The secret meeting room of the resistance looked less like a revolutionary war council and more like a shabby dive bar. Dim lights dangled overhead, illuminating chipped wooden tables littered with half-finished coffee, stale bread, and crumpled battle plans. If not for the blood-stained knives stuck in the table corners, I would've sworn we'd stumbled into a midnight improv troupe rehearsal.
"We must act now!" A bearded man slammed the table. His voice was loud, heroic, like the lead actor in a patriotic stage play. But my eyes weren't on his face. They were on the paper he'd just slipped into his sleeve.
On it—a black eye symbol. The secret mark of the Bureau.
Something in my head clicked—like someone had flipped the switch labeled Truth Reveal Mode. The scary part? I wasn't even surprised. From the beginning, I knew this "resistance" was nothing but a half-baked casserole of humans and half-humans. And every casserole comes with a sprinkle of betrayal.
Sure enough.
The bearded man's voice grew more passionate. He urged us to launch an immediate strike, to blow the Bureau's central archives into dust. Before his words even faded, a few resistance members clapped along, like they were applauding a nominee for Best Screenplay.
"Yes! Blow it up!""This is our only chance!"
The air stank of cheap revolution.
My friend leaned close and whispered, "Don't you think he's a little too eager? Like a grade-schooler desperate to hand in his test first."
I nodded. "And all the answers are wrong."
Before we could laugh, heavy footsteps thundered at the door. A group of "latecomers" entered. Their coats shifted just enough to reveal Bureau insignias gleaming underneath. The room froze, silence detonating like a bomb.
The bearded man's smile turned honest—relieved, even. He raised his arms, salesman-style, and declared:
"Comrades, the resistance ends here! You foolish dreamers can finally contribute to science—as Bureau test subjects!"
Bang—
A gunshot rang out. But it wasn't aimed at him. It was aimed at us.
Several "allies" drew their weapons, masks off at last. The meeting room collapsed into chaos. Tables flipped. Coffee spilled across the floor, mixing with blood. The whole scene looked like an abstract painting that could easily pass as a museum piece—if the curator didn't mind the screaming.
I ducked, swearing. Irony hit hard: we, the so-called heroes against nightmare, weren't killed by nightmare itself—but by its human understudy: betrayal.
"Run!" my friend yanked my arm.
We stumbled toward the side exit, bullets chewing the air.
As we dashed into the corridor, I muttered, "I should've known! They couldn't even replace stale coffee, yet we trusted this lot to topple the Bureau? What a joke!"
My friend panted, half-laughing. "Would it kill you to say something inspirational at a time like this?"
"Sure." I straightened mid-sprint, solemn as a priest. "Congratulations—we survived the world's worst team-building exercise."
He rolled his eyes. But he laughed too. Short, sharp, like tossing paper money over a grave.
The shadow of betrayal clung to us. And I knew—it wouldn't be the last time. The resistance had moles. The Bureau's leaders were tearing each other apart. The whole world was nothing but a collapsing stage, every player waiting for the next cave-in to justify their ticket price.
And me? The so-called "Nightmare Key"?
I was trapped between the stage and the audience. A sandwich no one ordered.
I wanted to laugh—but no sound came out.