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Introduction This tribute reflects the history, and the voices that echo through generations. It is a testament to the shoulders upon which we stand, the battles fought, and the strength that carries us forward. The words that follow are more than just prose they are an ode to those who paved the way, a melody of struggle and triumph intertwined.   The worlds weight rests on my fingertips as I caress the shiny black keys, their smooth surface cool beneath my touch, each one waiting to bring forth the rhythm of unspoken thoughts. With a bit of courage, the blank screen will soon fill with shades of images in words. Am I prepared to unwrap the visions that swarm so freely inside my brain Do I have the strength and wherewithal to finish what has yet to start There is such comfort in excuses. Sometimes, excuses are the perfect shields, hiding all my fears. An inner circle of voices is playing tug of war inside my brain, showing clips of the past while nudging me toward the future. Safely positioned behind my shield, I answer, Not now This is not the right time, speaking with the illusion of confidence. I am trying hard to resist urges to question whether I possess what it takes to be a virtuoso at crafting memories of silhouettes into living portraits. On the other side of fear stands either a Champion or a Coward. A Champion rises, forged by the fires of struggle, embracing the unknown with unwavering resolve. A Coward recoils, shackled by doubt, allowing fear to dictate the limits of their existence. The question is not merely who I am, but who I am willing to become. Which of these personifies will best define me A coward is a person who lacks the courage to face danger, difficulty, opposition, pain, etc. Sitting in a dark corner, contemplating my next move, I hear drum beats. The sound of each moment embodies a profound historical significance. In a flash, it comes to me. Who else could tell the metaphoric rise of Black women Who else could resurrect the breath of life that is ours I am many women, all woven in one. I have always wondered where they end and I begin. Impressions are such indelible events. Printed illustrations my grandmothers life flow freely throughout what I have become. She is a profound part of my pedigree that I hold so dear. There are shoulders beneath our feet—broad, unyielding, and weathered by time. They belong to those who bore the weight of injustice, who marched with weary feet but unshaken spirits, who spoke truth even when their voices trembled. They are the foundation upon which we stand, lifting us higher, urging us forward. Without them, there would be no path—only darkness. The shoulders move to a familiar beat, cradling, pulling, and propelling us simultaneously. It is a fragile experience to bring to life the shoulders from whence we came. These computer keys are like cords on a piano they are my counsel and will guide me. The shoulders that lift me are intense, brilliant, and flawed, but that is okay. I once knew a woman, and she was magical. In her lifetime, she proved to be both protagonist and antagonist. She was something else, a woman to be recognized. As a child, I heard the melancholy sound of saxophones, their notes bending and swaying like whispers of a history that refused to be forgotten. The voices spoke volumes, carrying the weight of struggle and triumph—God bless the child thats got his own. The drums beat a familiar cadence, steady and unbroken, echoing the resilience of generations. I feel the sound dancing inside me, stirring something ancient, something unshaken. The poetic melody speaks, In This Life, We Hold Our Heads High, and the horns cry out, raw and relentless, asking, Why In my soul, the harmony of past and present replies, Because we are strong made with backbone. These words are my sword and dagger, which I have drawn many times. Despair and grief are no match. Disillusion and disappointment are no match. Defenselessness and hopelessness are no match. At each turn, I have drawn my sword, In This Life, and the dagger, We Hold Our Heads High. This recurring cadence constantly permeated throughout my life. The nonapologetic stance of holding my head has served me well.   Chapter 1 Kindling the Flame  A sea of a million faces stretches before her. The air is charged, electric with anticipation, thick with memory. People of all races, and all backgrounds, stand shoulder to shoulder, eyes locked on the figure at the podium. Some clutch candles, their flames flickering against the dusk, while others raise their fists, gripping cell phones that capture the moment in realtime. Their expressions are not sad or broken but filled with determination, their stance one of defiance and unity. They are here not just to remember but to protect what has already been won and ensure it is never taken away. She stands tall, a gallant leader, her spine unbowed, her presence commanding. Strength radiates from her like an unbreakable force, unwavering in the face of historys weight. Behind her, banners ripple in the breeze. Naomi’s face is the largest among them, immortalized in fire and steel. Beside hers, Nathan and Mariel’s images stand just as proud, their sacrifices woven into the fabric of history. Surrounding them are the faces of those who came before—warriors of past revolutions, freedom fighters, leaders who defied oppression. Their legacies stretch across time, reminding all who stand here today that the fight for justice is eternal. The warrior. The revolution that never died. Talia steps forward, her hands gripping the worn edges of the podium, the weight of history pressing down on her shoulders like an unseen force. The silence stretches, thick and expectant, as if the very air itself is holding its breath. Before her, the crowd is a living entity, a sea of unwavering eyes reflecting the ghosts of battles fought and won. The wind stirs around her, carrying whispers of those who came before, their voices merging with the hushed anticipation of the present. And then, with the fire of the past burning in her veins, she speaks. The words strike like a hammer against steel. The crowd leans in, waiting. “You stand here today because of one truth—our fire was never meant to burn out.” Murmurs of agreement ripple through the masses. “They thought stopping her would end the fire. They failed to see that she had already won.” Gasps, nods, knowing glances. The name of Naomi vibrates in the air like an unbroken chant. “The fire has burned for generations—through 246 years of enslavement, where our bodies were traded like currency, where our names were stripped and our spirits tested. Through 406 years of struggle, where laws were rewritten to cage us in different ways, where power was hoarded while we built the foundation of this nation with our hands. They stole, they silenced, they tried to shatter us. But the fire did not die. It only spread—from plantation fields to battlefields, from whispered prayers to shouted protests, from bloodstained streets to the steps of power. And now, it is our turn to carry the fire forward—not because we are broken, but because we are unyielding. Naomi saved us all—every race, creed, and faith—she saved this nation, proving that justice is not owned by one people but belongs to all who stand against tyranny.” She lets the words settle, heavy with meaning. “The greedy wear suits. The powerhungry smile in our faces. The takers wait in the shadows, not to strike all at once, but to turn the clock back one second at a time. They are the ones who worship unbridled power, feeding on the labor of others. They are crafty, slick, and deceitful, hoping we won’t notice until we wake up in the nightmare we fought so hard to escape. Thinking we will forget. Thinking we will surrender. Thinking we will lose.” Her hands clench. Her voice does not waver. “We have paid the cost in blood, in tears, in stolen years—but we never surrendered. And we will not start now.” A roar erupts from the crowd. A heartbeat of rebellion. The sound triggers something deep within Talia, a memory not her own but etched into her very being. In an instant, the present fades, and she is there—watching Naomi in the chaos of battle. Fire licks the night sky, and the acrid scent of smoke and blood fills her lungs. Naomi stands unyielding, her fists clenched, her voice commanding above the clamor of war. The revolution is alive in her, burning as fiercely as the flames around them. Bodies clash. Bullets cut through the air, and the ground trembles beneath the weight of history in motion. But then, the battle dissolves like ash in the wind, and Talia is no longer in the wartorn streets of the War that Nathan, Mariel, Naomi, and her gallant forces, known as the forces of Nike—the Greek goddess of victory, symbolizing strength, speed, and triumph in battle. She is watching a little girl in 1935. Naomi was small but fierce, her deep brown eyes filled with something too sharp for childhood. Her pronounced features struck against the dust and sweat of the Texas sun. Her thick hair, always carefully braided by her mother’stired hands, refused to be tamed, strands breaking free no matter how tight Etta platted them. She carried herself like she was bigger than she was, like her small frame wasn’t meant to hold the fire inside her. She was the youngest of four, trailing behind her two older sisters and her brother, who had long since learned how to navigate the world that didn’t make space for them. She clutched her handmedown books to her chest, their covers worn thin from years of use, their pages filled with lessons that were never meant for her but had been claimed anyway. Their home sat at the edge of a neighborhood built on resilience, a community forced together by segregation but bound by an unspoken understanding of survival. The streets were packed dirt, lined with wooden shotgun houses, their porches sagging but sturdy, holding the weight of family gatherings, latenight storytelling, and whispered worries about what the future might hold. Clotheslines stretched between homes, waving patched dresses and worn shirts like flags of perseverance. Children ran barefoot through the alleyways, dodging stray dogs and discarded wagon wheels, their laughter defying the hardships their parents endured. Naomi’s house, though small, was alive with the sounds of her mother scrubbing laundry in a tin basin, her hums low and steady, not out of joy but out of habit. The rhythmic creak of her father’s rocking chair echoed as he sat in silence, the newspaper in his lap, though the words meant nothing to him. Neither of them could read, but they knew survival, and that was its own form of knowledge. The scent of cornbread and beans simmering on the stove mixed with the lingering smell of her mother’s starch and lye soap, a constant reminder of the work that never ended. Etta was not a woman of soft words or lingering embraces, and Naomi learned early that there was no room for softness in their world. Once, Etta had taken Naomi with her to clean a white woman’s house, thinking she was too young to leave alone. It was a disaster. Naomi stared too long and asked too many questions, and when the woman of the house scolded Etta for Naomi’s ‘disrespect,’ Etta gritted her teeth but said nothing. Naomi, however, mumbled under her breath, I ain’t never gonna work in nobody’s house when I get grown. The room went still. The woman’s face twisted in shock and offense, her mouth opening as if to spit something vile. Her sharp eyes flickered toward Naomi. What was that Etta stiffened, her grip tightening around the rag in her hands. She didn’t say nothin’ Miss. But Naomi’s words still hung in the air, thick with defiance. The woman pursed her lips, shaking her head. You best handle that child before somebody else do. Etta grabbed Naomi’s wrist with a firm but urgent grip. Go on outside now. Naomi hesitated, but one glance at her mother’s face told her not to argue. She turned and walked out the door, but as it shut behind her, she could still hear the white woman’s voice, laced with condescension and warning. Girls like her don’t last long in this world. You teach her that. Etta came outside minutes later. She didn’t look at Naomi, just started walking. That was the first and last time Etta ever brought her along.Ain’t takin’ you nowhere near them folks again, she muttered. You got too much mouth. But Naomi wasn’t built for swallowing words. And even at five, she knew she was never going to be the kind to bow her head. Unlike Naomi, Ettas strength was in her endurance, in the way she rose before the sun to scrub floors in houses she’d never own, in the way she swallowed the raw meanness of those who saw her as nothing and still came home to make sure her children had food, had clothes, had one more day. She never complained, never spoke about the insults hurled at her during the day, but Naomi could see the exhaustion in the way her mother rubbed her aching hands at night, the way her back stiffened with each step. They didn’t have time for grand speeches—but Etta showed her in every action, in every unspoken lesson. Late at night, when she thought no one was watching, Naomi would see her mother sit on the edge of the bed, rubbing her swollen feet, the aches of the day weighing on her body. She never groaned, never complained, just pressed her lips together and worked the soreness from her bones, as if pushing the pain away was the only way to keep moving forward. Then, with a deep breath, she would stand again, shoulders squared, ready for another day. Strength wasn’t just in defiance sometimes, it was in knowing when to endure, when to pick battles, when to survive. Samuel, a laborer with hands as cracked as the roads he walked, carried the same quiet burden. He didn’t raise his voice, didn’t challenge the world headon like Naomi wanted to. But he watched. He knew. And so did Etta. Naomi wasn’t sure yet what kind of strength she was supposed to have—her mother’s resilience or something else entirely. The door burst open, slamming against the wall, shaking dust loose from the rafters. Naomi and Mariel stumbled inside, panting, their breaths ragged and desperate. Naomi’s lip was split, a thin trickle of blood running down her chin, the coppery taste thick in her mouth. Her heart pounded against her ribs, her hands shaking from the fight, from the fear, from the fury that hadn’t yet burned out. The air inside felt thick, and heavy with the smell of cooking grease and soap, a stark contrast to the dusty road they had just fled from. Mariel whimpered beside her, clutching Naomi’s arm, her face streaked with dirt and tears. The room, once warm with the sounds of home, now felt silent, as if holding its breath, waiting for what came next. Naomi and her best friend, Mariel, their dresses torn, their faces streaked with dirt and blood, stumbled inside, breathing hard. Naomi’s lip was split, her right eye already darkening. Beside her, Mariel clutched her arm, swallowing back tears. Dessa, Naomi’s older sister by ten years, jumped up, her eyes going wide with panic. Mama Naomi’s hurt She rushed to her sister’s side, her small hands hovering over Naomi’s torn dress, unsure of what to do. Mama, she bleedin’ Etta turned from the stove, her sharp gaze cutting through the space between them. Her hands, raw from washing, flexed against the counter. Samuel set the newspaper down, exhaling slowly through his nose, the creak of his rocking chair the only sound in the room. White boys, Naomi muttered, her voice smaller now under her parents heavy stares. They started it. I aint let them push me around. Her mother’s eyes darkened, her lips pressing into a thin line. Girl, you tryin’ to get yourself killed Her father shifted in his chair, his knuckles tightening. You aint got the right to fight them, Naomi. You hear me They lookin’ for any excuse. Naomi clenched her fists, her swollen lip trembling. So I just let ‘em Her mother’s jaw clenched. You do what you gotta do to come home alive. You understand me Her mothers facial expression was a mixed of relief and anger. That’s the world we live in. But you best learn—some fights ain’t meant to be fought with fists. Dessa knelt beside Naomi, dabbing at the cut on her sister’s cheek with the edge of her dress. But they hurt her, Mama. They don’t care about us. Her mother’s eyes met Dessa’s, then flickered back to Naomi. I know. But fightin’ back don’t make you safe. You hear me, Naomi You gotta keep your head down. You gotta come home. That’s all that matters. Naomi didn’t understand. Her little hands clenched at the sides of her torn dress, but she swallowed the argument bubbling in her chest. She looked down, nodding. Yes, ma’am. Etta wiped Naomi’s face roughly with a damp rag, her hands firm but quick. Ain’t got time to be cryin’ ‘bout what’s done. Y’all go in the back, pull the clothes from the line. And don’t let ‘em hit the dirt. Naomi and Mariel obeyed, stepping out into the humid evening air, the backyard filled with the scent of damp earth and soap. As they pulled the stiff, sundried fabric from the line, Naomi’s frustration finally spilled over. She turned to Dessa and Mariel, her voice low but fierce. I ain’t lettin’ them do that to me no more. I don’t care what Mama say. I don’t care what Daddy say. Mariel bit her lip, glancing back toward the house. You ain’t scared Naomi’s little fingers gripped the sheet tightly, her knuckles white. I ain’t scared of nothin’. Dessa squared her shoulders, her small chin lifting. Well, if you ain’t scared, then I ain’t neither. Mariel nodded quickly, her voice full of quiet determination. Me too. We all together. Naomi had another fight two weeks later. And then two weeks after that. And again after that. With each fight, she grew stronger, her defiance sharpening like a blade. White folks took notice, and they didn’t like what they saw. It wasn’t just the bruises Naomi came home with—it was the way she refused to bow, the way she looked them in the eye like she was just as good as them. Just as worthy. And that was something they couldn’t allow. The town was shifting, unsettled, and Naomi could feel it. Tensions were growing, not just in her own home but in the streets, in the way people looked at her, in the whispers exchanged when she walked past. Her school sat at the edge of the neighborhood, small and old, but standing strong. When she was younger, it had just been a place where she learned to read, to write, to sit still when told. But by 1946, it had become something more—a battlefield of its own. Every lesson she absorbed felt like an act of defiance, every page she turned a refusal to be kept in ignorance. The wooden floors still creaked beneath her feet, the walls still carried the chalky scent of dust and old books, but Naomi saw it differently now. This wasn’t just a school—it was a weapon. And she was going to sharpen herself with every bit of knowledge she could steal from its pages. It had been there long before she was born, before her mother was born, serving generations of Black children who were never meant to have an education but fought for it anyway. The walls were worn, the wooden floors scuffed, and the desks carved with the names of those who sat there before. The books she carried were just as worn, pages missing, ink faded, passed down from white schools that had deemed them no longer useful. The words inside told half a story, but the teachers filled in the gaps. Miss Lawson, her teacher, was a woman of fierce determination, standing tall despite the weight of what she carried. She moved through the classroom like a force, snapping a ruler against the desk when students lost focus. Y’all listen up, she’d say. They don’t want you to learn, so you best believe I’m gonna make sure you do. Now open them books.”   Chapter 2 A Spark in the Darkness  Naomi, Dessa, and Mariel walked to school. The dirt road was still damp from the rain the night before, the air thick and sticky. As they rounded a bend near the general store, a group of white boys stepped onto the path, blocking their way. Where y’all goin’ in such a hurry one of them sneered, his voice dripping with mockery. Dessa grabbed Naomi’s arm. Come on, Naomi. Let’s just go. Mariel nodded quickly. Ignore ‘em. But Naomi’s feet stayed planted. She could feel the heat rising in her chest, her grip tightening on the book in her hands. The ringleader, a freckled boy with a twisted smirk, took a step closer. Bet y’all think you real smart, huh Carryin’ them books around like it make you somethin’. Naomi didn’t answer. The boy grinned wider, sensing the fight boiling under her skin. Ain’t no point in learnin’ nothin’. Y’all still gonna be nothin’. That was it. Naomi saw red. Before Dessa or Mariel could stop her, she lunged at him, her fists flying. The boy stumbled back, shocked, but it only took a second for his friends to jump in. Dessa and Mariel had no choice but to fight too. The scuffle was fast and wild, fists swinging, dirt kicking up around them. Naomi landed a hit to the boy’s jaw before someone yanked her back hard—an adult’s grip, rough and unyielding. A white man, face twisted with anger, held her tight by the arm. You little— he stopped himself, his grip tightening. You best learn your place. Naomi twisted, kicking, fighting to break free, but the man dragged her toward town. I know where you belong. Let’s see what your mama got to say ‘bout this. As he marched her down the dirt road, his grip firm and unrelenting, his mind boiled with anger and disgust. She was just a little girl, but she carried herself like she was more. Like she thought she was just as good as his kind. That wasn’t how things were supposed to be. Uppity little thing, he muttered under his breath, yanking her forward. Somebody gotta put her in her place before she gets herself killed. The closer they got to her house, the more he convinced himself he was doing the right thing. Her parents needed to handle her, to beat the defiance out of her before she grew into a bigger problem. It was for her own good—or at least, that’s what he told himself. He wasn’t cruel, he was just reminding them all how things worked. He was making sure they remembered where they stood. You best do somethin’ with that girl, a redfaced man sneered, shoving Naomi toward the doorstep. She don’t know her place. Etta stood in the doorway, her face blank, her hands curled into fists at her sides. She’s just a child, she said, voice even. She don’t act like one. Uppity little thing. Thinks she’s better than my boy. He spat on the ground. You best teach her before someone else do. Samuel stepped onto the porch, his body rigid but controlled. He didn’t look at the man, didn’t argue, didn’t give him the satisfaction of a reaction. Instead, he inhaled slowly, his hands tightening at his sides, before fixing his gaze on Naomi. His voice was calm but firm, the weight of an entire world carried in those two words. Get inside. The man snorted, shaking his head as he turned. Y’all keep lettin’ her mouth off, see where it gets her. As soon as he left, Etta yanked Naomi inside, gripping her chin between her calloused fingers. You hear what he said Naomi’s lip trembled, but she didn’t speak. She just stared up at her mother, her eyes burning. Etta released her with a small shove. Go wash up. Naomi swallowed the lump in her throat and obeyed. But she wasn’t sorry. And she wasn’t done.  