The whole world watched as the coffin was lowered into the earth.
It was a cold, crisp morning in Geneva, and the funeral of Prime Minister Julian Hart had drawn more global attention than any state leader in decades. Not because of the man, but because of his sudden, unexplained death.
Every screen in the square was framed by blue and gold banners, digital projectors reflecting unity and peace. Cameras hovered on drones. Soldiers in ceremonial black stood like statues, rifles polished to mirrors.
Then, at precisely 10:00 a.m. GMT, the screens flickered.
It was small at first. A ripple of static across the Prime Minister's eulogy.
Then came the voice.
Distorted. Mechanical. Calm.
"I did not kill Julian Hart. I simply showed you what he was."
Confused murmurs swept through the gathered world leaders. The President of the United States stiffened. The Pope, standing at the front, lowered his head — not in prayer, but in recognition.
The world knew that voice.
The Saint of Shadows.
Interpol's files called him Damien Voss. Ex-spy. Saboteur. Propagandist. Anarchist.
The world called him terrorist.
But to the forgotten, the enslaved, the exploited — Damien Voss was a messiah. A living, breathing taboo walking among them. The man who promised not to save the world, but to break it open.
The screens stabilized.
Now, Damien's face filled the projection — or rather, his mask. A smooth, featureless porcelain mask, broken only by a single black stripe running diagonally across it, like a scar.
Behind him: darkness. Always darkness.
"This is your first funeral. It will not be the last," the voice continued, serene, almost gentle. "Twelve more stand above you, feeding on your labor, selling your sons, raping your daughters, shaking your hands while washing their own in your blood."
People screamed. Cameras cut out. Networks scrambled to pull the feed, but it was too late. The message was already copied, mirrored, re-shared across every dark net forum, pirate satellite, and public server Damien had spent years embedding.
"They will call me villain. Monster. Terrorist."
The mask tilted slightly, as though amused.
"But when I'm done, you will know the only true taboo."
"You trusted them."
And then the screens went black.
Silence hung heavy.
Far away, in a forgotten room in Marseille, Damien removed the mask. His eyes were pale grey, like dying embers.
He watched the panic reports flood in across half a dozen screens in front of him.
The world thought they were chasing a criminal.
They hadn't yet realized they were chasing the cure.
And this cure?
Was going to burn.