They stood outside the Treasury building, a dozen figures in dark coats, their shoulders squared against the bitter wind that cut through the empty streets. The air smelled of rain and burnt plastic, remnants of the last protest that had been “dispersed.” The once-busy avenues of the capital were eerily quiet now, emptied not by law, but by fear.
A lone camera crew hovered nearby, their equipment powered by a generator hastily dragged in after the government cut the feeds. The Congress members spoke not to the people, but to history, desperate to leave something behind before their voices were erased completely.
“We demand answers,” one of them declared, stepping forward, his voice steady but hoarse, worn from days of shouting into the void. “Who authorized this? Who gave Magnus Vail control over federal payroll, over retirement funds, over the entire economic system of this nation?”
No answer came.
The Treasury building loomed behind them, rebranded under its new title: The Department of Prosperity & Fiscal Responsibility. The words were carved into stone, solid, unyielding. A promise turned into a mockery.
The doors remained locked, the windows dark. A wall of black-clad security officers stood in front of the entrance, visors down, faces hidden. Their presence was more symbolic than practical—a reminder of how things worked now.
There would be no negotiation. No debate. No response.
Inside that building, Magnus Vail was doing what he always did—acting.
While the old world begged for explanations, he seized control. He had already locked Congress out of the federal financial system, stripped the government of its ability to function, and reduced an entire nation’s workforce to obedient servants of the Circle.
No money flowed unless he allowed it.
No government worker was paid unless he approved it.
And no benefits were released unless he deemed them worthy.
Vail had moved faster than they ever imagined. With the swipe of an executive pen, the press had been restricted, the courts had been hollowed out, and the old economic guard had been forcibly retired or quietly disappeared.
The people—those who had cheered for him, those who had thought he was a “genius businessman” who would shake things up—were beginning to starve.
And still, he had them believing it wasn’t his fault.
“Vail has frozen pensions, withheld wages, shut down aid programs—” a congresswoman began, but her voice was swallowed by the distant roar of an explosion.
They all flinched. Somewhere, another protest had ended the way they all did now.
It was happening faster than any of them had expected. The people were getting desperate. But desperation wasn’t a weapon—it was a weakness. It made people easy to turn against each other, easy to control.
“We are the elected representatives of this nation! We demand to see the Treasury Secretary!” another congressman shouted, his breath visible in the cold air.
But who was the Treasury Secretary now?
The Circle had stripped the government bare. The old officials were gone—replaced, sidelined, or simply ignored. Magnus Vail was more powerful than any single department head or elected official.
He was the Treasury.
He was the economy.
No paycheck cleared, no account remained open, no life continued without his approval.
The Congress members talked and talked, their voices bouncing off the stone walls, disappearing into the empty streets. For all their words, nothing happened.
Magnus Vail wasn’t listening.
Magnus Vail was doing.
He was an agent of chaos, not a leader. A man who burned systems down, then cashed in on the wreckage. He didn’t govern. He took.
And for all their talking, no action came.
They weren’t leaders anymore.
They were the last ghosts of a dead democracy.
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