Chapter 3 Embers of Rebellion In 1946, the world seemed to be shifting, yet the weight of oppression remained as heavy as ever. The war had ended, and Black soldiers returned home carrying not only the scars of battle but also the burden of a country that refused to acknowledge their sacrifice. They had fought for freedom overseas, only to come back to chains of a different kind. Naomi had changed, but so had the world around her. The city felt different—a new tension in the air, a quiet defiance growing in the hearts of people who had been told to stay in their place for too long. But Jim Crow still ruled, and white folks were watching closer than ever, waiting for any excuse to remind Black folks where they stood. During that same time, the name Isaac Woodard spread through the streets like wildfire, a name spoken in angered whispers and trembling voices. A Black soldier, still clad in his uniform, had been dragged off a bus, his dignity stripped before the blows even began. The white officers had not just beaten him—they had destroyed him, their fists and batons erasing his sight, crushing his future in a storm of unchecked rage. His crime Daring to exist with pride, daring to meet a white man’s eyes as an equal. “They say he was drunk,” a woman murmured, shaking her head, the bitterness thick in her voice. “They say he was disrespectful,” a man responded, voice low but tight with barely contained fury. “They say—” “They always say,” Naomi cut in, unable to stop herself. The word sat heavy on her tongue, sour like something spoiled. The small group outside the store turned toward her. Old Miss Geraldine, wrapped in her faded shawl, studied her with sharp eyes. “Watch your mouth, girl,” she warned, voice soft but firm. “You know they listenin’.” Naomi clenched her jaw, gripping her books against her chest. She knew. Lord, she knew. But staying quiet had never suited her. The stories drifted through town like smoke, stinging, suffocating. Naomi heard them at school, caught in the hushed conversations of teachers who shook their heads in both anger and fear. She sat still, listening, her fingers tightening around the edges of her book. Uppity. That word. She had heard it before—spat at her when she refused to lower her gaze when she dared to fight back. It had followed her home and clung to her skin like sweat on a hot day. But hearing it tied to Isaac Woodard’s name made her stomach twist. “Uppity, huh” Naomi muttered under her breath. At the desk beside her, Mariel turned, frowning. “What you say” Naomi exhaled sharply, shaking her head. “Nothing.” But it wasn’t nothing. It was everything.  Chapter 4 Scorched Earth   As they neared the store, the road turned from packed dirt to scattered gravel, the air thick with the scent of horses and sunbaked wood. Samuel cleared his throat, his voice low but firm. Naomi, listen now. When we get to this store. You keep your mouth shut. Do you understand me, girl Sometimes, keepin’ quiet is the only way to get round white folk. Do you hear me, girl Naomi sighed but nodded, kicking at the loose stones under her feet. She knew what he meant, what he was always tryin’ to tell her. But it wasn’t in her to keep quiet and pretend she accepted them, any more than they accepted her. A few wagons sat out front, their wheels caked in dried mud. A rusted CocaCola sign hung lopsided above the doorway, its red paint faded, barely clinging to the metal. Across the street, a group of white men sat on a bench outside the barbershop, chewing tobacco and watching with narrowed eyes. Samuel had mastered the art of quiet endurance, of knowing when to bow his head and when to stand his ground. But Naomi was fire, burning too hot, too wild. The store smelled of stale air and suspicion, the wooden planks beneath their feet creaking like old bones. Behind the counter, the store owner barely spared them a glance, his thick fingers drumming against the worn surface. That’ll be fifteen cents, he muttered, his eyes never quite meeting Samuel’s. Tired and unthinking, Samuel extended the coins toward the man’s waiting hand. The store owner’s lip curled in disgust, his fingers drumming harder against the counter. What’s wrong with you, boy he snapped, tapping the worn wood sharply. Set it down. Samuel hesitated, he placed the coins on the counter, his fingers twitching before pulling back. Naomi’s stomach coiled tight, her pulse hammering. The store owner shoved a sack of flour across the counter. The paper was torn, the contents spilling out like something discarded. Naomi’s hands balled into fists. That ain’t worth nothin’, she spat. We ain’t takin’ no rotten goods. Samuel stiffened beside her. Naomi— She ignored the warning in his voice. Sellin’ folks trash and expectin’ them to be grateful Keep it. My daddy ain’t gotta beg nobody to take his money. The store fell into a silence so thick it hummed. The owner’s nostrils flared, his fingers curling against the counter. He leaned in, the stink of sweat and old tobacco rolling off him. You best learn some manners, girl. She didnt mean nothing. Samuel’s gripped her wrist, firm. Come on. Imma show you about talkin back, when I get you home. But the store owner wasn’t finished. He turned toward the open doorway, his voice slicing through the humid air. Y’all hear that Got ourselves a mouthy little girl in here Thinks she’s better than the rest of us The world shifted. Shadows stretched as figures crowded the entrance, bodies pressing forward like an encroaching tide. The heat thickened. Faces twisted, mouths curled, hands clenched. Naomi could feel it crawling up her spine—something dark, something ancient, something that had long been waiting for an excuse. Best shut her up before somebody else do, a voice sneered from the back. Samuel’s fingers wrapped around her wrist, tight now, urgent. He pulled her behind him, his broad frame a barrier. Go. Now. Daddy— Run, Naomi The world cracked open. The mob surged. Hands grabbed. Fists swung. Samuel swung too. His fist connected with the store owners jaw, sending the man stumbling back into the counter. The moment of impact sent a hush through the crowd, but it was fleeting. Rage replaced shock, and the mob swarmed. Samuel’s body jerked with the impact of fists and boots, but his arms never wavered—he stood his ground, unshaken, unmovable. Run, Naomi His voice, strained but commanding, cut through the chaos. She hesitated, frozen between terror and defiance. Go he bellowed, even as another blow landed against his ribs. He staggered but did not fall. She stumbled back, dust choking her breath, her feet unsure beneath her. The thunder of footsteps swallowed his voice, but he was still shouting—ordering her to run, to get home, to not look back. His words followed her, pushing her forward, even as his voice grew weaker, even as the sound of fists against flesh replaced it. She ran, but she heard him still, instructing her, guiding her, until his voice faded into the madness, swallowed whole by the storm. By the time she collapsed behind the trees, her lungs burning, the sounds had blurred into nothing. But she knew. She knew before she ever turned back. Before she ever saw the lifeless weight of him on the ground. Her father was gone. And it was her fault. She ran, as fast as her legs would carry her, her breath ragged, her feet pounding against the hardpacked dirt. Home. She had to get home. The world around her blurred, the trees stretching like shadows clawing at her as she tore through the back roads. The voices of her parents chased her, tangled in the wind, woven into the rhythm of her pounding heart. Naomi, you gotta know when to hush your mouth. Her father’s voice was steady, weary. Ain’t every fight worth fightin’. You too headstrong, girl. Her mother’s words, clipped, carrying the weight of every sacrifice, every warning Naomi had ignored. One day, your fire gon’ burn everything down. Samuel’s voice rose, desperate now as if still calling through the night. Run, Naomi Don’t look back But she did. In her mind, she looked back a thousand times. Saw his fists flying. Saw the moment the mob swallowed him whole. And still, she ran. The house came into view, its familiar shape standing in defiance against the night. She didn’t slow. She didn’t think. She crashed through the door, the force of her body rattling the walls. Her mother turned, eyes widening at the sight of her daughter—dustcovered, breathless, fear written across every inch of her face. Mama Naomi gasped, the words ripping from her throat. They—they killed him Etta’s body went rigid, the pot she had been holding slipping from her fingers, clattering to the floor. But she didn’t break, didn’t wail, or collapse like Naomi thought she might. Instead, she moved—fast, focused, as if she had always known this day would come. She reached for the glass jar on the shelf, her hands steady despite the storm brewing in her eyes. Coins and crumpled bills spilled into Naomi’s palms as Etta shoved the money into her hands, gripping her fingers tight around it. You take this, and you find your sister, Dessa. She married that Army man and moved up to Chicago, Etta ordered, her voice like iron. Go out the back, keep to the trees. Don’t stop. Don’t look back. Naomi’s breath hitched. Mama, I can’t— You ain’t got a choice Etta snapped, her voice shaking now, but her hands remained firm. They comin’. And you stayin’ here means they gon’ kill you too. Now go I can fight Naomi’s voice rose, desperate. I ain’t scared The slap came hard and fast, snapping Naomi’s head to the side. Get out Etta hissed, her voice sharp as a blade. The words cut through the space between them, heavy with every sacrifice, every fear, every moment that had led to this. And Naomi knew—those two words carried everything her mother couldn’t afford to say. Tears stung Naomi’s eyes, but she didn’t argue again. She couldn’t. She turned, bolting out the back door, into the darkness, into the unknown, just as the first angry voices rose in the distance. The crowd gathered out front, their voices cutting through the night like knives. Men, women, even children, all standing beneath the stars as though they had gathered for a social—but their words were anything but kind. Send her out We know she here Etta’s chest tightened as she stepped onto the porch, her heart hammering beneath her ribs. For the first time in her life, she let the anger she had buried so long rise to the surface. Her chin lifted, her shoulders squared—she was Samuel’s wife, and she was brave. Naomi ain’t been here, she called out, her voice steady despite the tremor in her hands. Liar a man spat. One of them shoved past her, pushing into the house. Etta didn’t move. She stood still, her eyes sweeping over the faces in the crowd—faces she knew. Women whose laundry she had washed. Children she had greeted with soft smiles while scrubbing their mothers’ floors. Men whose meals she had cooked. Familiar, everyday folk—now thirsting for her child’s blood. Her breath came heavy, and her fingers found the cold metal tucked inside her apron pocket. An old revolver, rusted but reliable. Her hand wrapped around it like it had always belonged there. She pulled it free and raised it just enough for them all to see. Her voice was low, steady, but edged with finality. She mumbled to herself, I’m tired. Then, with defiance tightening her jaw, she raised her voice. Leave The crowd shifted, their jeers growing louder, faces contorting with rage. They surged forward. Etta didn’t flinch. She squeezed the trigger once—aiming at the store owner, the man who had started it all. He stumbled back, clutching his side, a howl ripping through the night. But it was not enough. They came for her like they had come for Samuel. Fists, boots, curses. She felt the first blow before she hit the ground. Then another. And another. The night swallowed her screams. The crowd burned the house, flames licking the sky as the wood crackled and collapsed into embers. But their rage was not satisfied. They went door to door, their voices echoing through the neighborhood, demanding to know where Naomi was. Men, women, even children, as if a celebration had turned into a hunt. But Naomi knew the hiding places. Black folks always knew the hiding places. This was not the first time their kind had to disappear into the shadows to survive the wrath of white folks. The trees wrapped around her like an old friend as she moved, her breath shallow, her heart a drumbeat in her ears. Then—a sound. Footsteps in the brush. Naomi froze, her fists clenched, ready to fight. Out of the darkness burst Mariel, her face streaked with tears, her breath ragged. She stumbled toward Naomi, eyes wide with panic and resolve. I’m comin’ with you, Mariel panted, clutching Naomi’s arm. We run together. We fight together if we have to. Naomi stared at her friend, something swelling in her chest—relief, fear, and something close to love. She squeezed Mariel’s hand, the fire in her eyes meeting Mariel’s own. Behind them, the flames from Naomi’s home reached toward the sky, casting an orange glow over the dust and smoke rising from their small community. They both turned for one last look—one final goodbye to everything they knew—before facing the dark woods ahead. Lets Go. Mariel grabs Naomis hand. Run And they did. Through the night, through the trees, their feet pounding the earth beneath them, hearts racing. They came upon the creek—cold, winding, and familiar. Naomi remembered her father’s stories, the whispers from elders about how their ancestors had waded through waters to throw off the dogs. In the distance, she could hear them—dogs barking, their howls slicing through the night like knives. The sound made her chest tighten, but it also sharpened her resolve. She stepped into the muddy bank, the cool earth swallowing her bare feet. Beside her, Mariel did the same. They smeared the thick mud up their legs and over their ankles, masking their scent. Naomi’s breath hitched, but she steadied herself. This was survival—the knowledge passed down like a hidden language. Black folks had always known how to vanish when the night turned dangerous. Dogs can’t track through water, Naomi whispered, more to herself than Mariel. Mud hides the smell. They won’t find us. Mariel nodded, her eyes wide but determined. Together, they waded deeper, the water biting at their legs, the mud clinging to their skin like armor. The distant sounds of voices and crackling flames faded into the background as the current wrapped around them, urging them forward. They pressed on, two sharp girls carrying the wisdom of those who had run before them. They would make it out. Frightened, but strengthened by each other, they ran and ran and ran.  Chapter 5 Fanning the Flames   The sun was dipping low by the time Naomi and Mariel stumbled into Texarkana, their feet sore and caked with dried mud. They had been traveling for days, their bodies worn from the relentless journey, each mile weighing heavier on their exhausted limbs. The town stretched out before them, a mixture of brick storefronts and weathered wooden homes, dust hanging in the air like a curtain. It was quieter than they expected, but that didn’t ease their nerves. Danger could be anywhere. It always was. Their stomachs ached with hunger, and their mouths dry. Naomi’s eyes scanned every face, every doorway. A white man leaned against a lamppost, watching them with a look she didn’t like. A group of boys darted past, kicking a can down the street, their laughter sharp as glass. A tiredlooking woman swept the stoop of a small house, her apron fluttering in the faint breeze. They needed food, shelter, and a place to breathe, even if just for a moment. Mariel tugged on Naomi’s sleeve, nodding toward a small cottage at the edge of town. Smoke curled from the chimney, and a woman sat on the porch—white, but older, her face lined with something that looked more like weariness than hate. Her hands trembled as she stitched a tear in what looked like a child’s shirt. There was something about her that made Naomi pause. “We can’t,” Naomi whispered. “She—” “We gotta try,” Mariel interrupted. “We can’t keep runnin’ without rest.” Naomi hesitated, but her stomach twisted painfully. She took a breath, forcing herself to push aside the exhaustion, the doubt, and the fear. Hunger had a way of overriding hesitation. Clenching her fists at her sides, she took a step forward, her voice steady despite the knot tightening in her chest. The woman’s eyes lifted as they approached. She didn’t scowl. She didn’t sneer. She just looked—tired, and curious. “Evenin’, ma’am,” Naomi said cautiously. “We—we don’t mean no trouble. We just… need a little help. Somethin’ to eat. We can work for it.” The woman’s gaze lingered on their faces—two Black girls, dirty and worn, eyes too old for their age. She let out a slow breath and nodded toward the side of the house. “Go on ’round back. There’s a pump. Wash up. I’ll fix you somethin’.” Naomi blinked. It wasn’t what she expected. Her heart still raced, but there was no venom in the woman’s tone. Just exhaustion. Maybe grief. Maybe something else. They did as she said. Cool water from the pump washed away the mud but not the fear. They whispered as they cleaned their hands and faces. “Why she helpin’ us” Mariel asked. Naomi didn’t know. But as they sat at the worn kitchen table minutes later, eating cornbread and beans in silence, something shifted inside her—just a little. For the first time in a long while, she allowed herself to acknowledge the smallest sliver of hope. The warmth of the food in her stomach reminded her of something she had almost forgotten—the possibility of kindness, even in unexpected places. The warmth of the food filled her stomach. The food was welcome, but Naomi made a mental note that it was lacking in seasoning. Her mother’s beans and cornbread had been rich with flavor, the kind that lingered on the tongue and felt like home. This meal filled her stomach, but it wasn’t the same—it lacked the warmth of familiarity, the taste of love cooked into every bite. To say they felt safe would have been a stretch, but for a brief moment, the chaos had stilled. At least they were clean, their bellies no longer empty. They appreciated the kindness, but they knew—the danger was still out there. Always. The woman wiped her hands on her apron and sat down across from them. Her eyes, soft yet searching, moved from Naomi to Mariel and back again. She leaned forward slightly, curiosity plain on her face. Where y’all come from she asked gently. Naomi paused spoon halfway to her mouth. She glanced at Mariel, then back at the woman. Dallas, she said carefully, her voice low. The woman nodded slowly as if weighing that word. She let a quiet beat pass before asking her next question. Where you headed Naomi paused spoon halfway to her mouth. She glanced at Mariel, then back at the woman. There was no accusation in her tone, only an honest interest. It caught Naomi off guard. Where you headed the woman asked. Naomi hesitated, her fingers tightening slightly around the spoon. North. Maybe… Chicago. Got family there. My sister. She chose her words carefully, weighing the risk of revealing too much. The woman’s expression remained guarded, making it impossible to tell whether she was merely curious or something more. The woman nodded, considering this. She let a moment pass before speaking again. Your folks she asked softly. Naomi’s hand tightened around her spoon. Her voice faltered. Mama… she’s back home. Daddy… he… Her throat tightened, and she couldn’t finish. The woman’s eyes softened. She understood. She didn’t press further. She simply nodded and let the silence speak for them all. The truth settled between them. These girls were running from something. From someone. And the woman felt sorry for them. None of them had shared their names. Not Naomi, not Mariel, and not the woman. It was as though names would make it all too real—would bind them to something they might not survive. And yet, in that nameless space, there was a fragile understanding. The woman studied her a little longer. There was something about Naomi—something that intrigued her. And in that moment, Naomi was reminded of something good—something warm and steady from a time before everything fell apart. Maybe it was her fathers voice humming a tune as he worked, or her mothers hands braiding her hair on a Sunday morning. Whatever it was, it softened her heart just a little. The woman sighed, breaking the quiet. I ain’t got much, she admitted. But I can give y’all a place to sleep tonight. Might be able to scrounge up somethin’ for you to take with you when you leave. It won’t be much, but… it’s somethin’. Naomi and Mariel exchanged a glance, still cautious. Their guard had been up for so long, it wouldn’t come down easily. They both nodded, their voices low but grateful. Thank you, ma’am. The woman stood and motioned for them to follow. She led them to a small back room, plain but clean, with a cot and a blanket folded at the foot. It ain’t much, she repeated, her voice softer now. But it’s yours for the night. Naomi nodded again. Thank you. As they settled in, Naomi lay still, eyes open in the dark. Her body begged for rest, but her mind refused. She stayed alert, listening for footsteps, a door creak—anything. She trusted the woman, but not completely. She couldn’t afford to. Not yet. Tears welled up and slipped down