The Regrets

Cora had seen it coming. She and Alex had spent years trying to warn people, pointing out the inconsistencies, the obvious grift, the way history whispered its warnings. But no one had listened. They had been laughed at, called dramatic, accused of fear-mongering.

And then, when the Chairman’s policies became reality, the first cracks began to show. The ones who had believed in him the hardest were the first to feel the weight of his rule. Those who had chanted his name at rallies, draped themselves in his slogans, and built their identities around his promises now found themselves watching in horror as their jobs disappeared, their freedoms vanished, their own neighbors turned on them.

They took to Vail’s network, X-Conn, posting their regrets in desperate pleas, as if the internet would save them.

“I didn’t think it would be like this.”
“I just wanted change, not… this.”
“I lost everything. My business. My savings. My son was taken.”
“He was supposed to drain the swamp. Not fill it with us.”

They had spent years ridiculing the opposition, dismissing warnings as hysterics, mocking those who feared the rise of the Circle. They had repeated the lines—Fake news. Deep state. Enemy of the people. But now, they were the ones being watched.

And they were the first to disappear.

It started subtly at first. Accounts vanishing overnight. Posts mysteriously removed. Then came the knocks at the door. The blank stares of neighbors who pretended not to see. The empty houses. The silent phones.

Even those who had merely mocked the absurdity of it all—the renaming of trivial locations, the Chairman’s bizarre affection for dictators, his smug embrace of the Russian leader, his grinning salute to a North Korean general—were suddenly flagged. Questioning his methods, his words, his authority, even in jest, was not tolerated. The Circle’s cultists were relentless. They flooded every dissenting post with rage, tearing down anyone who dared to second-guess their leader.

Cora remembered the moment her mother had transformed into one of them. The slow, steady descent into blind obedience. The way she spent hours online, engaging in endless fights, spewing insults at strangers. It had started with passive reposts, then escalated into something uglier. She had blessed people with the same lips she used to curse them, a hypocrite of the highest order, the worst type of internet citizen.

Cora had tried. God, had she tried. At first, it was quiet conversations, carefully worded, trying to ease her mother back from the brink. She would show her the inconsistencies, the blatant lies, the obvious contradictions. She would ask simple questions. Why would he lie about something so small? Why would a strong leader need blind loyalty? Why was he always the victim? But her mother had waved it all away, laughing in that dismissive way that said she was humoring her. Oh, sweetie, you just don’t get it. The media twists everything. You need to open your eyes. Do your own research.

So Cora pushed harder. She sent articles, reports, even direct evidence—clips of the Chairman contradicting himself, swearing one thing and doing another. At first, her mother ignored them. Then she started pushing back. Oh, so now you believe everything you see? she’d snap. They’re taking him out of context. You’ve been brainwashed, Cora. You sound just like them.

Then came the fights. Long, drawn-out battles where her mother’s words stopped making sense, where she would parrot entire talking points from the Chairman’s network verbatim. It wasn’t just about politics anymore—it was personal. Her mother sneered at her, mocked her, belittled her for questioning the truth. Every fact Cora presented was met with derision. Every attempt to appeal to reason was met with rage.

The woman who had once held her as a child, who had taught her to be kind, to be strong, to think for herself, had been replaced. Cora didn’t recognize the person on the other side of the screen, this stranger who spat venom at her between blessings. Her mother had become a troll in the worst way—one of those who engaged in cruelty for the thrill of it, who delighted in watching people suffer as long as it wasn’t her. She ranted online about the weakness of liberals, the corruption of the youth, the invasion of outsiders. She reposted lies without hesitation, without question, without care.

But the moment someone called her out, the moment someone turned her words back on her, she crumbled. Suddenly, she was the victim. Suddenly, it was her being attacked. The world was out to get her, and Cora was part of the problem.

The Chairman often bragged that he loved the dumb and the poor, and they loved him for it. They cheered when he mocked the educated, when he belittled those who questioned him. They reveled in his cruelty, mistaking it for strength, thinking it meant he would fight for them.

But he never fought for them.

He fought for himself.

And when his policies began to crush his own base, when the small towns and rural communities that had worshiped him started to suffer, there was no reckoning. There was no moment of realization. There was only silence and suffering.

He had promised them prosperity, but then he cut the farming subsidies that kept their towns alive. He told them it was necessary, that real Americans would tough it out, that the short-term pain would be worth it. They believed him. Until their farms were foreclosed, until their lands were sold off to one of his billionaire cronies, a man who had already amassed an unsettling amount of U.S. farmland. The same people who had stood in the cold at his rallies, who had worn his hats and waved his banners, were now watching as their homes, their businesses, their legacies were taken from them.

He promised to bring back manufacturing, to restore the dignity of blue-collar work. Then he slashed labor protections, dismantled unions, and let corporations automate entire industries. The jobs were gone, but the factories still stood—hollowed-out skeletons of the past, their parking lots filled with weeds. He promised healthcare, then gutted the last remnants of government assistance, leaving his most devoted followers with nothing but rising costs and empty promises. When they could no longer afford their medication, when they could no longer see a doctor, when their towns fell deeper into poverty, they waited for him to make it right.

But he didn’t.

Because he never cared.

And when they finally broke, when they took to X-Conn to express their doubts, when they wondered aloud if they had been betrayed, they learned the truth. Their posts disappeared overnight. Their accounts were locked. Then came the knocks at their doors.

It was always the same.

The ones who had been his loudest critics were the first to be taken.

Their neighbors averted their eyes, too afraid to acknowledge what they saw. Because by then, everyone knew: questioning the Chairman—even thinking against him—was not allowed. The ones who had laughed when the Chairman threatened others, the ones who cheered when he attacked the weak, the ones who had eagerly played along—they were starting to realize that the game had no winners. Because the Chairman never had loyalty to them.

Cora had no sympathy for them. They had watched it happen to others and had cheered. They had mocked the suffering of those who had warned them. And now, when it was their turn, they expected mercy.

But there was none.

The Chairman had loyalty to no one but himself.

And power did not forgive regret.