep dreaming about my ass.” He walked out. Didn’t even wait for his mom. The door slammed behind him, echoing down the cold street. ⸻ He didn’t stop walking until the stars were overhead and his boots were covered in dust. Ashlee’s name pulsed in his head like a heartbeat. Real. Wild. Flawed. His. And somewhere deep in the cold night of Lethbridge County, he started laughing. Loud. Unfiltered. Free. Part 20: Two Problems. One Answer “When the world stops listening, the only thing left to do is run.” ⸻ The days after the Coralann dinner were like being stuck in a pot of slowly boiling water. Casey’s mom barely looked at him. When she did, it was with pursed lips and disappointment so thick it might’ve been state-issued. “You embarrassed me,” she finally snapped one morning. “You humiliated a family who has been nothing but kind. Coralann was willing to give you a chance.” Casey laughed. “A chance? Like she’s the lottery and I’m some broke idiot with a scratch ticket?” She slammed the table. “You think this Ashlee girl is going to make a future with you? She’s a nobody, Casey. A drunk Metropolis brat who couldn’t even keep her own life together.” “She’s more real than Coralann will ever be.” Silence. His mother’s eyes went cold. Then, quieter: “If you don’t end things with her, you can pack your things and go live in the slums with her.” Casey stood there for a second. Let the words hang. Then said, “Alright. Don’t say I didn’t try.” ⸻ At school, it got worse. Jacob had a new target now. Ashlee. It started with snide whispers behind her back—“used goods”, “Metroslut”, “trash girl”. Then it escalated to rumors. Someone put a drawing of her in the boys’ bathroom—ugly, vulgar, wrong. She ripped it down herself. One day, Jacob tripped her in the cafeteria. She fell hard—tray and everything. The whole school watched her pick her pride up off the floor while Jacob laughed like a damn cartoon villain. Casey didn’t even think. He grabbed Jacob by the collar and punched him. Right there. In front of everyone. He didn’t care. Blood hit the linoleum. Screams. Teachers. Chaos. ⸻ That night, Casey sat on the swings behind the school again—his bruised knuckles stinging, his future probably wrecked. Suspension at best. Expulsion if the principal felt particularly loyal to Jacob’s dad, who sat on the Party Youth Board. Ashlee showed up, as she always did. She didn’t say anything. Just sat beside him, pulled out a flask, and offered him a sip. He shook his head. She smiled. “Didn’t think so.” After a long silence, Casey finally spoke. “I can’t do this anymore.” “Which part?” “All of it. My mom. School. Coralann. Jacob. This town. This whole fake, suffocating place.” Ashlee nodded. She was quiet for a minute. Then said, “Let’s run.” He looked at her. “What?” “Let’s just go. I’ve got an old moped. We fill it up, head east, maybe Blue, maybe Golia. Anywhere but here.” “Ashlee… we’re kids.” She grinned. “Then let’s be runaway kids. Bonnie and Clyde style. You and me.” ⸻ By midnight, they had packed bags. Casey took what little cash he had, a Walkman with some tapes, a knife his dad left behind years ago, and Ashlee’s leather jacket—which she insisted he wear. She took two changes of clothes, her flask, a cheap radio, and a half-scribbled map from the back of a Pongyang tourist pamphlet. They met by the fields, engine humming low. Casey looked back at the faint lights of Lethbridge, glowing sickly in the distance. He thought of Blaise. Of Kenny. Of Coralann’s smug face. Of his mom crying in the kitchen, probably blaming everything on “teen hormones.” Then he looked at Ashlee—wind in her hair, eyes electric with danger and freedom. “Let’s go,” he said. And just like that, they rode off into the night. Not perfect. Not heroes. But free. Part 21: It Was All Great (Until We Got Caught) “You never really feel free until you see the blue lights coming after you.” ⸻ The moped sputtered, hissed, and finally roared to life like it, too, was tired of Lethbridge. Ashlee drove. Casey held on tight, his chin against her shoulder, the cool Pongyang wind in his face and his heart pumping harder than it had in months. They didn’t even have a destination—just a direction. East. Anywhere but home. ⸻ The first few hours were magic. No lies, no guilt, no Coralann, no stupid rules. They stopped at a gas station on the edge of the Lethbridge County line—an old rundown place with peeling posters and half-working neon lights. Ashlee stole a pack of gum. Casey paid for two energy drinks. Neither of them spoke about what they were doing. They didn’t need to. By morning, they had reached the edge of the Blue Mountains, and Ashlee found an old abandoned radio tower from the Petorian days. It stood crooked, rusted, and defiant. They climbed to the roof, lay on a broken tarp under the sunrise, and watched the clouds drift like lazy revolutionaries. It was the kind of peace that felt stolen. Illegal. Beautiful. ⸻ They camped in a half-collapsed shack near the base of the mountain that night. Ashlee lit a small fire. Casey pulled out his Walkman and let Depeche Mode’s “But Not Tonight” fill the empty space between them. They talked for hours. About dreams. About what life might be like in Blue. About starting over. About maybe—just maybe—being something more than broken kids in a broken country. Then, under the stars and the smoke, they