her cheeks as the images replayed in her mind—her father fighting until his last breath, and her mother scrambling around the house to get her gun and push Naomi to safety. They had protected her with their lives. She wondered if anyone else had been hurt—maybe even Mariel’s family. Everyone knew they were friends. That thought tightened the knot of guilt and grief in her chest, but she swallowed it down, forcing herself to stay alert, just in case. But there was another problem. Neither she nor Mariel had a real sense of direction. Geography had never been much of a subject at their school. They didn’t have money for a train or bus, so walking and hoping for rides along the way was their only option. The thought terrified Naomi—two Black girls wandering open roads. She knew how dangerous that was. They would need to learn the back ways. They would need help. The next morning, the woman fixed them breakfast—nothing fancy, but warm. She wrapped a bit of food in a scrap of cloth made from the same shirt she had been stitching when they arrived. Naomi recognized it and found herself touched by the gesture. Swallowing her pride, Naomi asked, Ma’am, could you… maybe point us the right way Toward Chicago The woman studied her, concern flickering in her eyes. She wiped her hands on her apron. Best you stick to the woods when you can. Stay off the main roads. Keep east a ways, then follow north. Naomi listened carefully, committing every word to memory. The woman handed them the bundle of food and stepped back. Y’all be careful out there, she said softly. And keep your eyes open. Naomi nodded, her chest tight with gratitude and fear. They thanked her, and before long, they were moving again—toward the unknown. For the next few days, they walked, picking up odd jobs here and there, their bodies growing weary from the long journey with no true place to rest. They kept their interactions with people short and quick, never lingering long enough to draw attention. The food the woman had given them was soon gone, and their stomachs gnawed with hunger. They had managed to gather a little change, but not much. Their stomachs ached, a persistent reminder of their dwindling strength. They needed to find a store. Maybe we can get some bread, Mariel suggested, her voice low. Maybe a little meat if we lucky. Naomi nodded. Or syrup and butter. Mama used to make syrup and butter sandwiches when times was really hard. She’d spread the syrup thick, let the butter melt in, and press the bread together like it was something special. Said it tasted like better days, even when we aint had none. They stumbled upon a small store—nothing much, just a worn building tucked along the roadside. Mariel pointed it out, but Naomi froze. The sight of it brought her back—her father’s bloodied face, his voice yelling for her to run, her mother’s desperate hands pushing her out the door. Mariel saw it in her eyes and hesitated. I’ll go in, she offered quietly, her voice laced with understanding. You wait here. Keep watch. Naomi didn’t argue. She stayed by the side of the building, heart racing, eyes darting around for any sign of trouble. Inside, Mariel faced the familiar hostility, the weight of unwelcome eyes pressing down on her as she moved through the narrow aisles. The store owner, a sourfaced man, was rude—grumbling as she picked out a small stick of butter, a tiny jar of syrup, and a loaf of bread. But he took her money. When she emerged, Naomi exhaled with relief. Together, they found a quiet, outofsight place beneath a cluster of trees. They ate in silence—simple sandwiches that tasted better than anything Naomi could remember. Just as they were finishing, the brush rustled. A man stepped out—his clothes dirty, his grin twisted with something vile. His eyes raked over them, lingering on Mariel. He spoke in a low, greasy voice, Where yall headed Need some help Naomi stiffened, her instincts flaring. We aint need nothin from you. We fine. He sneered and stepped closer. Got a smart mouth on you, girl. With a rough shove, he pushed Naomi aside, making her stumble into the dirt. His attention snapped back to Mariel. But you—why dont you come on over here I’ll treat you real nice. Mariel’s eyes darted to Naomi, panic rising. She stepped back, trembling. No... we gotta go. The man chuckled darkly. Don’t be scared. Come here. Desperation flared in Mariel’s chest. She grabbed a rock and flung it at him, striking his shoulder. His face twisted with rage. You little— Mariel screamed as he tried to tackle her, his rough hands grabbing at her dress. Naomi’s heart surged with terror and rage. Without thinking, she snatched a heavy branch and swung with all her strength. The crack was sickening. The man collapsed, blood pooling beneath his head. Mariel stood over him, her chest heaving, eyes wild. She glanced at Naomi, their breaths heavy. Mariel looked down at his lifeless body with hatred. Suddenly, with all her might, she stomped hard between his legs, making his body jerk. Bastard, she mumbled before spitting on him. She looked at Naomi, their eyes locking on each other, knowing their world had forever changed. No one had seen it. No one had heard. But they didn’t wait to find him. They ran—faster than they ever had—deeper into the woods, further from the road, away from the body and the danger that would follow if anyone found it. That night, Naomi sat in a quiet place beneath the trees, near a small river. The gentle trickle of the water contrasted with the storm inside her. She thought about the woman who had helped them, so different from the store owners and the mobs in Dallas. That woman’s face stayed with her—proof that not all white folks were the same. She thought about her parents—her father’s fight until his last breath, her mother’s frantic hands grabbing the gun, and pushing her out the door to safety. They had given their lives to protect her. The weight of that truth pressed heavily on her chest. Her mind drifted to Chicago—what it would feel like to see Dessa. To tell her what had happened. Naomi hated the thought of it. She would have to look her sister in the eye and say it all—how their parents were gone, and how it was her fault. That truth was sharp and unforgiving. But more than grief, more than guilt—there was something else brewing inside Naomi. Something fierce. Revenge. Payback. She didn’t know how or when, but she vowed she would live long enough to make them pay—the men in Dallas, the ones who killed her father, the ones who beat her mother, all those who had mistreated people like her. She would carry this fire with her, and one day, it would burn them all. The next morning, they pushed forward until exhaustion slowed their steps, and when they finally emerged from the dense trees, they found themselves near Little Rock, Arkansas.  Chapter 6 Ashes and Awakening   The city stretched before them like something from a dream—alive and pulsing with energy Naomi had never known. The sun hung low, bathing the streets in hues of orange and purple, while the glow of city lights flickered to life against the dusk. The sound of life wrapped around them like a song—laughter, the soft hum of conversations, the distant wail of a saxophone blending into the night air. Cars rumbled by, their headlights cutting through the dimming sky, and the scent of fried food and sweet perfume mingled with the warm breeze. As they cautiously stepped into the Black part of town, their senses were overwhelmed. Children darted along the sidewalks, their feet slapping against the pavement as they chased each other, squealing with joy. Women in elegant dresses, their hair pressed to perfection, chatted on porches, their voices musical and warm. Men stood tall in crisp suits, shoes shined to mirror the streetlights, tipping their hats to passersby with a grace Naomi had never seen from her people before. Here, Black folks moved with pride, with purpose. They belonged. They passed a stately twostory home with a wraparound porch that seemed to glow in the fading light. Flowers burst from the garden in bright yellows and deep purples, a sharp contrast to the dusty yards Naomi knew back home. A beautiful Black woman stood on the steps, her skin glowing like polished mahogany, her dress cinched perfectly at the waist. She called out to her children, her voice both firm and loving, and when she noticed Naomi and Mariel, she offered a brief, polite smile that carried no fear, only familiarity. “They got a house like that” Mariel whispered, her voice catching with awe. Naomi could only nod, her throat tight. She felt like an intruder, peering into a world that wasn’t supposed to exist for people like them. And yet, here it was. As they continued, Naomi noticed something that made her breath hitch—white folks, dressed sharp, slipping into the shadows of Black clubs and music halls. She watched a white couple glance over their shoulders before slipping into a side door, the faint thump of a bass drum escaping into the street as the door closed behind them. It was risky, dangerous even, but they were there—drawn by the music, by the rhythm, by the life that Black people had created. The lines Naomi had always known—Black on one side, white on the other—blurred here, at least in the cover of night. Her heart swelled with a strange mix of hope and unease. This place was different. It was vibrant, complicated, and alive. It was nothing like home. But they were still strangers, still running. And they needed to find a safe place to rest before the night grew too dark. As they wandered through the vibrant neighborhood, something unexpected stopped them in their tracks. Across the street stood a wellkept home, painted a warm yellow with white trim. On the porch sat a striking Black woman, her dress crisp, her hair neatly styled. She held a book in her lap and glanced up as the girls passed. There was no fear in her eyes—only curiosity and kindness. The girls couldn’t look away. They had never seen Black folks living like this—happy, confident, successful. It was like stepping into a different world. The home belonged to the woman and her husband. He was a military veteran and ran the town’s funeral home. She was educated—a teacher—and part of the quiet but determined civil rights movement taking root in Arkansas. She studied Naomi and Mariel with a knowing look. She had seen that kind of fear before. She knew these girls were running from something dark. Naomi clutched Mariel’s hand. For the first time in days, hope flickered in her chest. The woman on the porch spoke first. Evenin, girls. Yall lookin for someone Naomi froze, her instinct to keep moving, but Mariel nudged her forward. No, maam. We just... passin through. The woman nodded slowly, eyes gentle but sharp. She noticed the hollowness in their cheeks, the weariness in their eyes, and the contrast between the two girls. She guessed they were about fifteen or sixteen. Naomi was tall for her age, dark brown with thick hair, and eyes as deep and perfectly shaped as they came. There was beauty in her strength—strong features, dark, welldefined eyebrows—and though she barely smiled, Alma sensed a radiant smile was hidden beneath all that hurt. Mariel, on the other hand, had a softer look. She was lighterskinned, slim, and slightly shorter than Naomi. Her face was gentle, almost disarming, but Alma could see it—this one was not weak. Of the two, Alma knew the world would be more at ease with Mariel. People would mistakenly think she posed less of a threat. But Alma knew better. It would be a mistake to underestimate either of them. I’m Alma. This here’s my husband, Mason. Yall hungry The girls hesitated, but their empty stomachs chose for them. Yes, ma’am. Thank you. Inside, the house smelled like cornbread and coffee, a warmth Naomi had almost forgotten. Over dinner, Alma and Mason began asking gentle questions. Where yall from Alma started, her tone soft. Naomi hesitated before answering, Dallas. Mason nodded slowly. Long way from home. Got folks back there Naomi’s throat tightened. We... we did. Alma exchanged a glance with Mason but didn’t press. Yall been travelin’ a while, huh Mariel shifted in her seat. a few weeks... maybe more. You girls all by yourselves Mason asked, concern lacing his voice. Naomi glanced at Mariel, then back to them. Yes, sir. Just us. The room grew quiet for a moment. Alma placed a hand over Naomi’s. Well, you safe now. You can rest here tonight. Naomi felt a wave of relief but also discomfort—like accepting kindness was unfamiliar. She managed a nod. Thank you, ma’am. Alma smiled. Aint no trouble. We been helpin’ folks a long time. You ain’t the first, and likely won’t be the last. Naomi shared small pieces of their story—careful, guarded, but honest enough. Alma and Mason listened, really listened, like Etta used to. It made Naomi’s chest ache. The next morning, Alma took both Naomi and Mariel into town with her to buy a few things she needed for dinner. A bag of flour was among the items. The sight of a ragged bag of flour triggered a memory of Naomi’s father. All he wanted was a bag of flour, and that one item led to his bloody body lying on a dirt road in front of a dilapidated corner store. Naomi fought back the surge of emotions. As they stepped into the small grocery, Naomi’s eyes darted around, taking it all in. It wasn’t like the stores she was used to. No bugs were crawling across dusty shelves, no cobwebs dangling from corners, no moldy goods behind foggy glass cabinets. The floors were spotless, the shelves neatly stacked, and the air smelled fresh. Naomi just stared, her gaze moving from one corner of the store to the next. She was speechless, in shock, not knowing how to react. Although she knew she shouldnt, the pristine order of the store made her feel uncomfortable—out of place. Beside her, Mariel’s face lit up with wonder. Her eyes sparkled as she whispered, Look at all this, Naomi She lingered near a display of bright candy jars, her fingers twitching as though she wanted to touch everything. Her excitement bubbled beneath her breath, as if she’d stepped into a world she never imagined could exist. Behind the counter, a white man looked up and offered a polite nod. Mornin, Alma. What can I get for you today His voice was warm, familiar. Alma smiled politely. Just flour today. The man placed the sack on the counter. That all you need today he asked. Then, with a nod toward Alma, he added, Ain’t seen Mason in here lately. He doin’ alright Alma smiled, her eyes warm. He’s good, just busy with work. She placed her money on the counter. Naomi watched the exchange, noticing it was different from what she was used to—but not all things had changed. Outside, Naomi couldn’t hold it in. Why he ask about your husband like that Like he checkin’ on y’all Alma stopped, looking Naomi dead in the eyes. Baby, he was being kind. Naomi responds, Kind Alma laughs. Maybe youre right he was being cordial. There is a difference. Even when they are cordial, we still gotta stay careful. Do you girls understand what I am saying always be careful. Naomi didn’t answer. But those words sat heavy in her chest. Another kind of strength—quiet, calculated. She’d never thought of it that way before.  Chapter 7 The Fire Within   A month passed, and Naomi and Mariel had begun to settle into life with Alma and Mason. For the first time in their lives, they had decent clothes, steady food, and a safe place to rest. The house sat in a tightknit neighborhood where porches were full in the evenings, and the sound of children laughing mixed with the occasional crack of a baseball bat hitting a rock. Neighbors leaned over fences, sharing the day’s gossip while the smell of supper drifted from open windows. Naomi and Mariel had even made a few friends. Mariel’s playful spirit made her a natural fit with the other girls, while Naomi held back more, observing. One afternoon, Naomi’s restraint snapped. A few lighterskinned neighborhood girls had taunted her, mocking her dark skin, and whispering cruel words they thought she wouldn’t hear. You think you belong here You look like you crawled out of the fields, one of them sneered. Naomi stiffened, her fists clenching at her sides. Say that again, she dared, her voice low and dangerous. The girl smirked. I said— Before she could finish, Naomi swung. Her fist connected with the ringleader’s jaw, sending her stumbling back. Gasps erupted around them as shock and pain flickered in the girl’s eyes. Naomi stepped forward, ready to swing again, but firm hands grabbed her from behind, yanking her away. Enough a voice commanded. The world blurred as Naomi struggled, but the grip held firm. That evening, Alma sat Naomi down on the porch, her voice steady but warm. Naomi, you’re strong, no doubt about that. But strength ain’t just about throwin’ punches. There’s a reason you burn so bright—it’s because you got the fire of Nike, The Greek Goddess in you. She wasn’t just about fightin’—she was about patience, endurance, knowin’ when to strike and when to hold back. There will always be folks tryin’ to put you down, but real power That’s knowin’ when to stand your ground and when to outlast ‘em. Naomi stared down at her scraped knuckles, her anger still raw, but Alma’s words settled deep. She didn’t just want to win fights—she wanted to win the war. And that meant she had to be more than just her fury she had to be unstoppable in ways they could never expect. It didnt take long for several years to go by for the girls to grow into beautiful young women under the watchful eye of Alma and Mason. Naomi was now in her early twenties, her once fiery teenage defiance refined into a steely determination. She had found work at a local sewing factory, her hands quick and precise, though her mind was always on something greater. Mariel had also taken a job as a clerk at a neighborhood store, her warm spirit making her a favorite among customers. Life in Alma and Mason’s home had shaped them—teaching them resilience, strategy, and the power of community. They were no longer just girls surviving they were women, navigating the world with purpose. As the years went by, Naomi and Mariel became deeply woven into Alma and Mason’s crusade to uplift their community. What started as simply passing out fliers turned into organizing voter registration drives, helping neighbors open businesses, and even leading small discussions on fighting for human rights. Naomi, especially, found purpose in the work. She was no longer just surviving—she was building something. Every meeting, every conversation, every plan—she was learning, growing, and shaping her vision for what their community could be. It was at one of the latenight meetings in Alma and Mason’s living room that Naomi first noticed him—Leon. He was tall, with a lean frame and a face that could break into a smile so bright it made the oil lamp light seem dimmer. He was confident, leaning back in his chair like he owned the room, but his eyes were sharp—taking in every word, every risk. The other young women in the neighborhood flirted when he passed, but Naomi saw something deeper—something steady, something brave. Alma and Masons home was a haven, but it was also a place of action. During those many secret meetings, trusted neighbors would whisper their concerns about access to voting, segregation, horrible working conditions, and a plethora of other oppressive experiences they faced daily. Alma and Mason were careful to make sure that their meeting did not gain the unwanted attention of the sheriff and other powerful people in neighboring communities. Naomi and Mariel would often sit in the corner, shadows against the wall, listening as words like poll taxes, literacy tests, and intimidation swirled around them. Naomi felt it—the urgency in their voices, the tension in their bodies when someone mentioned a neighbor being beaten for trying to register. Over the years, she came to understand how deep the wounds were for Black people after suffering hundreds of years of attacks. Yet, there was also defiance, a flicker in their eyes that reminded Naomi of her mother. One evening, after the others left, Naomi sat with Alma on the porch. Alma leaned back, the wooden chair creaking softly beneath her. She brushed her hand absently over her apron, fingers tracing an old worn patch. Her eyes wandered to the dirt road ahead, watching shadows stretch across the street as the sun melted into the horizon. The night was thick with the hum of crickets and the faint laughter of children a few houses down. The sky was streaked with purple, the kind of dusk that made everything feel suspended in time. Naomi leaned forward, elbows on her knees. It so dangerous Tryin’ to fight for our rights How you deal with it, Auntie Alma Mariel asked. Alma nodded slowly. Yeah, baby. But what ain’t dangerous for us She exhaled deeply. They want us scared. Want us to believe we ain’t got a say. But we do. And every time one of us gets that right—really gets it—they know their hold is slippin’. Naomi thought of her parents, of Dallas, of the man who had killed her father. She thought of her mother’s blood on the porch steps. But what if they hurt you What if they come here Alma’s eyes softened, but there was steel underneath. Then we fight in the way we know how. I’ve seen too much, Naomi. Growing up I cleaned their houses, took care of their babies, and still, they’d spit on me if they could. Thats why I teach children because we must be strong and smart. You know were naturally clever. We had to be to have survived this long. They want to keep us in a box. She paused to give her words time to sink in. So now, I choose how I fight. With my vote. With my voice. With my mind. And maybe, one day, when I am gone, both of you will continue to fight that way too. Naomi was quiet for a moment, taking it in. Alma and Mason were teaching them that there was more than one way to light a fire. Alma leaned back in her chair, her eyes thoughtful. Girls, what we do—what we’re tryin’ to do—it’s about bein’ strategic. Naomi furrowed her brow. Strategic Alma nodded. It means thinkin’ ahead. Movin’ smart. Knowin’ when to push and when to hold back. When to speak and when to stay quiet. Fightin’ with your mind as much as your fists. Naomi rolled the word around in her head. Strategic. She unclenched her fists slowly, rubbing her thumb over her knuckles. Strategy—it felt like a weapon she was only now beginning to understand. It