Eshe hates this. Hates that she has to say a speech on this stupid camera. Hates Kael's smug fucking look. He's known about this entire plan—this polished, premeditated culling orchestrated by the rich and powerful—and told no one. Nobody.

Well, until now. Because she is the one presenting it. Her voice will be spliced, re-cut, lacquered in soft music and false hope for the people of CES to consume. But everyone else—those in the DR and the UPL? They'll be left behind to die with the planet.

What about those lives? Ten billion isn't a small number. It's everything.

She clears her throat, jaw tight. The ceremonial garb clings to her, wrapped too tight around her ribs and hips—the same uniform they used for CES spies at that masquerade disaster two years ago. It wasn't even supposed to be worn like this. Just another spectacle.

And yet she looks ethereal. They always say that. White cloth arranged in sharp folds around her frame like she was sculpted, not born. A small piece of sandalwood is tucked into her hair—Tevaka's final gift. He'd styled it for her that morning with hands that trembled too much. She had smiled, even if only for him.

"Camera's on in five!" someone shouts across the hollow, echoing set.

Yes, yes, she thinks bitterly, and then I'll act like a fucking puppet, cooing that the world we know is fucking over.

She stands still. Motionless. Eyes locked on the space where Kael should be. He's not here, of course. Probably off somewhere erasing files, whispering orders, sweeping up the blood trail from his little rebellion mole. Good. Let it all burn.

"Okay, ready Eshe?" the producer says behind the camera.

Her molars grind. At least he pronounced her name correctly. The set is a digital farce—holograms of a tranquil lake and lush forest, soft wind sounds playing through hidden speakers. All of it long since burned.

She knows the speech. It's short. Simple. Deceitful. She almost laughs when the first camera glitches out—even the tech doesn't want to do this—but then they roll the second one. Lights burn into her face.

She doesn't smile.

"People of CES. Old and young. Everyone in between." Her voice is measured. Clear. "Listen closely when I say this. Our world is over."

She walks forward, camera tracking her through the illusion of green trees, petals falling like slow ash. "Kael has confirmed that nuclear war is inevitable—an answer to our uprising. But we should've known our planet was already dead. When water became a battlefield. When fire stopped making headlines."

She pauses—according to script—to bend and pluck a flower. White, synthetic. She tucks it into her hair beside Tevaka's sandalwood. Behind her, the illusion of nature begins to collapse. Forest flickers to rot. To flame.

"Only 0.0001% of the population was saved and taken off Earth. Ten-thousandths. Ten thousand people out of ten billion. Ten thousand doesn't even fill a single block of a city."

She approaches a glowing river projection, dipping her fingers into light. "Kael's solution is a bunker—an artificial cradle to keep us alive while the Earth dies above. A shelter for some. Not all."

Not the kids in the UPL. Not the mothers in the DR. Not the sick. Not the inconvenient.

Fake explosions shatter the scenery behind her. Earth reduced to cinders.

"We don't know when the first bombs will fall. But if you live in a major city, you'll be assisted to one of the entry points. Doors close in three days."

She turns now, facing the lens. Blackened trees behind her. Ash clinging to her robes. She kneels and places the flower into the dirt. The only color left.

"When the Earth is safe again, humanity will return. Not us, but our descendants. Raise them better than we were. Tell them the stories worth keeping."

The flower begins to bloom in glowing soil.

"We don't want to make the same mistakes, do we?"

The broadcast ends. The camera clicks. No applause. No voices. Just silence.

It's over. Finally over. No more being propped up in ceremonial cloth. No more being dressed like hope.

Tevaka should've given the speech. But he had broken when Kael told him what was coming. Said he'd rather die under sun and sand. But Kael made sure his bodyguard kept him alive.

And anyway... Tevaka didn't sound the way they needed. A man doesn't comfort the way a woman does. Not in their optics. They still want gentleness. Wombs. A nurturing hand to bless the slaughter.

Eshe walks off set. Nobody follows. No one calls out. Not even a thank you. The bunker halls are sterile and windowless, everything the same muted beige. She passes families dragging bags, children clutching masks, men with dead eyes. Some people whisper when they recognize her, but no one speaks to her.

She keeps walking. Finds a utility corridor, an alcove behind stacked crates. Sits. Breathes.

And breaks.

She cries into her hands, soft and trembling. Her voice is nothing. Her tears are silent. She hears the awe of others echoing faintly through the corridor—excited about the dome roofs, the glassless classrooms, the artificial sun in Sector 9.

Let them play house.

Then—footsteps. Slow. Approaching.

A shadow falls over her.

"Eshe?" a voice says. Her real name. Pronounced right.

She lifts her head. Tears still in her eyes.