kissed. It wasn’t perfect. It wasn’t polished. It was real. He didn’t feel like a punk or a thought criminal. He felt human again. Alive. They curled up together in the blanket and let the wind howl outside like a warning they were too stubborn to hear. ⸻ It was dawn when they got caught. The Thought Police came fast—black trucks with screaming tires and red lights that cut through the fog like fire. Someone must’ve seen them at the gas station. Maybe Coralann ratted. Maybe Jacob. Maybe Casey’s own mom. Didn’t matter. Two officers grabbed Casey and slammed him to the dirt. Ashlee screamed and tried to run, but another two tackled her. Casey fought—bit, kicked, cursed—until the butt of a rifle cracked his jaw and the sky went spinning. They zip-tied his hands. Dragged him to the truck. Ashlee was shoved into the back beside him. Her lip was bleeding. One eye swollen. “I’m sorry,” she whispered, barely able to speak. He shook his head, blood running from his nose. “No,” he croaked. “It was worth it.” The truck door slammed shut. Darkness. Engine. Chains. And just like that, the moped dreams died on a cold concrete floor. Part 22: “O’Brien, We Meet Again” “The Party doesn’t care what you love—only that you love It more.” ⸻ The Cube smelled like bleach, metal, and memories Casey had tried to forget. His head pounded. His mouth tasted like blood and iron. When the black sack was finally ripped off, he found himself in the same room as before—gray walls, no windows, one flickering light above. He was strapped down again. Same chair. Same restraints. Same soul-crushing chill. Footsteps echoed down the corridor like a funeral march. Then the door opened. In walked O’Brien. Same stiff suit. Same smug calm. Same eyes that looked like they belonged to a man who’d never once had to question the rules he lived under. “Casey,” he said, like he was greeting an old friend. “We meet again.” Casey didn’t speak. His jaw ached too much anyway. O’Brien paced slowly, hands behind his back. “You know, I warned you. I told you once before that rebellion is a delusion. That feelings are a sickness.” He stopped. Turned to face Casey directly. “But you didn’t listen. You ran. You fled into the arms of a girl—a girl who only reminded you how weak you are.” Casey grunted, bloodied lip curling into a half-smile. “She’s still worth more than all your lies.” O’Brien’s expression didn’t change. But something behind his eyes darkened. “You think that was love?” he asked. “No. That was escape. Desperation wrapped in hormones.” He leaned in, voice low. “The truth is, Casey—love is temporary. Lust fades. Dreams rot. But the Party… the Party is forever. President Stevens is forever. Pongyang is forever.” Casey didn’t reply. But his silence was enough. O’Brien stood up straight. “Very well,” he said. “You still believe. You still hope. Let’s fix that.” He snapped his fingers. Two guards wheeled in a machine—cold, jagged, cruel. Wires and needles and clamps. “This is not Room 101,” O’Brien said. “No. That’s for later.” He stepped close to Casey, and placed a hand on his shoulder like a priest before a sacrifice. “This is just… a warm-up.” ⸻ The machine hissed. Electricity cracked. Pain followed. It wasn’t just physical. They showed him recordings of Ashlee—beaten, handcuffed, silent. They played Coralann’s voice saying, “He’s dangerous. He needs help.” They injected him with truth serum, then asked questions designed to fracture his soul. “Do you believe in the President?” “Do you still love her?” “Will you serve the Party with your life?” He bit his tongue through it all. Until he could barely remember why he was even resisting. ⸻ Then O’Brien leaned down again, voice like a whispering snake. “You still don’t get it, do you? You think this is about pain. About power. No, Casey… this is about control.” He straightened. “Soon, you won’t just fear the Party. You’ll love it.” And then? “Room 101,” O’Brien said, with a twisted smile. “You’ll be ready soon.” Part 23: The End of a Love “If you want a vision of the future, imagine a heart beating for a flag… forever.” ⸻ Room 101 was silent. No screaming. No flames. No wires. Just Ashlee. She stood behind the glass, her eyes empty, her expression blank. Two Thought Officers stood beside her, arms crossed, faces like stone. Casey was shackled to a chair once again—cold cuffs biting into his wrists, the air sterile and sharp. O’Brien stood in the corner, arms folded, watching like a scientist who had finally perfected his experiment. Then the speaker crackled. It was Ashlee’s voice. Flat. Robotic. Dead. “I don’t love you, Casey.” He flinched. “I never did. You’re pathetic. A traitor. A freak.” Casey’s jaw trembled. “No…” “I hope they erase you. You’re not even worth this chair.” She stepped closer to the glass, face tight and cold. “You should die.” ⸻ The words hit harder than any blade. Than any baton. Than any electric shock. He wanted to scream, to bang the chair against the floor, to rip off the shackles and tell her it wasn’t true—that she knew it wasn’t true. But he couldn’t. Because a deeper part of him… the tired, beaten part… started to believe her. ⸻ Then the speakers changed. A new sound filled the room. Trumpets. Strings. A rising choir. The Pongyangish National Anthem. That same anthem he’d mocked. That he’d blocked out for years in school assemblies and TV propaganda. But