was new to her, but it felt powerful. Like something more than just fighting—it was winning. Mariel listened closely, her playful nature dimmed by the weight of the conversation. So... we can fight without always throwin’ punches Alma smiled gently. That’s right. And when we do swing, we make sure it’s at the right thing—at the thing that’s holdin’ us all down. That’s how we win. Naomi still had the fire in her, but now she had something else—a new weapon. Strategy. She looked out into the darkening street, her thoughts churning. Across the way, she noticed Leon, standing a couple of houses down on the opposite side of the street. He was outside with another young man their heads close together in what seemed to be a deep conversation. Naomi glanced in his direction, just long enough for their eyes to meet. He nodded slightly and smiled. Her heart stumbled but her expression remained serious. Alma noticed. Mariel noticed. For a moment the ladies enjoyed the faint burst of laughter drifting from a nearby porch. The sound of a radio crackled low from somewhere down the street, blending with the distant hum of voices sharing the cool evening air. Leon called over, his voice easy and warm. How y’all doin’ this evenin’ He made sure to add, Miss Alma, with a touch of respect. Alma responded with a smile. Hello, Leon. How are you Leon grinned. We just fine, Miss Alma. And just as quickly, he turned back toward his friend, resuming their conversation. Alma broke the silence after his greeting, her tone gentle. You know, girls, your birthdays are comin’ up soon. Mariel, you’ll be nearin’ twenty, and Naomi, twentyone. Time sure moves fast. Almas smile held a tinged of bittersweet. Babies... still babies, she whispered, more to herself than to them. Her eyes softened, but a shadow flickered behind them. She hesitated before adding, Me and Mason... we never had any of our own. Wanted to. But... wasn’t meant to be. Sometimes, the Lord gives you other folks to look after, though. Maybe that’s what He had in mind for me. She let the words hang for a moment, the warmth of her voice mingling with the weight of what was unsaid. Naomi felt a strange comfort in that—like, maybe, for the first time in a long while, someone wanted them to stay. She hadn’t thought about going to Chicago in a while. She and Mariel had not brought the subject up. Early on Alma helped Mariel write a letter to her family. Mariels family urged them not to return to Dallas, warning that it was still too dangerous. They also confirmed what Naomi already knew in her heart—her mother was dead. Naomi closed her eyes for a moment. She could still hear her mother humming softly while stirring a pot on their old stove back home. That simple sound, once ordinary, now felt like a distant echo. Naomi never wrote to anyone in Dallas—there wasn’t much left for her there. But she did write her sister, Dessa, explaining what happened and assuring her that they were okay and with a kind family. Naomi spent the rest of the evening going over Almas words. She wanted to fight the injustice that they faced—but how She would do something. The fire inside of her was a constant reminder that she would do something, by any means necessary. As the night settled in, Naomi pressed her fingertips into the rough wood of the porch railing. She listened to the faint shuffle of neighbors retreating indoors, their voices fading into the dark. That fire inside of her—it would not go out. It had been lit long before she was born, and she would carry it forward.    Chapter 8 Ignition Point   Weeks passed, and a local election was coming up in days. Alma, William, Naomi, and Mariel—along with a few others from the community—had worked tirelessly to get people registered to vote. Alma was now training them to face the unfair literacy tests and trick questions they would almost certainly encounter. The tension in the neighborhood was thick you could feel it in every conversation, every glance. People were scared. Some whispered that all this talk of voting would only stir up trouble. Others thought it was best to leave things as they were—after all, the white folks in town had been decent enough. They hadn’t burned their homes or chased them off. They let them walk the streets, more or less unbothered. For some, that was enough. Alma and William held a meeting to prepare. The small living room was crowded, the air thick with the smell of coffee and the faint scent of sweat. Alma and William sat near the front, their faces steady but tight with worry. Naomi and Mariel perched on a wooden bench, listening carefully. Leon leaned against the wall, his arms crossed, his father sitting beside him. A few older neighbors, their faces lined with years of caution, glanced around nervously. The local pastor, Reverend Tate, adjusted his glasses, his voice calm but heavy with concern. Alma cleared her throat. “Alright, we all know why we’re here. Election’s coming up. We got folks registered—praise God for that—but that’s just the start. They’re gonna test us. Trick us. Try to break us.” William added, his voice low and firm, “They want us to fail. They want us to be too scared to even show up. But we ain’t doing that.” A murmur of agreement rippled through the room, but it was uneasy. Reverend Tate spoke up, his tone gentle. “Courage is a gift from the Lord. But He also gave us wisdom. We need both.” Leon shifted, his voice cutting through the room. “We ain’t asking for nothin’ that ain’t ours. We got a right to vote same as any person.” His father nodded beside him, but another voice broke in—Mr. Harlan, an older man from down the street. His face was weary, his hands twisting his cap. “Now, I respect what y’all tryin’ to do. But… what if this makes things worse What if they come burnin’ through here like they did down in that other town I can’t risk that.” A woman named Miss Clara, sitting beside him, nodded quickly. “Mr. Harlan’s right. We been livin’ here peacefullike. They let us work, let us walk through town. Maybe it ain’t much, but it’s better than what it could be. We start demandin’ too much, and we might lose all we got.” Alma leaned forward, her eyes sharp. “And what is it we got Scraps Smiles when they feel like givin’ ‘em We don’t own these streets we walkin’. We don’t own our futures. We can’t let fear keep us in a cage.” Naomi felt the fire rising in her chest, but she stayed quiet. She was learning to listen. Mariel, usually softer, added quietly, “They killed Naomi’s folks… over words. They can do it anytime they want. If we keep quiet, that don’t make us safe—it just makes us easy.” Silence fell over the room. Reverend Tate spoke again, measured but firm. “The Lord calls us to walk in faith, not fear. But we must be wise. We vote because it is our right. We prepare for the worst, but we hope for the best.” Alma nodded. “We go together. We stand together. Nobody walks alone. If they come for one of us, they face all of us.” Mr. Harlan sighed deeply. “I’m scared. But maybe… maybe scared is the price we pay to move forward.” He said the words, but his eyes darted around the room, his fingers still nervously twisting his cap. Even as he spoke, his fear was plain—too plain. Naomi noticed it. Alma noticed it. And Leon noticed it too, Leon made a mental note to watch Harlan. He agreed with his lips, but what people say is often different from what they do. The room settled into a tense agreement. Plans were made—who would escort who, what time they’d meet, and how they’d watch each other’s backs. Later that evening, after the meeting, Leon and Naomi found themselves alone outside. The cool night air wrapped around them, and for the first time, they talked—really talked. Leon teased her, grinning. “Do you ever smile, Naomi Or you just stay mad at the world” Naomi smirked but then smiled, surprising herself. Leon leaned in slightly, his voice softening. “Do you ever think about traveling Naomi” She smirked, “Travel To go where” Leon quickly responds, “I don’t know, anywhere. I want to see the world someday. I wanna go somewhere I can be free… somewhere I can just be a man without all this.” Naomi tilted her head, considering his words. “I ain’t never thought about leavin’... or seein’ the world. I just... I just figured where I go, people still gonna look down on us. I might as stay here and fight for somethin.” Leon’s eyes softened. “Ain’t nothin’ wrong with fightin’. But maybe... maybe we fight so that one day, we don’t have to no more.” Naomi looked at him, smirked, and said, You talk too much. She held his gaze a moment longer, then looked away, afraid he might see her vulnerability—something she wasn’t used to showing. He noticed but didn’t press. Instead, he grinned. Okay, Miss Fighter. When this is all over, me and you—we havin’ a picnic. And then we goin fishin. I’ll let you fight the fish after I catch ‘em. Naomi laughed, the sound surprising her again. Leon leaned in playfully. That okay with you, Miss Fighter Is that okay with you pretty girl She smiled—just slightly—but it was real. She nodded, “Okay, but still talk to much.” Up in the bedroom, Alma and William lay side by side, staring at the ceiling. William’s voice was low, careful. “Alma… if this goes bad… you might have to send those girls on to Chicago. For their safety.” Alma sat up abruptly in bed, her heart heavy. Over the years, Naomi and Mariel had become more than just two young women under her care—they were family. The thought of sending them away, of letting them go into an uncertain world, nearly broke her. She turned onto her side, facing Mason, her voice barely above a whisper. They feel like ours now, Mason. I never expected that. William placed a hand over hers. “I know. But we gotta be ready... for whatever comes.” Alma closed her eyes. She understood, but it didn’t make it any easier. “I know,” she whispered. “But Lord… I hope it don’t come to that. Naomi spent the rest of the evening going over Almas words. She wanted to fight the injustice that they faced—but how She would do something. As the night settled in, Naomi pressed her fingertips into the rough wood of the porch railing. She listened to the faint shuffle of neighbors retreating indoors, their voices fading into the dark. Weeks passed, and a local election was coming up in days. Alma, Mason, Naomi, and Mariel—along with a few others from the community—had worked tirelessly to get people registered to vote. Alma was now training them to face the unfair literacy tests and trick questions they would almost certainly encounter. The tension in the neighborhood was thick you could feel it in every conversation, every glance. People were scared. Some whispered that all this talk of voting would only stir up trouble. Others thought it was best to leave things as they were—after all, the white folks in town had been decent enough. They hadn’t burned their homes or chased them off. They let them walk the streets, more or less unbothered. For some, that was enough. The weather was good on the day of the election. The sun hung high in the sky, casting a warmth over the town that felt almost mocking compared to the tension simmering beneath the surface. People had started to gather near the election office, some determined, others hesitant, eyes darting nervously. That same morning, Harlan slipped into the police station, his heart racing. He told himself he was doing the right thing—keeping the peace. He informed the sheriff about what Alma and Mason had been organizing, muttering that he just didn’t want any trouble. What he didn’t know was that Leon had followed him, having suspected the older man might buckle under his fear. Leon rushed to Mason and Alma’s house, where a few neighbors had already begun gathering. His words came fast, his breath heavy. There was grumbling—anger boiling beneath the surface—but after some tense backandforth, they decided. The plan would go forward. No turning back now. Everyone went to meet the people already at the voting location. As they prepared to leave, Leon caught Naomi’s eye. He grinned, despite the weight of the moment. Don’t forget, Miss Fighter—after this, we’re going fishin. Naomi managed a small smile, but her heart was tight with worry. Mason leaned in and pressed a gentle kiss to Alma’s forehead. “It’ll be alright,” he whispered, though his eyes carried the burden of uncertainty. When they arrived at the polling place, the air shifted. The sheriff and election officers were waiting. Their faces twisted with smugness, their eyes daring the men. From the moment Mason stepped forward, they made it clear—this would not be easy. Mason and Leon headed to the front of the line. Just inside the door stood a group of white election officials and two uniformed officers. Their eyes bore down on Mason with hostility, their questions sharp and laced with mockery and veiled threats. The officials demanded he recite sections of the Constitution, their gazes daring him to stumble. Mason answered, steady and sure, his voice unwavering. They asked for money—a poll tax—and he handed it over without hesitation, knowing it was yet another barrier meant to break him. Then, with a smug grin, one of the officials placed a large jar filled with beads before him. “How many in the jar, boy” one of the men sneered. Mason raised an eyebrow. His voice was calm, but his defiance was clear. “Why don’t you tell me And show me where it says I gotta guess that to vote.” The sheriff’s expression darkened. Tension coiled in the air. He leaned in slightly, his voice low and patronizing. Go on home now. Stop stirrin’ up trouble. He named a few folks—neighbors Mason and Leon knew well—folks who had helped with registration. Their stomachs tightened. They knew exactly how he got those names. The sheriff’s eyes narrowed further. You and your wife done alright for yourselves, boy. Don’t go messin’ that up. Mason and Leon exchanged a brief look. They realized this wouldn’t end with either of them voting. Still, they pushed forward. “I’m here to vote. That’s my right.” Mason’s voice rang steady, though his jaw was tight. One of the officers shoved him hard in the chest. Mason stumbled back a step, but he didn’t fall. Leon stepped forward, his fists clenched. “We’re men, got dammit,” Leon said, his voice sharp and clear. “We got a right to vote.” A laugh rippled through the group of officials. Out of the back of the small group one of them took a step forward, looked at the ground and as if were in slow motion, he spat onto Leon’s shoes. “Nigger, you best get outta here,” he snarled. Naomi’s eyes stayed locked on his. Can I see him The sheriff shifted his weight, scratching his chin as though pretending to consider it. Maybe... ask again later, he said with a grin, turning on his heel and walking away, his deputies snickering behind him. Alma nodded, steeling herself. She knew the fight had only just begun. Inside the house, Naomi erupted with rage, fighting to get to the door. She wanted to charge the sheriff and fight him right there, but a neighbor and Mariel held her back. Tears burned her eyes, but her fists burned hotter. Leon’s father, his face etched with worry, stepped forward. What about my boy What’s happened to Leon he asked, his voice strained with both fear and anger. The sheriff shrugged, offering nothing but a cold smirk. Later that night, Harlan appeared at the house. Everyone stared at him with a mixture of anger and disappointment. He tried to explain, his voice trembling, that he had only been trying to help, that he hadn’t meant for things to get this far. No one spoke. Their eyes bore into him, but their fists stayed at their sides—they knew his kind of fear. But he had betrayed them. Leon’s father, standing nearest the door, opened it wide without a word—his gesture clear. Harlan hesitated for a moment, then lowered his head and stepped out into the night, his shame trailing behind him. It was a week before they could visit Mason and Leon. Both had been charged with assault on a police officer, damaging property and attempted murder because they had grabbed the bean jar and thrown it, hitting one of the officers. Both were facing prison time. When Alma finally saw Mason through the bars, his face was bruised, but his eyes still held warmth when he saw her. Their fingers touched through the cold steel. You holdin’ up, Alma he asked gently. She nodded, though tears welled in her eyes. I’m holdin’, but not without you. Mason smiled softly. You’re stronger than you know. You always been. I ain’t never said it enough, but I love you, Alma. You made my life worth somethin’. Every day we laughed, every day you fought for us... I seen you. I seen all of it. And I love you for it. Tears slipped down her cheeks. I love you, Mason. Ain’t nothin’ in this world that’ll change that. He nodded, his voice quieter. We talked about the girls... You gotta send the girls to Chicago. Get ‘em far from here. Naomi’s eyes stayed locked on his. Can I see him The sheriff shifted his weight, scratching his chin as though pretending to consider it. Maybe... ask again later, he said with a grin, turning on his heel and walking away, his deputies snickering behind him. Alma nodded, steeling herself. She knew the fight had only just begun. Inside the house, Naomi erupted with rage, fighting to get to the door. She wanted to charge the sheriff and fight him right there, but a neighbor and Mariel held her back. Tears burned her eyes, but her fists burned hotter. Leon’s father, his face etched with worry, stepped forward. What about my boy What’s happened to Leon he asked, his voice strained with both fear and anger. The sheriff shrugged, offering nothing but a cold smirk. Later that night, Harlan appeared at the house. Everyone stared at him with a mixture of anger and disappointment. He tried to explain, his voice trembling, that he had only been trying to help, that he hadn’t meant for things to get this far. No one spoke. Their eyes bore into him, but their fists stayed at their sides—they knew his kind of fear. But he had betrayed them. Leon’s father, standing nearest the door, opened it wide without a word—his gesture clear. Harlan hesitated for a moment, then lowered his head and stepped out into the night, his shame trailing behind him. It was a week before they could visit Mason and Leon. Both had been charged with assault on a police officer, damaging property and attempted murder because they had grabbed the bean jar and thrown it, hitting one of the officers. Both were facing prison time. When Alma finally saw Mason through the bars, his face was bruised, but his eyes still held warmth when he saw her. Their fingers touched through the cold steel. You holdin’ up, Alma he asked gently. She nodded, though tears welled in her eyes. I’m holdin’, but not without you. Mason smiled softly. You’re stronger than you know. You always been. I ain’t never said it enough, but I love you, Alma. You made my life worth somethin’. Every day we laughed, every day you fought for us... I seen you. I seen all of it. And I love you for it. Tears slipped down her cheeks. I love you, Mason. Ain’t nothin’ in this world that’ll change that. He nodded, his voice quieter. We talked about the girls... You gotta send the girls to Chicago. Get ‘em far from here. Alma hesitated, but she knew he was right. Maybe someday, when things are better... we’ll all be together again. Yeah... someday. His smile lingered, but there was a sadness beneath it. But no matter what happens, you gotta live, Alma. You hear me You gotta live. She gripped his fingers tighter. I will. For you. For them. For all of us. Their time was up, but as the guard led him away, Mason turned back one last time. I love you, Alma. Alma quietly mouthed, I love you, too. Leon and his father had a short talk through the cold iron cell bars. His father’s hand trembled slightly as he gripped Leon’s. His eyes were glassy, his voice thick with pain. Boy, I’m gonna get you outta here, he said, the weight of a promise in his voice. I swear it. Leon tried to smile, but the swelling in his face made it difficult. Pop... we both know how this goes. His father tightened his grip. Don’t say that. You my boy. I ain’t lettin’ you rot in here. You hear me I’m fightin’. I’ll fight till I can’t no more. Leon nodded slowly, eyes burning. I know, Pop. I know you will. The older man wiped his eyes quickly, not wanting the guards to see. You hold on, son. You hold on for me. Naomi stepped into the dimly lit jail, her stomach tightening at the sight of Leon. Bruises darkened his face, one eye swollen nearly shut. Dried blood clung to his lip, but his posture was steady, unbroken. Her breath caught in her throat. She wanted to speak, but the words tangled inside her. He studied her quietly for a moment before giving a small, tired smile. Don’t look at me like that, Miss Fighter. She gripped the cold iron bars, fingers trembling. I—I just... Her voice faltered as she swallowed the lump rising in her throat. Leon gave a weak chuckle, wincing slightly. I guess I owe you that picnic, huh She smiled softly, brushing away a tear. Yeah... we can go later. Leon shook his head gently. There won’t be a later, Naomi. We both know how this ends. His voice was calm, but the weight of truth settled between them. Naomis jaw tightened, and she shook her head fiercely. No. I don’t accept that. I’m going to fight to get you out of here, Leon. He squeezed her hand, his grip weak but firm in its resolve. Not this time, Naomi. This fight aint yours to win. He reached through the bars, gripping her hand. You’re special. You got something in you the rest of us don’t. You go forward, you hear me And you fight. Always. Her chest tightened, but she whispered back, I won’t forget you. She leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to his swollen lips, her touch lingering just for a moment, a silent promise between them. He smiled—through blood, through pain—but it was full of pride. Miss Fighter... you ain’t never gonna forget me. Now go. Make it count. She held onto his gaze for a moment longer, memorizing his face, the quiet strength in his eyes. Then, with a heavy heart, she turned and walked away, knowing this was goodbye. She would carry Leon’s spirit with her, but she would never see him again. The week following their visit was thick with tension. Black residents felt it pressing on them in every space—at their jobs, in the market, on the dusty paths between their