CHAPTER 122 — THE FIRST UPRISING
The uprising did not begin with fire.
It began with silence.
Florida City woke that morning under a sky the color of bruised steel. No sirens. No broadcasts. No alerts. The networks were down—every major channel hijacked, then cut. Screens across the city showed nothing but static and a single pulsing symbol burned faintly into the interference: a fractured circle, split down the middle.
Jared's mark.
Silva felt it before he saw it.
He stood on the edge of a derelict overpass, watching traffic grind to a halt miles below. The Iron Fist pulsed against his will, not violently, but insistently—like a warning tapping at his bones. Fear was rising again. Not sharp panic this time, but something colder.
Resolve.
"They're organizing," Lyra said beside him. She held a portable scanner scavenged from an old command post. "Encrypted signals everywhere. Civilian frequencies, private networks, even emergency channels. Someone's coordinating them."
Silva didn't need to ask who.
Jared wasn't leading an army.
He was teaching the city how to fight itself.
Below them, groups gathered in the streets—men and women wearing makeshift armor, some with painted symbols on their jackets. Not the Iron Fist's mark. Something new. Something deliberately broken.
"They're calling themselves the Null," Lyra continued. "No enhanced beings. No symbols. No gods."
Silva swallowed. "They're afraid."
"Yes," Lyra said softly. "And they think fear makes them righteous."
A sudden roar echoed through the streets.
Silva's head snapped up.
Smoke rose from the Civic Square.
"That's the food distribution center," he said.
They moved immediately.
By the time Silva landed at the edge of the square, the air was thick with smoke and shouting. Hundreds of people packed the plaza, faces hard, voices raw. Barricades burned. Emergency vehicles lay overturned, their lights smashed.
At the center of it all stood a man on a makeshift platform, megaphone raised high.
"No more Iron Fist!" the man shouted. "No more shadows! We protect ourselves now!"
The crowd roared in approval.
Silva stepped forward.
The Iron Fist glowed instinctively—and the reaction was instant.
People recoiled. Weapons rose. Someone screamed.
Lyra cursed under her breath. "This is bad."
Silva raised both hands slowly, forcing the glow down until only a faint shimmer remained. "I'm not here to hurt anyone."
The man on the platform laughed bitterly. "That's what you all say."
Silva felt the weight of a thousand eyes on him. Some fearful. Some hateful. A few… hopeful.
"I stopped the fragments," Silva said. "I've been fighting Jared since the beginning."
"And yet the city is burning," the man shot back. "Funny how that works."
A stone flew. It struck Silva's shoulder. He didn't flinch.
Another followed.
Then a bottle shattered at his feet.
The Iron Fist surged violently, reacting to perceived threat. Golden light crawled up his arm, begging for release.
Silva clenched his jaw, forcing it down with sheer will.
"This is what Jared wants," he said, louder now. "He wants you to turn on each other."
The man shook his head. "No. He showed us the truth. Power like yours doesn't protect—it replaces choice."
Silva stepped closer. "Then choose not to fight me."
The man hesitated.
That hesitation shattered when a gunshot rang out.
Not aimed at Silva.
A scream ripped through the crowd as a woman collapsed near the barricades, clutching her leg. Chaos erupted instantly. People surged, panicked, shouting.
Silva moved without thinking.
He crossed the distance in a blur, kneeling beside the wounded woman, tearing fabric, applying pressure. The Iron Fist glowed softly—not as a weapon, but as warmth, sealing ruptured tissue just enough to stop the bleeding.
"Don't move," Silva said gently. "You'll be okay."
The woman stared at him in shock. "You… you're helping me."
"Yes," Silva said. "That's all I've ever done."
The crowd fell silent.
For a heartbeat, it seemed like something might change.
Then the shadows moved.
From the edges of the square, figures emerged—not fragments, not giants, but people. Their eyes were wrong. Empty. Controlled.
Jared's puppets.
They moved fast, striking indiscriminately, turning fear into frenzy. Someone screamed that Silva had summoned them. Someone else shouted to kill him before it got worse.
The crowd turned.
Lyra leapt into motion, intercepting attackers with precise, non-lethal strikes. "Silva! They're using civilians!"
Silva stood frozen for a split second.
If he fought back, he proved their fears.
If he didn't, people would die.
This was Jared's trap.
Silva made a choice.
He stepped into the crowd—not with power, but with presence.
"Get down!" he shouted. "Everyone get down!"
The Iron Fist flared—but instead of striking outward, Silva slammed it into the ground.
Not an attack.
A barrier.
Golden light expanded in a wide dome, separating the controlled attackers from the civilians. The force pushed people back without harm, knocking weapons from hands, creating space.
The puppets screamed as the light disrupted whatever held them.
Jared's laughter echoed faintly through hidden speakers.
"Well done," his voice purred. "You saved them."
The dome began to crack.
Silva strained, sweat pouring down his face. The Iron Fist burned hotter than ever—not with rage, but with exhaustion.
Lyra fought her way to him. "You can't hold this!"
"I don't need to," Silva gasped. "Just long enough."
The puppets collapsed as the control broke. The barrier faded.
Silence fell again.
This time, it held.
The man with the megaphone stared at Silva, trembling. "You could have killed us."
"Yes," Silva said quietly. "But I didn't."
The crowd slowly backed away—not attacking, not cheering. Thinking.
Silva turned away before they could decide anything else.
As he and Lyra disappeared into the alleys, Jared watched through hidden cameras, expression unreadable.
"He adapts," Jared murmured. "Good."
He leaned back in his chair. "Time for phase two."
High above the city, Silva paused on a rooftop, chest heaving, the Iron Fist dim and heavy.
Lyra joined him. "You didn't win them over."
Silva shook his head. "I wasn't trying to."
He looked out over the city—fractured, afraid, but still alive.
"I just refused to become what they fear."
The Iron Fist pulsed faintly in agreement.
Below them, Florida City prepared for something worse than riots.
It prepared for war.
And this time, the enemy wouldn't come from the shadows.
It would rise from the streets.