now… Now it felt warm. Safe. Familiar. He could hear Stevens’ voice, deep and proud: “Our blood, our soul, for Pongyang whole. For order. For strength. For truth.” And something in Casey… cracked. ⸻ He stopped struggling. His head lifted. He saw the flag behind the glass, bold and crimson, with the golden eagle clawing the Petorian snake. It was beautiful. Why had he ever hated it? O’Brien leaned in and whispered, “There’s your love now.” And he was right. Ashlee had betrayed him. Faded. Failed. But the Party had never left him. President Stevens had always watched over him. Guided him. Protected him. Tears slid down Casey’s cheeks—but not from pain. From clarity. For the first time in his life, he felt truly safe. Truly loyal. Truly home. ⸻ O’Brien smiled as he unshackled him. “Welcome back, Casey.” And Casey stood up, saluted the flag, and whispered: “I love Pongyang. I love President Stevens. I was wrong before.” Part 24: The Aftermath “He smiled. But it wasn’t real. Nothing was, anymore—not unless it bore the eagle and star.” ⸻ Cleveland looked the same. Dusty roads, overgrown fields, the chapel bell still rang at 7:00 sharp. But Casey Smith didn’t look the same. He wore his uniform now. Tucked-in shirt, polished boots, a red armband with the Party crest on his left arm. Hair cut short. Expression blank. Eyes forward. He walked home without a sound, step in rhythm with the anthem still echoing in his mind. When he opened the door, his mother cried. Not because she feared he was dead—but because he was finally “normal.” “Coralann will be happy to hear you’re back,” she said, dabbing her eyes. “She’s such a sweet girl. And you will call her, right?” He nodded. “Yes, mother.” No sarcasm. No rebellion. Just obedience. ⸻ At school, the difference was even sharper. He didn’t sit with Blaise. Or Jude. Or Kins. Not even Tegan. If Blaise waved or tried to talk, Casey just gave him a distant nod and kept walking. He never stepped foot near Ashlee’s old desk again. He didn’t flinch when he passed the Thought Officers in the hallway. He stood for the anthem. He recited the pledge. He corrected anyone who slipped up. When someone said “Pride Month” by accident, Casey raised his hand. When someone mocked the President’s voice, Casey reported them. Even the teachers looked at him differently now—like they feared him, but also… approved. ⸻ The only one he ever really talked to was Kenny. But Kenny was different now, too. They’d both been through The Cube. They had matching scars, even if no one could see them. “So,” Kenny said one day, walking beside him after chapel, “you feel it too?” Casey nodded. “Peace.” Neither of them smiled. It wasn’t joy. Not really. But it was something quieter. Something… still. They didn’t need music anymore. Or friends. Or love. They had Pongyang. They had the President. And that was enough. ⸻ That night, as he stood in his room, staring at the framed photo of Casey Stevens on his wall, he said it out loud: “I am loyal. I am proud. I am cured.” And then he turned off the light. And slept, dreamless. Part 25: Game of Chess “The pieces never really mattered. It was always the board.” ⸻ The Cleveland café hadn’t changed. Same flickering light above the counter. Same old radio playing hushed propaganda ballads. Same government posters lining the cracked walls—Victory Starts With You, Watch Your Thoughts, Stevens Is Strength. But Casey Smith had changed. He sat at a small corner table, back straight, eyes sharp, uniform pristine. A half-finished coffee sat in front of him, untouched. Across from him, the chessboard was already set. White and black. Order and chaos. Loyalty and doubt. Then the bell above the café door jingled. Ashlee walked in. She wore gray—like a ghost. Same lifeless expression. Same quiet, robotic movements. But Casey’s heart jolted, just for a second, like a flicker of something that once lived. She saw him. Walked toward him. Sat down. No hello. She moved a pawn forward. “E4,” she said softly. He countered. “E5.” ⸻ They played for ten minutes before either spoke. Neither of them looked at the other. Only the board. “I miss… music,” Ashlee said flatly, staring at the knight in her hand. “Remember music?” “No,” Casey replied. “Music distracts from duty.” Silence. More pieces fell. More silence. Then Ashlee whispered, “I’m sorry.” Casey didn’t respond right away. He moved his queen, taking her bishop. Then looked up at her with dead but understanding eyes. “No,” he said. “It was my fault. All of it. I wasn’t strong enough. I deserved what happened.” She blinked. Something flickered in her face, but it was quickly crushed by duty. “I wish it didn’t end this way,” she murmured. ⸻ Suddenly, the café radio crackled. Everyone turned. A woman’s voice—shaky, breathless with excitement. “Breaking news: Pongyang and its great ally Bluedom have emerged victorious! The Bluedom Rebellion has been crushed. Our borders are safe. The President will speak shortly!” The room erupted in polite applause. The anthem played. Trumpets. Strings. Choir. Everyone in the café stood. So did Ashlee. And Casey. ⸻ As the music swelled, a tear rolled down Casey’s cheek. But not from sadness. It was pride. It was belonging. It was victory. He looked up at the flag hanging in the corner of the café—red, gold, and unshaken. And whispered, almost to himself: “I love you, Casey Stevens.”