homes. Their movements grew cautious, deliberate. Most stayed close to home, the memory of the election was still fresh, and the threat of retaliation was heavy in the air. Alma quietly passed word through their trusted network. “Lay low, stay safe, and above all, we must watch over Mason and Leon.” She reassured the group that lawyers had been secured for everyone who was arrested. In the days after the bloody massacre, the community rallied together to gather money for their defense. But as the town held its breath, Alma wrestled with a different burden. She knew the time had come—Naomi and Mariel had to leave for Chicago. The girls had become like daughters to her, and the thought of sending them away twisted her heart. Still, love meant protecting them, even if it hurt. That Saturday evening, as the sun sank low, casting amber light over the porch, Alma wiped her hands on her apron and called Naomi and Mariel to the kitchen. Her voice was steady, but a slight tremble betrayed the weight of what was coming. As they sat at the table, Alma looked at them—really looked at them. She saw not just the young women they had become, but the scared, wounded girls who had arrived on her doorstep years ago. She saw their journey—the laughter, the late nights, folding flyers, the whispered fears after long meetings. She saw their strength, but she also saw their vulnerability. And beneath it all, she felt her grief—knowing that sending them away was the right thing, but it would leave her with an aching emptiness. They were her family now. And letting them go felt like losing a piece of her heart. Girls, we need to talk. Alma paused, her eyes glistening as she looked at the two young women who had become like her own. You both mean so much to me and Mason. You’ve made us so proud—prouder than you’ll ever know. She took a breath, her voice tightening. That’s what makes this so hard. This is the most difficult conversation I’ve had to have. Naomi and Mariel glanced at each other, sensing what was coming. Things are uneasy in the community right now, and it’s not going to settle anytime soon, Alma continued. We’ll keep fighting. We’ll never stop fighting. But keeping you safe—that’s what matters most to me. That’s what your folks would want. It’s time… it’s time for you to continue your journey. She reached into her apron pocket and held out two folded bus tickets. I bought these for you. You’ll go to Chicago. Dessa’s waiting for you there. You’ll be safe. Naomi’s eyes welled up instantly, her face tightening as she tried to hold it in. But it was too much. Her voice cracked. No… no, I can’t leave. You and Mason—you’re family now. What if… what if somethin’ happens to you Like my folks I can’t go through that again. I can’t. Mariel covered her mouth, tears streaming down her cheeks. Auntie Alma, please… we can stay. We can help. We ain’t scared. We can fight too. Alma shook her head gently, her voice low but firm. Oh, baby… I know you can. But this ain’t about bein’ brave. This is about livin’. You got your whole life ahead of you. And we… we need to know you’re safe. That’s what gives us strength to keep goin’. Naomi wiped her face roughly with the back of her hand, but her defiance burned through her fear. But what if I go and... someone hurts you What if I never see you again I swear, I ain’t never gonna be so far that I can’t come back and handle whoever tries. I’ll come back, and I’ll get ‘em, you hear me Alma stepped forward and wrapped her arms around both girls, pulling them in tight. Her voice softened, but her words carried a weight Naomi had never heard before. We’re all scared, baby. Every day. But I’ve had enough of runnin’, too. We all have. And I know you’d kill anyone who tried to hurt us, Naomi. I know that fire in you. But listen to me… you were meant for more than this. I knew it the day I saw you on my doorstep. You are destined for greatness. I see it, and God sees it. You and Mariel both have a purpose. You ain’t meant to stay here and fight small battles. You’re meant to lead. You’re meant to change this world. And I won’t let fear or anger steal that from you. God wouldn’t have it any other way. Her voice trembled, but she steadied it with resolve. She straightened her back, her face set with the strength of a mother protecting her own. You will go. You will do great things. And this is not a debate. The subject is closed. The next few days passed with a heavy weight hanging over the house. Alma busied herself preparing the girls’ clothes, neatly folding each dress, ironing their blouses, and carefully packing their suitcases. It was her way of holding on, her fingers lingering over each garment, as though sealing her love into the fabric. She knew they could pack for themselves, but this was all she had left to give—a final gesture of care, like wrapping her heart around them one last time. When she finished, she handed each of them a small necklace with a locket—inside were pictures of her and Mason. Engraved on the back were the words You are loved, always. They all tried to act as if life was normal, but nothing felt normal. Alma visited Mason and Leon when she could, sometimes with Leon’s father by her side. She spoke with the lawyers, gathered updates, and held a quiet meeting with the community, where neighbors vowed to continue the fight—no matter what came next. Naomi and Mariel went through the motions, but their hearts were heavy. Every sunrise brought them closer to leaving, and neither of them could bear to speak about it. Finally, the day arrived. It was a clear, warm Saturday morning. Alma stood at the bus stop with the girls. The bus was already idling, the smell of exhaust mixing with the cool breeze. Alma took their hands in hers, her voice thick with emotion. You two are my babies now. You’ll always be my babies. I know you don’t want to go, but you’re walking into your future. You hear me This ain’t goodbye. This is me lettin’ you fly. Naomi’s lips quivered. I’m comin’ back. When I do, no one—no one—will ever run me off again. I swear it. Mariel nodded, wiping her eyes. We’ll write you. You better write us too. Alma forced a smile, though her eyes were glassy. Every chance I get, baby. And you best believe I’ll be waiting on those letters. The driver called for final boarding. Alma hugged them tight—long and fierce—like she was pouring every ounce of love and protection into that embrace. As the bus rumbled away, the girls pressed their faces to the window, waving until they were out of sight.   When they were gone, Alma stood still. Her shoulders shook as the tears finally came. She wept—silent and deep—grieving the departure, praying for their safety, and knowing that her love had sent them forward.   Chapter 9 A Blaze Unbroken   The bus ride was long, stretching over miles of road that seemed endless. Alma had packed cold fried chicken, thick slices of cornbread, fresh apple slices, a mason jar of sweet tea, and a slice of homemade pecan pie. Still, the journey felt heavy. Naomi stared out the window, watching the trees thin out and give way to towns and factories. The factories caught her attention—their towering smokestacks and endless rows of brick buildings. She had heard about them but never seen them up close. They were intimidating, but also symbols of something bigger—labor, struggle, and maybe opportunity. She wondered what it would be like to work inside one of those buildings, and whether her life would ever feel as solid as those factory walls. Her thoughts drifted to the families they had left behind. She thought of Alma and Mason—the warmth of their home, the lessons they had taught, the safety they provided. That safety was gone now. They were on their own. Naomi pressed her fingers against the window, trying to steady the unease rising in her chest. Beside her, Mariel was quieter than usual, clutching the edge of her seat. Her thoughts ran to the home they had fled, but also to Alma’s gentle touch and Mason’s quiet strength. They had become parents to her in a way she never thought possible. Now, she was moving toward a future filled with uncertainty. After a long silence, Mariel finally spoke, her voice low and uncertain. You nervous about seein’ Dessa After all these years Naomi kept her gaze out the window. A little. Don’t know if she’ll even recognize me. We different now. Mariel nodded, biting her lip. City’s big... What if we don’t fit here Her voice cracked slightly, revealing the fear beneath her words. Naomi turned to her, forcing a small smile. We’ll figure it out. Like we always do. Mariel sighed, leaning her head against the seat. I just miss home already. Auntie Alma. Miss... all of it. Naomi reached over, squeezing her hand. Me too. But we ain’t ever really leavin’ them. They with us. Always. When they finally arrived in Chicago, the bus station was a rush of noise and movement—so different from the dusty stops back home. Men in suits rushed past, briefcases in hand. Women in hats and gloves walked briskly, their children trailing behind. Streetcars clanged in the distance, and cars honked impatiently as the smell of exhaust and city life filled the air. Buildings stretched high, taller than anything Naomi had ever seen. The streets were wide, bustling with people—Black, white, and everything in between. Dessa was there, waiting, her face older but familiar. Her eyes were the same—strong, warm, and full of love. When she saw Naomi, she rushed forward, wrapping her sister in a tight embrace. Tears welled up, but this time, they were tears of relief. “Look at you,” Dessa whispered, holding Naomi’s face. You’ve grown so much. Mama would be proud. Mariel stood close by, giving them space but smiling softly. Dessa turned to her next, pulling her into a warm embrace. You’ve grown too, Mariel. Look at you, she said with a soft laugh, wiping a tear from her cheek. Dessas neighborhood was a world away from Dallas and Arkansas. The streets were lined with brick apartment buildings, some worn but proud. Children played jump rope on the sidewalks while neighbors leaned out of windows chatting across the alley. There were Blackowned businesses—a barbershop with the sound of clippers buzzing, a small grocery store with fresh produce in wooden crates, and a tailor’s shop with a man in the window carefully stitching a suit. Music drifted from open windows—jazz floating through the air, blending with the hum of the city. Dessa’s home was a small but tidy apartment on the third floor. The walls were decorated with pictures of family, newspaper clippings about progress in the fight for civil rights, and portraits of Dr. Martin Luther King Jr., President John F. Kennedy, and Malcolm X. Their faces reflected the complexity of the struggle—hope, power, defiance. As Naomi looked around, she noted the irony—those same pictures had hung on the walls of Alma and Mason’s home. It reminded her that the struggle followed them everywhere, binding their lives to a shared fight. Dr. King’s eyes seemed to urge patience, Malcolm’s gaze demanded strength, and Kennedy’s image hinted at the possibility of change. It wasn’t much, but it felt safe, and now it was their home. Naomi took it all in—the noise, the life, the hope. This was different. This was new. She felt a strange mix of awe and unease. The towering buildings and bustling streets were thrilling, but the pace was dizzying, and the sheer number of people—so many moving at once—made her feel small like she could be swallowed up and forgotten. Still, beneath the uncertainty, there was a flicker of excitement. This was a place where anything could happen. Maybe, just maybe, she could build something new here. Dessa’s husband, a quiet man named Harold, sat in a worn armchair by the window. His left leg was stiff, a reminder of his injury from his time in the military. Though he didn’t say much, his eyes held warmth, and Naomi could tell he was proud to have served, even if it left him in pain. Harold was also part of the civil rights movement, supporting Dessa in her efforts, though his role was often behind the scenes. He helped organize neighborhood meetings and worked quietly to ensure those who protested had safe places to gather when tensions ran high. Hed often gather veteran friends to act as security for their meetings. Two small children, a boy, and a girl, peeked out from the bedroom, their curious eyes taking in their aunt and her friend. Dessa welcomed them over with a smile, introducing them as Henry and little Pearl. Naomi’s heart softened—she had missed so much. That evening, Dessa prepared dinner—a pot of beans with cornbread and greens. It was simple, but it was hot and filling. To celebrate their reunion, she even made a peach cobbler, the sweet smell filling the small apartment. As Naomi took in the scent, it brought back memories of the rare celebrations when her parents were still alive. Etta would scrape together ingredients for weeks just to make bread pudding, cobbler, or banana pudding. Luxuries like that were rare in Naomi’s childhood, making the sweetness of those moments linger in her heart. As they ate, Naomi and Mariel recounted everything—the fear, the running, the loss of Samuel and Etta, and the arrest of Mason and Leon. They also spoke of the older white woman who had shown them kindness and the drunken man who had tried to attack Mariel. They mentioned hitting him and running but left out that he wasn’t breathing when they fled. Dessa’s hand tightened around her fork, her knuckles whitening as she listened. Harold leaned back slightly, his jaw set, but his eyes softened with understanding. Occasionally, he gave a small nod, as if to affirm that he knew the weight of their story. Dessa blinked quickly a few times, holding back tears, but her face remained strong—a pillar for her sisters. Naomi hesitated, her voice lowering. Sometimes... I think it was my fault. If I’d just kept my mouth shut in that store, Mama and Daddy... they might still be here. Dessa leaned forward, her eyes fierce but kind. Don’t you carry that, Naomi Those people—what they did—it wasn’t your fault. It was their hate, not you speakin’ up. She paused, then softened as she gave her an update on their other siblings. I heard from James and Lillian. They made it to California. Far as I know, they doin’ okay. I’ll get you their addresses—you can write ‘em when you’re ready. Naomi nodded. Dessa’s words settled something inside her—eased a weight she’d carried for years. Later that evening, as Naomi sat near the window, Harold joined her. He stretched his stiff leg and rubbed his knee. Naomi glanced at his leg. That happen in the military Harold nodded. Yeah. Korea. Lotta us got hurt bad, but they didn’t much care once we got home. Naomi hesitated. How was it... bein’ a Black man in the military Harold sighed, leaning back. Hard. They needed us, but they didn’t respect us. We fought two wars—one over there, and one when we came back. Army didn’t break me, but this system will if I let it, he said quietly. They don’t see us as men, Naomi. Just shadows they can push aside. Still fightin’ it now. Naomi listened, feeling the weight of his words. She wanted to say something comforting, but all she could do was nod. After dinner, they cleared the table together. Dessa sighed as she wiped her hands on a towel. “I know this place ain’t like Alma’s home. Probably not as much room as you had in Arkansas, but we make do. It ain’t easy. You girls are grown now and will need to find you work. It’s different up here, but we all got to pull our weight.” Naomi glanced out the window at the city lights. “I want to work. Mariel and I worked in Arkansas. We get out tomorrow and start looking around. Probably find something in no time. She pauses, But I was thinkin’… maybe I could take some night classes too.” Dessa smiled, her face brightening with pride. “Mama always said you had somethin’ in you. You follow that, Naomi. We’ll figure it out together.” Mariel nodded, adding, “We’ll stick together. Like always.” That night, when the house had quieted, Naomi and Mariel lay side by side on a small cot. Naomi whispered, You think we’ll ever stop running Mariel was silent for a moment. Maybe. But if we don’t, we’ll just keep fighting while we run. Naomi smiled faintly. It was the kind of answer she expected from Mariel. In the weeks and months that followed, Naomi began to see another kind of racism—different from the open violence and hatred she had known in Dallas and Arkansas, but still cutting, still heavy. It was quieter here, wrapped in polite smiles and clipped tones, but it sliced just as deep and left wounds that lingered beneath the surface. She accompanied Harold to the veteran offices, trying to sort out his benefits. The clerks—white men in pressed shirts—barely looked at him. Their eyes skimmed over him like he was invisible, their voices clipped and dismissive. Each word they spoke felt like a shove, a reminder that Harold’s sacrifice meant little here. Naomi could see embarrassment and damage to Harold’s manhood on his face. But he kept his cool, forcing himself to endure their disdain. But when he came home, the weight of it all bore down on him. He sank heavily into his chair with a heavy sigh, his hand drifting to his leg—not just to rub the ache, but as if to remind himself that he’d fought for something, even if this country refused to see it. Dessa faced it too. Naomi had gone with her once to the house where she worked, scrubbing floors and washing clothes for a white family in a wealthier part of town. The lady of the house smiled, but it was the kind of smile that made Naomi’s stomach knot—a smile dipped in condescension and power. Her voice was syrupy sweet, but her eyes dismissed Dessa as less than. She called her girl, though Dessa was a grown woman with two children and lines of strength on her face. She spoke slowly, each word landing like a slap, as though Dessa was too simple to understand. Naomi watched her sister nod, lips tight, her hands moving swiftly over the laundry, but the tension beneath her skin was plain. Dessa endured it because there was no choice. They needed the money, but Naomi left that house burning with anger and the heavy weight of helplessness. Naomi herself faced it for the first time when she went to apply for a job at a small shop. Her palms were damp, and her heart thumped unevenly in her chest. She took a deep breath, trying to steady her nerves, but her stomach twisted with the familiar weight of doubt. As she stepped inside, she felt every eye in the store flick toward her, then away—dismissive, uninterested. Her pulse quickened, and she fought the urge to shrink back toward the door. The man behind the counter seemed friendly enough—until she mentioned she was looking for work. Oh, Im lookin for help. Good, hardworking help, he said to another customer, glancing at the Help Wanted sign still hanging in the window. His smile was warm, but his eyes quickly shifted when Naomi stepped forward. I’d like to apply, Naomi said, trying to sound confident. The mans face stiffened, his smile slipping into something colder. His eyes swept over her—judging, dismissing. We dont need any more help, he said flatly. Naomi blinked. But your sign— I said were good, he cut her off, already looking past her to the next customer. Next Naomi stood there for a second, heat rising to her face, but the man wouldnt meet her eyes. The next person in line stepped forward, and Naomi was left to turn away—her heart pounding with a mix of anger and humiliation. As she turned to step outside, she muttered just above a whisper, I wouldn’t work for you if you paid me double. She knew her. It was just a little defiance that gave her a small, fleeting sense of victory. Racism in the Midwest wasn’t the same kind of hatred that had taken her parents or nearly killed Mason and Leon, but it was dangerous in its way. It was more masked here, less overt than in the South, but still suffocating. But like the South, it pushed people down slowly, made them feel small, and made them question their worth. But in the Midwest, racism was often wrapped in politeness. And for the first time, Naomi saw that this hatred was not confined to her people alone. She witnessed an Asian man being turned away from a store with scornful glances and muttered slurs, his shoulders slumped in quiet defeat as he walked away. She knew many Asian families worked tirelessly in laundries, small groceries, and restaurants—contributing to the backbone of the local economy—yet were treated as if they didn’t belong. She saw a Hispanic woman clutch her childs hand tightly, her eyes wide with fear, as a shopkeeper berated her for not speaking English clearly—the little boy flinching at every harsh word. Naomi thought of the fields and factories filled with Latino laborers—breaking their backs to harvest food and assemble products for wages that barely fed their families. One afternoon, she watched as a gay man was cornered in an alley—taunted, shoved, his trembling hands raised in defense—until he finally fled, tears streaking his face, his dignity stripped away. Naomi’s stomach twisted with each scene, anger, and helplessness swelling in her chest. That evening, Naomi brought it up to Mariel. Did you see what they did to him Just for bein’ who he is. Her voice wavered. Mariel frowned, eyes downcast, shaking her head. Hate don’t need a reason, Naomi. It just looks for someone smaller to stomp on. Naomi didn’t say anything, but she felt her chest tighten. She realized their fight was bigger than she’d ever imagined. The pain of their people stretched across skin tones, languages, and love. The enemy was hate itself. Hate was a manyfaced thing here. It wore different masks, but the entitlement, the cruelty—it was all the same. She quickly realized that the KKK was not exclusive to the South it just looked different. Here in Chicago, the white hoods were replaced with suits and wicked smiles. Naomi was learning how decisions made in polished offices kept families hungry, buses still packed with Black folks in the back, and wages suppressed simply because of the color of one’s skin. Those suits—no matter the color of the man wearing them—could choke the life out of a community as easily as a rope back home. In Chicago, power wore a tie, held office, and smiled through deceit—some of them were Black. Naomi learned quickly that power when corrupted, turned men greedy. Too many politicians—white