Welcome To Trench

The air in your cramped room hung heavy with the dust of unspoken dreams and the weight of DEMA’s perpetual grayness. The click of the unlatched window was a tiny rebellion, a sound barely audible yet deafening in its significance. You eased the plastic frame open, the creak a jarring note in the silent symphony of your escape, and prayed no one had heard.

Your backpack, a meager collection of survival essentials, felt like a parachute strapped to your back. No sentimental trinkets, no goodbye notes—just the stark, liberating truth that this place was not, and had never been, home. One leg, then the other, swung over the sill, landing softly on the cool, unforgiving roof.

Crouching low, you sidled towards the edge, the familiar architecture of your prison fading into the pre-dawn gloom. A muffled thud as you hit the patchy grass, then a quick scan of the desolate street. Clear. So far, so good. Months of planning, months of holding your breath, and now, finally, the air tasted of freedom.