and Black—cared more about lining their pockets than lifting their people. She saw it in the desperate eyes of mothers stretched thin, in the bent backs of laborers, and the quiet despair of those slumped in alleys, numbing their pain with drugs. The chains had changed, but they were still there. Naomi watched everything. She listened as neighbors whispered about Dr. King and his calls for nonviolence—some admiring his patience, others frustrated, believing his way was too soft for times as hard as these. She heard through Dessa and Harold about the NAACPs work—fighting in the courts, inching progress forward one case at a time. She read about SNCC—students like her—sitting at lunch counters, refusing to move, willing to be beaten for their right to dignity. Malcolm X was gone, but his words still cut like blades, urging Black people to stand tall, defend themselves, and stop asking for rights that were already theirs. Each voice—King’s patience, Malcolm’s power, the students’ resilience, the lawyers’ precision—became part of her education. She didn’t know which path was hers yet, but she knew one thing. She would fight. She began to imagine a path that blended them all, a way forward that was both bold and wise. She was not there yet, but the pieces were forming. Her future was beginning to take shape. The fire inside her grew hotter, her vision sharper. She would not just fight for her own—she would fight for all of them. A week later, Naomi found herself in a cramped church basement, seated beside Dessa and Harold, surrounded by familiar faces from the neighborhood—Black, white, Latino, and others—people of different ages and walks of life, including young activists and a few individuals known quietly around the community as different—those who didn’t quite fit into the mold of what society deemed acceptable. The room was warm, filled with the murmur of voices—people tired of being underpaid and disrespected. The meeting had been called to plan a protest for fair wages and better working conditions. Leading the discussion was an older man in a suit, Alderman Curtis Miles. He was wellknown, a Black politician who had served the community for years, but his smile never quite reached his eyes. Naomi had heard whispers—he was not to be trusted. Curtis Miles spoke with a smooth, practiced tone. Now, we all know changes take time. We need to be patient. We can push for higher wages, but we need to be careful not to upset the folks signing our paychecks. We can’t afford to rock the boat. Naomi’s jaw tightened. She glanced at Dessa, who was listening quietly. Mariel cast a skeptical glance at Naomi, who was at the edge of her seat, trying hard to hold it together. Curtis said, These folks ain’t ready for real change. They need to see progress, but slowly. We can’t rush em. Then he smirked, adding, Besides, y’all got it better than you think. Some of our folks get a little uppity, forgettin’ their place. We need to keep the peace. That was it. Naomi’s blood boiled. She shot up from her chair, her voice sharp and raw. Rushing them is the only way to make them understand that we are serious, sir. We’ve been patient, kissin’ their boots while they spit on us. How much longer are we supposed to wait We’re workin’ the hardest jobs for the least pay, and our babies go to bed hungry. What’s careful about that Do you work hard, Alderman, or are you breakin’ your back I don’t think so. But the one thing I know for sure, I bet you don’t make what the white politicians are makin’. You sellin’ us this bullshit so you can get a few more crumbs than we have. I wonder how it feels to stand on our backs. The Alderman shifted, . And what’s your name, young lady Naomi met his gaze without hesitation. Naomi. But Alma calls me Nike. His brow furrowed. Who is Alma and what is Nike She let out a short laugh. You’ll find out soon enough.” He shook his head. A ripple of murmurs swept through the crowd. Heads nodded in agreement. Harold leaned forward, his eyes bright with support. Dessa reached for Naomi’s hand, giving it a gentle squeeze. Curtis’s expression hardened for a moment before his practiced smile returned. I hear you, sister. Your passion is clear, and I respect it. But we have to be strategic. We have to move smart. Naomi didn’t sit down. Smart ain’t the same as scared. And I ain’t never been scared of them. Wasn’t ever willing to pay that price. We need action. If we wait on them to change, we gonna be waitin’ forever. We can’t let fear keep us quiet. That ain’t what my daddy and mama died for. That ain’t what Harold fought for and still fights for every day. Mason and Leon—nearly beaten to death for trying to vote. People right here in this room—beaten, jailed, threatened—just to have a say in their future. We know what slow gets us. We don’t care if they’re rushed. We are drowning in patience, Alderman. Her voice was like a blade, cutting through the room, oozing with defiance. The room fell into a brief silence. Curtis shifted uncomfortably, while the energy in the basement shifted. People leaned in, emboldened by Naomi’s words. An older woman in the corner spoke up, her voice steady but worn by time. She’s right. We need to do somethin’. I done seen too much, lived through too much, to let these kids grow up thinkin’ this is all there is. My time’s almost up, but they deserve better—they deserve a chance to live free, to walk tall. We can’t let them inherit these chains. Another voice joined in. We march. We speak. We make ‘em see us. Together. Naomi felt the weight of the moment pressing down on her, heavy and unshakable. It was more than just the room’s tension—it was history, expectation, the unrelenting voice of her father whispering in her mind, reminding her of what had been lost and what still needed to be won. Anger simmered beneath her skin, but so did something else—determination, sharp and unyielding. This wasn’t just about today. This was about the future, about making sure their children didn’t grow up fighting the same damn battles. Her father’s voice echoed in her heart—the call for dignity and justice. But marching and begging wouldn’t be enough. She had other ideas. Late into the night, she read news articles about the economy, dissecting reports on factory wages, corporate profits, and the growing divide between the rich and the working class. One article in particular struck her—a piece detailing how factory owners received government subsidies while their workers barely earned enough to survive. The injustice of it fueled her fire. Naomi knew that knowledge is power. She pored over every piece of information she could find. Naomi learned a long time ago that almost anything you want to know is written somewhere, usually in plain sight. She experienced their greed, and the way they built fortunes on the backs of people. She stood again, voice cutting through the room like a blade. “March if y’all want to, but y’all need to understand that marching alone isn’t enough. We want to sit in those politicians offices and look ‘em dead in the eye and tell them that enough is enough. We know those bastards running these factories are living like kings while we scrape by. And Curtis, ain’t no way I’m gonna’ let you speak for me.” Curtis stiffened, his jaw tightening as frustration flickered across his face. He had spent years cultivating relationships, making deals in back rooms, and carefully balancing on the tightrope of power. The idea that Naomi, with her sharp tongue, could waltz into those spaces and command the room unnerved him. He masked it with a scoff. You don’t have the connections to sit across from those men. I can speak for everyone in this community. I am your Alderman.” Naomi laughed bitterly, crossing her arms and taking a deliberate step forward, her chin lifting defiantly. Her eyes locked onto Curtis, unwavering and sharp. Speak for me You You just another one of them, kissin ass to stay in your seat. I see you, Curtis. And so do they. These factories can find white boys to sweep the floors and clean the toilets. Let them tell it, we ain’t indispensable. They can replace us with a snap of their fingers.” But what they can’t replace is our labor, our minds, and our fight. We shut down just one of these plants, slow the production lines, make ‘em miss their quotas, and they’ll feel it where it hurts—their pockets. And when their investors start askin’ questions, they’ll be beggin’ to sit down and listen to us. These men understand money, not morality. And I intend to make them understand us.” The room fell into silence. Naomi let it hang, let them feel it. Eyes darted between her and Curtis, expressions shifting between uncertainty and reluctant admiration. A few hands clenched into fists, others rested tensely on tabletops. The weight of her words settled over them like an unshakable force, demanding to be reckoned with. She wasn’t interested in speeches that led to nowhere, in hollow promises that fizzled out before they reached the streets. She wanted action. And whether they liked it or not, she was about to lead them into the fight of their lives. “Well, lets see if theyre right. We need to be more than just bodies in the street. We need to be voices in their gotdamn offices.” “Watch your mouth,” Curtis hissed, his mask slipping. “Or what” Naomi shot back. “You gonna’ shut me up I ain’t afraid of you or them. We done with lettin’ you talk for us. You ain’t shit but their puppet.” The room erupted. Some gasped, others nodded, and a few clapped. Young voices cheered from the back. Dessa gripped Naomi’s arm, eyes wide with a mix of fear and admiration. Harold grinned, leaning back like he was watching a prize fight. Curtis fumbled for words, but Naomi didn’t give him a chance. “We march, sure. But we knock on doors, we get in their faces, and we don’t stop. That’s what people need and want. That’s what I want.” Her voice cracked with emotion, but her eyes burned with fire. The crowd was hers now. Curtis Miles cleared his throat. Alright. We’ll organize. We’ll march. But we stay united. That means we plan every step, together. Agreed A chorus of affirmations filled the room. But this time, voices rose louder, clearer. “Naomi must be part of any plan” someone called out. “She sits at any table or no one on our side sits at the table and that includes you, Alderman.The crowd surged with agreement. Mariel, sitting near the back, watched Naomi with admiration. She’d always wondered—what was it in Naomi that made her so fearless That made her stand when others stayed seated Tonight, she saw it clearly. It wasn’t just fire—it was wisdom born of pain, a knowing that the future belonged to the young, but only if they dared to claim it. Naomi carried the weight of those who had come before her, but she fought so those coming after wouldn’t have to. Dessa and Harold were shocked, but pride lit their faces. Naomi stepped forward again, her voice sharp with emotion. “I am a young woman that has already watched my father killed and my mama die in a blaze of fire—all for one bag of old flour. I watched people I love and admire beat damn near to death because they wanted to vote. I saw Maria over there—disrespected and degraded—because her English wasn’t perfect. And I saw James, lying bloody in the street, just because he dared to live as his true self. There is one thing I am sure about, and that is there is a right and a wrong. We must stop lingering between them and take a defiant step toward right.” And so, the journey begins. It took him a week to build up the courage to make a call he didnt want to make. Naomi’s bold stance had shaken him to his core. Curtis Miles drove home, his hands gripping the wheel tighter than usual. His neighborhood was better than most—a quiet street with neatly trimmed hedges and homes with fresh paint, far from the crowded tenements and cracked sidewalks of the poorer districts. His house stood out—a symbol of success among his Black neighbors. A small porch, a clean yard, and curtains that matched the front door. People whispered about his comfort, envying his position, but Curtis knew the truth. His comfort was borrowed—allowed. He entered the house, leaning against the door for a moment. His wife called from the kitchen, but he only managed a distracted grunt. He sat heavily in his chair, staring at the framed picture of him shaking hands with the senator—a token gesture, but proof that he had been chosen to lead and keep his people in check. That was his role—managing unrest and maintaining order. It brought him status and comfort, and he relished it. He didn’t see himself as a token, but he knew that making room for someone like Naomi could threaten everything he had built. Curtis poured a drink, his mind racing. He had worked too hard to lose it all now. Senator Williams Cronus gave him the job of being their eyes and ears—the Black man allowed in the room but the real decisions were made when he left. He was tolerated, not respected. He heard his wife’s footsteps approach. She sat across from him, concern etched on her face. “What is it, Curtis” she asked softly. He swirled his glass, avoiding her gaze. “Work stuff. It’s getting complicated.” She reached for his hand. “You’ve sacrificed so much. Just be careful.” He squeezed her hand briefly, grateful for her steadiness. But his thoughts returned to Naomi. If she pushed too hard, she wouldn’t just burn their plans—she could burn his fragile place in it all. He couldn’t let that happen. Curtis picked up the phone and called Senator Cronus. His voice was steady but laced with tension. Senator, we need to meet. There was a meeting in the black community —things didn’t go as expected. Cronus listened in silence, then agreed. Tomorrow night. The old diner off Route 9. 10 PM. He hung up and leaned back in his chair, his sharp eyes narrowing. William Cronus was a major player in the good ole boy system—a master manipulator who knew how to bend both friend and foe to his will. Charismatic, handsome, and exuding danger beneath his polished surface, he was climbing swiftly through the political ranks with his eyes on the ultimate prize preserving white power with himself as its face. He envisioned a future where he was not merely part of the machine but its master. Cronus had an uncanny ability to mask his true intentions. He spoke with such conviction that even some Black and poor citizens believed he was their champion. The few crumbs they received from the table were credited to his efforts, though they were merely diversions—tokens meant to pacify while he tightened his grip. He was a man born into privilege—old Southern money that had shielded him from struggle but schooled him in the art of control. He understood the subtle codes of the South, the unspoken hierarchies, and how to weaponize them. He thrived on pitting people against one another—Black against white, poor against poorer—keeping the fires of distrust smoldering just enough to prevent unity. Cronus operated like a chess player who always thought three moves ahead. Meeting with Curtis was just another calculated step in his long game. He would listen, smile, and offer reassurances—but he would leave knowing exactly how to pull the strings that kept Curtis in place. Like his namesake, the Titan Cronus from Greek mythology, he wielded power with precision but always feared those beneath him. The legend of Cronus devouring his children to prevent being overthrown mirrored his paranoia—maintaining control at all costs, even if it meant destroying those closest to him. His wife and children were no exception. He loved them, or at least he believed he did, but love in Cronuss world was intertwined with dominance. They were extensions of his image, symbols of his success, and tools to reinforce his stature. He provided, he protected—but he also controlled. Their loyalty was expected, and their obedience was required. He watched them as he watched everyone, calculating their moves, ready to strike if his power was ever threatened, even within his own home. That same ruthless instinct had led him to crush his brother, Robert—a man their father had always dismissed as weak. Robert was gentle, more inclined to build bridges than conquer ground. He believed unity was strength, but to Cronus and their father, unity was naivety wrapped in softness. Robert had been given a small company under the family name—perhaps a test, or maybe a final charity. Cronus watched him like a hawk, waiting for the inevitable stumble. When Robert’s investments wavered during a market dip, Cronus moved in for the kill. He poisoned their father’s ear with doubts, planted rumors among investors, and orchestrated Robert’s downfall with surgical precision. By the time Robert realized the walls were closing in, it was over. The company was devoured into Cronus’s empire, and their father severed Robert from the family tree like a diseased branch. Robert drifted north after that, living modestly in the shadows. But Cronus never forgot. Weakness still bore his family name, and that alone was an insult he would not forgive. Curtis arrived at the old diner off Route 9, the neon sign flickering above like a dying star. He wiped his hands on his slacks before stepping inside. Cronus was already there, sitting in a corner booth with his back to the wall, eyes scanning the room with that practiced, calculating gaze. Curtis slid in across from him, lowering his eyes slightly in respect. Evening, sir, Curtis began, his voice subdued. Cronus nodded, his expression cool. Curtis. Talk to me. Curtis leaned forward, voice dropping to a near whisper. The meeting—things didn’t go as smooth as we hoped. Naomi Ellis...she’s stirring them up. The young ones, especially. They’re listening to her. Cronus raised an eyebrow, setting his cup down with deliberate care. Naomi Ellis Who is she Why is she so important that we’re sitting here discussing her Curtis shifted nervously, bowing his head slightly as he spoke. She’s... she’s new, sir. Young, but sharp. People listen to her. She’s got the kind of fire that gets others moving. It’s dangerous. She’s dangerous. Cronus leaned back, considering the information. I see. Well, we can’t have that now, can we Cronus took a slow sip of his coffee. And you What did you do, while she was taking over the meeting Curtis lowered his head. Yes, sir. I tried to steer it back. I did what I could. But she...she’s strongwilled. Cronus’s gaze hardened. You let some young girl outmaneuver you Curtis flinched. No, sir. I handled it. A long silence followed. The weight of it pressed down on Curtis’s chest. He gripped the edge of the table, his knuckles whitening. Cronus leaned in, his voice low but sharp. If you handled it, why am I here, Curtis You understand your job, don’t you Curtis nodded quickly. Yes, sir. Always, sir. He cleared his throat, knowing he had to explain more. She’s not just stirring folks up, sir. It’s the way she talks to ‘em. She makes ‘em believe they deserve better. Not just marchin’, but hittin’ folks where it hurts—in their pockets. That’s what makes her dangerous. It ain’t just words with her. People believe she’ll do it, and they’re ready to follow. Cronus’s lips curled into something resembling a smile, but it held no warmth. He paused, thinking for a while, his curiosity piqued by this mysterious girl. He was used to men in the fight—King, Malcolm, Thurgood—but a woman commanding this much attention That was new. Intriguing. On second thought, I want to see her for myself. Set up a meeting, Curtis. I want to look her in the eye and see that fire that you seem to think is so dangerous. Curtis swallowed hard, bowing his head slightly. I understand. Cronus leaned back, satisfied. Keep me informed. Curtis nodded again, eyes downcast. Yes, sir. Absolutely, sir. The meeting ended with a handshake—firm on Cronus’s end, damp with sweat on Curtis’s end. Curtis stepped back into the cool night air.  Chapter 10 Fuel for the Fight  A week later, the meeting was set. Naomi arrived at the small, private office Cronus kept on the outskirts of town—a place far from curious eyes. The room was modest but calculated, with leather chairs, heavy drapes, and a single window that overlooked nothing of significance. Power was the décor. Naomi entered with her head high, her eyes steady. She wore her defiance like armor. As she stepped into the room, she thought briefly of Alma and Mason—their voices urging her to stay sharp to be strategic. She remembered the nights spent under their roof, learning that strength was not just in standing tall but in knowing when to bend without breaking. Her dark hair was neatly pulled back into a bun, accentuating her strong jawline and high cheekbones. She wore a fitted navyblue blazer over a crisp white blouse, paired with tailored slacks and low heels—an ensemble that balanced professionalism with quiet strength. A single gold necklace rested above her collar, understated but intentional. Curtis stood by the door, his presence meek, as if seeking to blend into the walls. Cronus sat behind his desk, his gaze sharp and appraising. He stood as she entered, momentarily taken aback. Her presence was more commanding than he expected. There was a maturity about her—something in her eyes in the way she carried herself—that made her seem older than her years. He extended his hand with a practiced smile, masking his surprise. Miss Naomi, I presume. I’ve heard much about you. Naomi shook his hand firmly. And I’ve heard of you, Senator. Cronus gestured to the chair opposite him. Please, sit. Let’s talk. Naomi took her seat, her back straight, eyes unyielding. Cronus leaned forward, resting his elbows on the polished mahogany desk. You’ve made quite the impression, he began smoothly. It’s not often someone so young commands such attention. Particularly a woman. That’s... rare. Naomi met his gaze without hesitation. When people are desperate, Senator, they’ll listen to anyone willing to fight for them. Even a woman. Cronus chuckled, though his eyes remained cold. Fair point. But fighting and leading—those are two different things. One sparks a crowd the other holds the line when the fire starts burning too hot. Are you ready for that Or are you just here to light matches Naomi leaned in slightly. I’m here to make sure my people get what they deserve. It is never good to be afraid to burn what needs to be burned. Cronuss smile tightened. He respected her boldness, but it was also a threat—one he could not afford to ignore. He was calculating, measuring the risk she posed. Her confidence was dangerous, not just because of her words, but because it could spread. A woman like her could ignite something that even he, with all his power, might struggle to contain. Careful with fire, Miss Naomi. Sometimes it consumes the one holding the torch. Naomi’s eyes flashed. Thats true Senator. She pauses, But if I handle it correctly, I won’t be the only one. A heavy silence hung between them. Curtis shifted nervously in the corner, clearing his throat as if preparing to speak. He took a step forward, his voice tentative but laced with an attempt at authority. Girl, what are you tryin to say. You out of place talking to Senator Cronus like that. Maybe you should consider— Cronus cut him off sharply, his eyes narrowing. Shut up and sit down, Curtis. Don’t interrupt us while we’re talking. Curtis froze, his face flushing with embarrassment. He quickly retreated to his spot by the door, his eyes downcast. Naomi felt a brief flicker of anger—not at Cronus’s dominance, but at the system that had reduced Curtis to this. Even though she knew he was part of the machine, she saw the victim in him, trapped like the rest of them. Cronus leaned back, masking his unease with a casual smirk. Now tell me, Miss Naomi, what can I do for you Naomi leaned forward slightly, her voice steady with that blend of grace and grit. I asked for this meeting because our people deserve better, Senator. We’ve been working hard, breaking our backs in dangerous conditions, gettin’ paid less than we’re worth, and treated like we’re invisible. That stops now. We need fair pay—equal to the white folks. Safe places to work. And a real shot at moving up—management, leadership, with pay that reflects it. That’s what we want—for now. He had heard these grievances before—wages, conditions, equality—but it was her closing word that unsettled him. “Now.” She had said it with authority, with the weight of someone who was not asking, but telling. That was new. That was dangerous. Tell me something, Miss Naomi—why not take your demands to the companies themselves The factory owners, the shopkeepers. They’re the ones writing the checks, after all. Wouldn’t it make more sense to deal with them directly Naomi’s lips tightened into a thin smile. William, you know better than that.” Saying his first name, as a signal that she doesn’t see him as superior to her. “Those factory owners survive because of people like you—government contracts, tax breaks, and the freedom to cut corners on safety without consequence. And for those favors, you get kickbacks, underthetable deals, early access to stock, and quiet ownership stakes with voting power. You don’t just hold the cards—you built the whole damn table. Sure, standing with us might cost you a few votes, but that pales compared to the damage you and your friends have done to poor folks. Cronus’s eyes narrowed. She wasn’t just bold she understood the structure—how power flowed from his office to the factory floor. He had underestimated her—again. You’re impressive. But power is a dangerous game. I hope you know what you’re stepping into. He also noted that she called him by his first name—something few dared to do. It was subtle, but it signaled defiance, a refusal to bow. He studied her for a moment longer, then shifted his tone, offering what he thought were enticing tokens of favor—connections, small grants, perhaps a prestigious community position. Trinkets he naively believed would secure her loyalty. Naomi listened, but her eyes never wavered. Each word from Cronus stirred something bitter within her—disgust at his arrogance, anger at the ease with which he dismissed her people’s suffering, but also a cold determination. He was powerful, but he was also predictable. When he finished, she leaned forward, her voice steady and sharp. I’m not here to work for you, William. Nor am I here to educate you on racism. I’m here because you and your friends in power have done damage. I need you to help fix it. That’s your role in this. You are not my goal—you are a step. A stone I will stand on to get to something bigger. Cronus blinked, masking his surprise at her audacity. And what exactly do you have to offer he asked, his curiosity mingled with growing amazement at her nerve. Naomi’s gaze hardened. Leverage. Black people work in your factories, in your oppressive establishments. That is the leverage that I bring to the table. It’s pretty simple, William—balance the playing field. He laughed out loud and shook his head. You came here to threaten me with a boycott Oh, little girl. Curtis tried to laugh with him, as a show of solidarity with his master. Naomi smiled faintly, her eyes cutting through their mockery. You can call me Naomi. She paused, letting her voice drop slightly, her tone deliberate. I dont march. I dont boycott. We’ve learned how to survive, Senator. Your system made sure of that. The question is—can yall survive without us Cronus leaned forward, his tone lower, more serious. Do you really know what you’re stepping into, Miss Naomi This isn’t just about jobs and wages. You’re walking into something much bigger. You’re going to need more than a few angry Black folks if you plan to go up against me. Are you ready for what that means Naomi stood. I know exactly what I’m stepping into, William. That’s why I’m here. And while you may think you can survive without a few less Black workers, I suggest you think again. How do you know it’s just a few Why is your thinking so limited Im pretty sure Black people arent the only people your greed has destroyed. She paused, letting her words settle. Your plantations didn’t survive without free help. Your railroads—built by hands you didn’t value. Your restaurants, your homes, your fields, even the care of your animals—who made that possible Who kept it all running Your survival has always depended on our compliance and your trickery. Ask yourself, William—what happens when we turn away from you Cronus tried harder than ever to conceal his anger at her arrogance, shooting a quick glare at Curtis. He forced a tight smile. We’ll survive, Naomi. We always do. Naomi looked him dead in the eye and said, I am a busy woman. So please, take a few days and decide your next move. I am quite easy to find—just ask your boy Curtis. She held his gaze for a beat longer, then turned and stood to leave. Cronus rose slowly, offering his hand once more. This time, their handshake was longer, and firmer—a challenge and a warning in equal measure. As Naomi walked out, Cronus watched her with a mixture of respect, curiosity, and dread. The fire in her eyes was real. He respected it—and he feared it. One thing was certain—they would definitely need to do something about her.   Chapter 11 Raging Against the Storm  The air in the private chamber of the Capitol was thick with cigar smoke and tension. Cronus sat at the table alongside six other senators—men representing the different faces of power in America. Senator Willis was a relic of the old South, his drawl heavy, his suit tailored but worn with the comfort of inherited privilege. He clung to the past as though it were his birthright. Next to him was Senator Caldwell, a stout man from Alabama, his eyes cold with the certainty of a man who had seen lynch mobs as a child and never questioned their justice. Across from Caldwell, was Senator Harper. He built a career on maneuvering through the shifting tides of political discourse, bending narratives to fit whatever served him best. He thrived in the gray areas, never fully committing, yet always finding a way to stay relevant. Across the table sat Senator Jacobs, younger, from Ohio, representing the industrial heart of the region. His face was cleanshaven, his words careful—balancing the growing voice of labor unions with the whispers of progressives in his constituency. Although Jacobs, like Cronus, served parts of the Midwest, they were as different as night and day. He understood the changing demographics of his state but resented the pressure it placed on his alliances. Senator Wainwright from Illinois leaned back in his chair, his face creased from long battles with both the unions and the bosses in Chicago. He was pragmatic, willing to bend if it kept him in power. And finally, Senator Beaumont, representing Pennsylvania’s steel belt, had the look of a man who had shaken hands with both miners and magnates, knowing his survival relied on balancing their competing demands. All men of influence, all clinging to the old order, but not all convinced it would hold. The President’s chief advisor leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, observing more than speaking. They were gathered under the guise of routine discussions, but everyone knew why they were there. Cronus cleared his throat and leaned back in his chair, exhaling smoke as he looked around the room. Boys, we’ve got ourselves a new problem. Her name is Naomi Ellis. He let the name settle, watching their faces. He had no love or respect for Black people—never had—but he wasn’t a fool. He knew when someone was a threat. And she was. Not because she was another loudmouthed agitator, but because she didn’t act like one. She didn’t beg. She didn’t plead. She sat across from him like she belonged there, like she wasn’t waiting for permission. That was new. That was dangerous. She wasn’t King. She wasn’t Malcolm. Hell, she wasn’t even one of those SNCC kids. She was something else entirely. He leaned forward slightly, his voice controlled but edged with frustration. Curtis brought her to my attention. He said she was stirring things up, and I wanted to see for myself if she was truly a threat or just another loud voice that would fade in time. But let me tell you, she is no ordinary nigger girl. She did not come like most of them. This one was too proud to beg. She came with an attitude like she was something special. You dont see that much with those people. She made it clear that she was not looking for permission—she was demanding change. She wants what she believes is owed, and she sees no reason to wait for it. And gentlemen, she didn’t flinch, not once. Willis scoffed. What did she want Cronus’s jaw tightened. Power. She sees herself as something more than those peoples leader—she sees herself as some kind of force. She had the balls to say she didn’t come to negotiate. I think the little bitch even tried to threaten me. The room went still for a moment, the weight of his words sinking in. Then, Willis let out a sharp breath. And you actually entertained this Cronus exhaled slowly, his gaze narrowing. I let her talk. Let her think she had my attention. But make no mistake—she’s a problem. And like any problem, she has a weakness. We just need to find it and press until she folds. He added, “We need to know who she is. What drives her What does she care about” The younger senator, Jacobs, shifted uneasily. “And if we can’t Times are changing. We saw Birmingham. We saw Selma. My district’s getting restless. I get letters every day—not just from Black folks. Poor whites too. They’re all fed up. This isn’t just about race anymore. It’s about who gets to survive.” Willis shot him a look of disgust. “Gotdamn, son. You sound just like one of em.” Jacobs held his ground, his voice measured but firm. “I sound like someone who understands the stakes—and intends to stay in office.” The President’s advisor finally spoke. “Ill take this back to the White House, I know we want to watch this closely. We can’t afford another national crisis. But we also can’t afford to lose control. This woman—Naomi She might bear watching. I need information about her, Ill speak to the FBI and make sure shes on their radar. Cronus nodded slowly. “That’s why we need to be smart. Pressure, yes. But if we push too hard, we make her a martyr. We make her bigger than King. Bigger than Malcolm was. He glanced at the President’s advisor. “I agree we need to monitor her closely, but I also need to see her again. Curtis knows a lot about her family—he can provide us with the kind of intel we need. We need to understand what moves her before we decide how to break her.” Silence. The reality was sinking in. “What do you suggest” Willis asked, though his tone dripped with skepticism. Cronus didn’t answer right away. He was weighing his ambition against the shifting landscape. “I need time with her. She might be dangerous. But one thing for, sure she has bigger cojones than most men. This girl wants aint like the others. If we handle this right, there’s a way to bring her into our fold. There may be a way to control that fire instead of fighting it.” Jacobs leaned in. “And if she won’t be controlled” Cronus’s face hardened. “Then we do what we’ve always done. But not yet.” The room settled into an uneasy agreement. Lines were being drawn—some visible, some not. And for the first time in years, Cronus felt caution and excitement, Naomi might be the stepping stone he needed to advance his ambitions. One week after this meeting, the Senate chambers swelled with tension during a hearing about expanding Civil Rights and improving access to voting was brought to the floor. Emotions were raw on both sides. Witnesses were called to testify—civil rights leaders, everyday Black citizens, and southern officials. Among them was Reverend Elijah Brooks, a wellknown civil rights activist with a voice that echoed the cadence of Dr. King. Revered in Black communities and feared in white circles, Brooks was a master orator who spoke of justice with a preacher’s fire but tempered it with calls for nonviolence and unity. During the hearing, Senator Thomas Redfield, from Wisconsin, a progressive voice in the chamber, spoke up after Brooks delivered a particularly moving statement about the systemic nature of voter suppression. Redfield leaned in, his tone steady but resolute. Reverend Brooks, some would have us believe that the problems you describe are exaggerated, that the system is fundamentally fair if only people would work harder. What do you say to that Brooks, his hands resting calmly on the table, spoke with clarity. Senator, working hard is not the problem. Our people have built this nation with their hands. The issue is that the rules change when we approach the ballot box. The issue is that the gatekeepers decide who is worthy, and worth is judged by the color of our skin. We are not asking for charity we are demanding fairness. Redfield nodded. And you believe this bill is a step toward that fairness Yes, Senator. It is a step—not the final step, but a necessary one. Without it, the door remains shut. Willis shifted in his chair, unable to hide his irritation. He muttered, Bleeding hearts... Cronus smirked, though his eyes fixed on Brooks, assessing him like a predator. Redfield ignored the grumbling and continued. Reverend, you speak of unity and nonviolence, but some fear this legislation will cause unrest. What do you say to those concerned about violence Brooks held his gaze. Senator, injustice is the real violence. What we seek is peace, but peace is built on justice. Without that, there can be no true peace. The tension in the room was palpable. Willis shifted again, his face tightening. Cronus exchanged a glance, silently noting Redfields growing boldness. The lines were hardening. Jacobs occasionally pushed back, asking pointed questions about voter suppression, his voice cutting through the tension like a blade. During Reverend Brooks testimony, Jacobs leaned forward. Reverend Brooks, what do you say to those who claim that these voting barriers are merely procedures to ensure literacy and proper civic understanding Brooks met his gaze calmly. Senator, when a man is asked to recite the entire Constitution from memory or to guess the number of jellybeans in a jar before he can cast his vote, that is not a test of literacy. That is a test of how far this nation will go to silence him. The gallery stirred, murmurs rippling through the chamber. Willis scowled. You speak as though we are the oppressors, Reverend. But this is America. Opportunity exists for those who work hard and respect the law. Brooks smiled gently, though his eyes held steel. Senator, I respect the law. But I ask you—whose law The law that beats a man for seeking his constitutional right The law that locks the courthouse doors with fear We do not seek to break the law. We seek to fulfill its promise. Cronus leaned in, his voice oozing with politeness laced with menace. That’s a stirring sentiment, Reverend. But surely you understand the danger of pushing too fast. You wouldn’t want to incite unrest among your people, would you Brooks’ eyes met his, steady. Senator, the unrest is already here. We did not bring it. We are merely trying to survive it. Cronus and Willis were true to form. Cronus maintained his cold, calculating demeanor, masking his disdain behind sharp, condescending questions. As Reverend Brooks left the witness stand, the tension in the room lingered. The chairman called the next witness Miss Anna Jackson, a young Black woman from Mississippi. The shuffle of feet and low murmurs filled the chamber as she made her way to the front. The contrast was stark—the commanding orator giving way to a softspoken citizen, but the weight of truth hung heavy in both their testimonies. Miss Jackson sat upright, her hands folded tightly in her lap. Her voice was steady, though the weight of the room pressed down on her. Thank you, Senators, for allowing me to speak today. I know my voice is not often heard in places like this, but I come here not just for myself, but for my father and for many others who cannot be here. We simply want the right to vote, the right to be treated as citizens of this country. That is all. Willis leaned forward, his face red with irritation as he jabbed a finger toward her. Girl, who put you up to this You didn’t come up here on your own, now did you he sneered. What education do you even have to speak on such matters Before she could respond, Senator Redfield cut in sharply, his voice laced with irritation. Senator Willis, show some respect. Her name is Miss Jackson. If you’re going to question her, at least have the decency to address her properly. Willis scoffed, shaking his head. Respect For what A nobody with a sob story Spare me, Redfield. Redfield leaned forward. This hearing isn’t your personal plantation. She has every right to be here, and you damn well know it. The tension crackled between them as Willis gritted his teeth. Just as the argument threatened to escalate, the chairman rapped his gavel. Enough. Let’s proceed without the theatrics, gentlemen. The woman stiffened but held her ground. “I know what I saw, sir. I know what happened to my father.” “Your father” Willis barked. “Who was he working for NAACP Communists” Redfield started to speak again, his irritation rising, but before he could escalate the exchange further, Cronus smoothly cut in, his voice dripping with condescension. “Let’s not be hasty, Senator Willis. We only seek the truth here. Miss...” he glanced at his notes, “Jackson, was it Surely, you understand how these things can be exaggerated. Fear has a way of distorting events. Perhaps someone in your community encouraged you to come forward Sometimes agitators prey on good people like yourself.” The woman’s voice cracked with frustration. “No one had to tell me to come here. I came because my father was beaten trying to vote.” Cronus leaned back, feigning concern, while his eyes betrayed his calculation. “Of course. We just want to ensure all facts are accurate. That’s all.” Willis scoffed, shaking his head. “Waste of time,” he muttered under his breath. “Miss Jackson, you said your father was beaten while trying to vote. Can you tell us exactly what happened” he pressed, his tone steady and respectful. The woman exhaled slowly. “He went to the courthouse. They told him he had to recite the Constitution. He tried. They laughed. When he wouldn’t leave, they dragged him outside and beat him.” Willis sneered, “You expect us to believe that” Senator Redfield opened his mouth to fire back, but before he could, another progressive senator, Senator Langston from Minnesota, leaned forward, his voice firm. Senator Willis, this hearing is about uncovering the truth, not belittling those brave enough to share it. You may not want to hear it, but the truth remains whether you acknowledge it or not. Willis let out a sharp laugh. Oh, now weve got two crusaders in the room. The chairman rapped his gavel again. Enough. We will proceed in an orderly fashion. Langston didn’t back down. “Senator Willis, we’ve heard testimony like this all week. Are they all lying” Willis shifted in his chair, his jaw tight. “You watch your tone, boy.” Cronus raised his hand, his voice smooth. “Gentlemen, please. We are here to gather information.” Jacobs glanced at Harper, who gave a subtle nod. Wainwright scribbled notes, but his hand trembled slightly. The divide among the senators was growing—those clinging to the old order versus those beginning to see that the ground beneath them was shifting, and perhaps their place on it. Behind the performance, Cronus was watching, calculating. He wanted to see who stood firm and who wavered. He noticed Jacobs exchanging glances with Harper. He caught the slight hesitation in Wainwright’s tone. The fractures were widening. Naomi’s influence was not yet visible in the room, but Cronus could feel it—the presence of something new, something unsettling. As the hearing concluded for the day, Cronus leaned toward Willis. Don’t worry We’ll pretend like we’re listening, let them speak their piece, and then we’ll shut this bill down like we always do. Nothing changes. Cronus took a slow look around the chamber, his eyes sweeping over the faces of his colleagues. He sized them up, noting those who seemed uneasy, those who dared show sympathy, and those who might need to be reminded of their place. He mentally cataloged who would require pressure—who needed to be broken or brought back in line.  In the weeks following her meeting with Cronus, Naomi and Mariel had been busy. They moved swiftly, meeting quietly with Civil Rights leaders, members of the Nation of Islam, and organizers from SNCC. Their goal was not to interfere but to introduce Naomi, to listen, and to learn. Each conversation sharpened her vision. She took notes when Dr. King spoke of nonviolence and collective dignity. She felt the absence of Malcolm X—his death had shaken the movement—but his insistence on selfdetermination still burned in those who had known him. She watched the young voices in SNCC organize students with fearless energy. Naomi was becoming a hybrid of them all—patient but fierce, strategic yet unrelenting. She went to local churches to listen to King’s speeches, absorbing his words like scripture. His call for justice rang in her ears—Injustice anywhere is a threat to justice everywhere, a reminder that oppression could not be compartmentalized. His insistence that freedom is never voluntarily given by the oppressor it must be demanded by the oppressed fueled her determination. Each word reinforced what she already knew waiting was no longer an option. Change had to be forced. She asked for support, not just in bodies but in knowledge. Like a scavenger, she collected everything she could get her hands on regarding the movement—their tactics, their strategies, their victories, and their mistakes. When she approached them for support, she wanted to be armed, not just with passion, but with understanding. She needed to know their processes and missions inside and out so that when she spoke, she would be impossible to dismiss. She sought out the women—the backbone of the movement—those often overlooked but undeniably powerful. She met with Fannie Lou Hamer, who spoke of voter suppression and hunger in Mississippi. She listened to Ella Baker speak about grassroots power, about the strength in ordinary people. She sat beside Septima Clark, who emphasized education as liberation. Naomi left those meetings not only inspired but resolute. She was becoming a leader in her own right—gaining respect, earning trust, and pushing forward without looking back. Sadly, some of the men who had gained representation in the movement saw her as a threat. Her leadership unsettled them—her ability to command a room, to rally people with both strategy and conviction. She wasn’t just organizing protests she was demanding real, systemic change, and that made her dangerous. Some feared she would disrupt the balance of power they had only just begun to grasp. Others resented that she moved through spaces they had fought to occupy, yet refused to play by their rules. They viewed her as disruptive, as someone who didnt know her place. Some even suggested she could be valuable in organizing marches and answering phones—tasks they deemed more fitting for a woman. Naomi politely but deliberately declined these veiled attempts to suppress her, refusing to be sidelined in a fight she was born to lead. She pressed forward, knowing that change rarely came without resistance, even from those within the struggle. Alma’s lessons echoed in her mind Be strategic. Know your enemy. Naomi spent long nights visualizing the consequences of what she proposed—shutting down work across any establishments. No labor. No production. No food on shelves. It was radical and dangerous. She was especially concerned about the poorest among them—those who could not miss a single day’s wage. What would they eat How would they survive Building relationships with these activists would provide some support. They would need community kitchens, support networks, and solidarity. But even within those circles, Naomi encountered resistance. Male leaders subtly suggested she step aside, that her youth and gender made her unfit to lead. Each time, she stood her ground. Her tongue, sharp like Malcolm’s, cut through their doubts. Her patience, like King’s, reminded them that this was not a fleeting fight—it was a long war. Naomi believed in collective strength. If they cared for one another, they could endure. Nathan was there out of curiosity. The word on the street was that a young girl had sparred with Alderman Curtis—and won. He wanted to see her for himself, to check out what all the talk was about. Didn’t miss him that folks kept saying she was fine, either. But he wasn’t just here for that. He needed to know if she was the real deal or just another loud voice with no weight behind it. When he finally stood to speak, his presence commanded the room. I’m ready to do whatever it takes to bring those greedy bastards down—but are you Do you really know what you’re asking people to do Are you prepared for the fallout, or is this just a dream His voice was sharp, and unwavering, challenging Naomi to prove she had thought beyond just the idea. People in the room recognized him because he was a strong voice in the community. He had the scars to show his fight. He had marched, stood on the front lines, and clashed with police when they unjustly attacked someone in their neighborhood. He too was a hybrid of resistance—part warrior, part diplomat. Naomi recognized him immediately she had heard his name spoken with respect by Civil Rights leaders. She knew his reputation. Their eyes met briefly, and she felt an unspoken understanding pass between them. Naomi paused for a moment, then spoke his name, Nathan Walker. Her recognition seemed to catch him slightly off guard. Her eyes locked onto his. You and I have something in common, she said, her voice firm. We are not quitters. She let the words hang in the air. We will stand together, or we will fall. But we will not break. Her face remained serious, her expression one of unwavering determination. A woman in the crowd raised her hand, her voice trembling. What about our families How will we feed our children if we walk out Naomi turned toward her, softening only slightly but still resolute. Have faith. We will not leave anyone behind. We will take care of each other. Mariel and Dessa have agreed to manage resources—to gather food, money, and support. We will build a network to make sure every child is fed and every family is supported. No one will go hungry. The woman nodded slowly, her fear not completely gone but eased. Naomi scanned the room. Together, we survive. Together, we win. Before ending the meeting, she raised her hand for silence. One more thing, she said, her voice lowering, but firm. Alderman Curtis is not a friend to this movement. He will smile in your face, but he will work against us when our backs are turned. Stay vigilant. Watch him. As the meeting broke apart, Nathan walked up to Naomi and extended his hand. She met his hand in a firm grip. Neither said anything they didn’t need to. They both knew—a bond had been formed. As the meeting ended, a noise on the streets was heard. Everyone ran outside. A teenage boy was being beaten by some police. Stay down, boy one officer barked, his boot pressing into the child’s side. You think you can run from us, you little piece of shit Another officer raised his baton. You wanna act like a man We’ll treat you like one Without thinking, Naomi and Nathan ran to the front of the crowd that formed on the street. Naomi and Nathan looked at one another for a second and then moved in separate directions. Naomi led a crowd down the street and into the alley. Nathan stood in front of a small crowd of men. Harold was with him. The police immediately noticed the crowd and hesitated, lowering their batons. One officer leaned to grab the boy and arrest him. The boy was bloody and very weak. Nathan took one step. The officer sneered, Get back, boy. This ain’t your business. Nathan stood his ground. Move away from the child so we can help him, he said, his voice calm but firm. Another officer spat on the ground. That little bastard’s going to jail. Resisting arrest. Looked like a suspect—twentyfiveyearold black male. The absurdity of the claim hung in the air. Everyone looked at the child, his small, battered body barely clinging to consciousness. He was 13 years old if that. The child’s mother pushed her way to the front, her voice trembling. Please... he’s my boy. He ain’t no grown man. He’s just 13 He ain’t never done anything wrong. The officer snapped, Get back, lady, before you’re next The crowd stirred, anger mounting. Another officer grinned cruelly, Little bastard thought he was smart. Now he’s gonna learn. We’ll break him like the rest. Nathan stepped forward, his voice cutting through the tension. That’s enough. Move aside and let us help the boy. The officers stiffened, exchanging glances. A few gripped their batons tighter, their knuckles whitening. The gathered crowd murmured, a ripple of defiance spreading through them. A mother clutched her child closer, while an older man clenched his fists at his sides. The tension in the air thickened, the moment teetering on the edge of violence. The lead officers jaw tensed, but he hesitated, suddenly aware of how outnumbered they were becoming. The officer glared at him. You giving orders now, boy Nathan could have done anything in this moment. They kept calling him boy, but hed put that aside for now. His only goal was to get this kid out of this situation. He also wondered—was this a setup Was this the first step toward a higher level of harassment and danger for the community But none of that mattered right now. What mattered was stopping this brutality. Nathan held his ground, his eyes steady. Let him go. This ends now. The two men locked eyes—defiance met with anger and a flicker of uncertainty. Nathan could see the fear beneath the officer’s bravado. Just then, more police arrived in force, their numbers swelling as they fanned out, blocking every possible exit. Squad cars lined the street, red and blue lights flashing against the tense faces in the crowd. A tall, broadshouldered police captain stepped forward, adjusting his belt with exaggerated authority. His voice cut through the noise, booming with false patience. You all need to clear out—now Or we’ll clear you out. The additional officers, emboldened by their growing presence, gripped their batons tighter, some tapping them menacingly against their palms. A few exchanged knowing smirks, itching for an excuse to strike. The crowd murmured, their tension shifting from fear to quiet defiance. The balance of power was shifting, and everyone could feel it—the police were ready for a fight. Nathan Walker didn’t look moved by the increase in officers. He smirked, his eyes narrowing with defiance. He glanced down the street, then lifted his chin and gave a slow, deliberate nod as if daring the police to make their move. Naomi emerged at the head of a swelling crowd, their steps measured, their intent unwavering. She didn’t realize it yet, but the spirit of Nike and her forces was already taking shape within her. This was no ordinary protest they were not here to plead but to stand their ground. If the price of their existence was blood, then they would pay it. Either the police would release the boy, or the streets would bear witness to their resolve. The choice was no longer theirs alone. The police captain’s smirk faded as he took in the sheer size of the resistance. He adjusted his belt, masking his unease with forced confidence. Then, without a word, he turned and walked toward his squad car, lifting the radio receiver to his lips. A moment later, the officers who had been gripping their batons with anticipation suddenly hesitated. The retreat order had come from higher up. Cronus’ contacts in the department had seen the reports—this was not the time for a massacre. Not yet. The captain’s jaw tightened as he gave the reluctant order. Stand down. Let the boy go. The officers exchanged glances, some clearly irritated at being pulled back. But they obeyed, stepping away from the bleeding boy leaving him on the ground. A murmur rippled through the crowd—part relief, part realization. They had made them back down. For now. But the crowd Wasn’t fooled they knew they had only dodged a bullet this time. The police would be back, and next time, they might not hold back. After the police left, Naomi walked up to Nathan. They exchanged a knowing smile, the kind born from surviving this storm together. Nathan asked, what’s your plans for tomorrow She responded, her tone light but laced with exhaustion. Who knows I’m a busy woman, she teased. She turned and began climbing the stairs leading to her building. Halfway up, she paused and looked back over her shoulder. Nathan Walker was still standing there, watching her with that same steady gaze. She gave him a small nod before disappearing through the door. The next morning, there was a knock at her door. When she opened it, Nathan stood there, I have one question, he said. Naomi leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed. What’s that What were you going to do if those cops had attacked us His face was serious, his eyes searching hers. Naomi didn’t . She met his gaze, her expression firm. Fight, she said, her voice low and resolute. Nathan Walker grinned, the answer satisfying him. Okay, Miss Ill Fight, let’s take a walk. The playful tone in his voice reminded Naomi of Leon—his fearlessness, his charm, and that unbreakable spirit. She smiled softly, feeling a sense of familiarity. Without another word, she stepped outside, closing the door behind her. Naomi and Nathan were together at Harold’s diner, discussing the events of the night before. Their voices were low, their words careful. They knew the police were watching—following them, looking for any excuse to strike. Nathan leaned in, his eyes sharp. They’re not going to let this go. You know that, right Somebody higher up is pulling the strings—had to be. You saw how quick they pulled back and left the boy behind. That wasn’t just fear. That was an order. You got somebody’s attention, Naomi. Naomi nodded. I know. But neither will we. Before either could say more, the door burst open. Officers entered swiftly, their faces hard with authority. Naomi Ellis and Nathan Walker. You’re both under arrest. Nathan didn’t flinch. Naomi squared her shoulders. As they were led out in cuffs, heads turned on the street. The word had already begun to spread—that the police were retaliating. Meanwhile, the people in the community, led by Dessa, were making their way to the courthouse. Mariel had reached out to the NAACP for legal assistance, while Harold had gathered some veterans he knew and trusted. They moved with purpose, determined to show their strength beyond the streets. At the courthouse steps, Dessa pushed through the gathering crowd, her eyes scanning for someone—anyone—who could give her answers. Her voice was sharp with urgency as she spoke to a uniformed officer near the entrance. I need to know where my sister is. Naomi Ellis. And Nathan Walker. Are they here Are they alright The officer barely looked at her, muttering something dismissive about procedures. Dessa pressed on, her voice growing firmer. I’m not leaving until I know they’re okay. The people around her listened closely, their presence a quiet but potent show of solidarity. Harold and the veterans kept watch, their eyes trained on every movement. The crowd wasn’t chanting or shouting—but they weren’t going anywhere. Mariel arrived moments later, walking briskly with a tall man in a suit beside her. She caught Dessa’s eye and gave a quick nod. This is Attorney Paul Jenkins from the NAACP, she said, her voice low but firm. He’s here to help. Dessa exhaled in relief, but her worry remained. Good. Let’s get them out. The attorney stepped forward, speaking firmly with the officer at the door. His tone was calm but authoritative—too low for Dessa to catch every word. She only caught bits about holding without cause and legal representation. The officer frowned but eventually said, They’ll be released in a few hours. Now, all of you need to clear out. The crowd murmured but agreed. Cronus sat in his office, reading the reports with a deepening frown. The description of Naomi leading the crowd like a general made his chest tighten. She had done what few others had—People would think she made the authorities retreat. This was no mere protest. This was power, raw, and unflinching. And it was spreading. He wondered about the man standing with her—the one called Nathan Walker. This duo was troublesome. Separate, they were strong. Together, they were dangerous. He crushed his cigar into the ashtray, eyes narrowing. He knew what this meant. Naomi was no longer a rising figure she was a force. A threat. And threats had to be handled. But even as his mind turned toward his usual methods—pressure, coercion—he felt the unease. If they made her a martyr, she would become unstoppable. He needed to tread carefully. Cronus leaned back in his chair, exhaling slowly. He picked up the phone and called his contact within the police department. His voice was low, measured. He instructed them not to lay a hand on Naomi Ellis or Nathan Walker—any violence would only ignite more chaos. Instead, he told them to hold the pair for now. He wanted to arrange a private, offtherecord meeting. Cronus saw this as an opportunity—one that might allow him to play both sides, to keep control while appearing to offer an olive branch. Perhaps, just perhaps, he could still steer its direction. Naomi and Nathan were escorted to an undisclosed location—not the police station, but a quiet office with no windows, the kind of place meant to unsettle. A single table stood in the center, with three chairs. Cronus was already seated, composed, a man who thrived on control, when they arrived. Nathan entered first, his broad shoulders filling the doorway. He stepped aside as Naomi followed. She was calm, her eyes sharp, reading the room before she took her seat. Nathan sat beside her, his presence solid but measured. Cronus leaned forward, his tone civil but probing. Mr. Walker, I’ve heard about you. Men like you hold communities together. Before Nathan could respond, Naomi’s voice cut through. We both do. The air shifted. Cronus’s gaze moved to her—assessing, recalculating. He had come expecting to negotiate power with a man. Instead, he was facing two forces. The conversation was deliberate, and measured. Cronus leaned forward, his tone measured. Nathan, you’ve been in this fight a long time. Men like you—people follow you. You understand how these things work. Nathan leaned back slightly, but before he could speak, Naomi’s voice cut in. Naomi said, We both understand how this works, William. Cronus studied her for a moment, adjusting his approach. Cronus said, Fair enough. You’re making waves, Naomi. But waves can drown people—your people. You prepared for that What happens when things go too far When you can’t control it Naomi’s gaze was steady, What is it now, William Nathan nodded subtly beside her, his eyes steady on Cronus. His presence was a shield, but Naomi was the blade. Nathan said, Well since the police saw fit to interrupt our lunch, wed like to get back to it. Cronus’s eyes flicked to Nathan. He had come expecting one strong voice—he found two. Different, but unified. Two forces. Together. He thought about King and all the trouble he was stirring up—the last thing anyone needed was these two. Malcolm was dead and out of the way, and now, up popped the Black Bonnie and Clyde. He smirked to himself at the thought. Bonnie and Clyde didn’t last long. History had a way of dealing with people who thought they could outmaneuver the system. Cronus leaned forward, his tone measured, but laced with condescension. Look, I respect what you’re doing. I really do. But you both know as well as I do—most folks in your neighborhoods They’re not looking for revolution. They want to feed their families, keep their heads down. They’re comfortable with what they’ve got. You two… you’re different. You’re ambitious. You see more. You want more. Naomi leaned forward, her voice low but cutting. William, let me be clear—we said everything that needed to be said when we met. We need to meet with more than you so that we can start working together to get the community better working conditions that match white workers. Without missing a beat, Cronus says. Look, maybe we can work something out. I can talk to the factories. Maybe we can get a slight increase in wages—not much, mind you. Can’t cause too much disruption. And of course, it wouldn’t be what the white workers are making. But it’s a start. These things take time. Patience is important. He glanced between them, then added, We can help each other. I can always use more eyes and ears on the ground. It’s valuable to have people I can trust to keep me informed—let me know what the people need, what they’re feeling. In return, I can talk to the White House. We could build something—real influence—together. He leaned back again as if offering them a partnership built on mutual respect. But it was a lie, and everyone in the room knew it. Nathan’s voice was calm but edged with steel. We’re not in the business of trading people. That’s more for asshole slave traders. He grinned and looked Cronus straight in the eyes before adding, Not that I’m calling you an asshole. Cronus’s expression hardened. His glare fixed on Nathan, his jaw tightening. The officer in the corner shifted, stepping forward slightly, ready to move at a moment’s notice. Naomi and Nathan felt the tension, but neither flinched. They leaned back in their chairs—calm, steady—almost daring Cronus to make the next move. Cronus forced a breath, smoothing his tie as he gathered himself. His fingers lingered a moment longer than necessary, betraying the effort it took to mask his irritation. His tone cooled, but the edge lingered. Youre right Nathan, I’m no asshole, he muttered. He pressed forward, continuing his proposition. And maybe… we move you and your families out, Cronus said, his voice sliding into that polished, condescending charm he wore so well. You folks don’t really belong there anyway, do you I could get you somewhere better—safer. Curtis lives in a fine neighborhood. We could set you up there. You’d be comfortable. Taken care of. There was a beat of silence before Naomi let out a short, bitter laugh. Nathan shook his head slowly, his face steady and serious. Stop with the bullshit, William. You must think we’re fools. We don’t want your fuckin crumbs. We need what’s ours. Fair wages—equal to white workers. Safe working conditions. Real opportunities for advancement, with pay to match. Nothing less. Nathan shook his head, his voice low but firm. And we sure as hell don’t need a seat at Curtis’s table. Cronus’s eyes hardened. His voice dropped to a near whisper, losing its false warmth, and gaining a dangerous edge. You’re out of your league. I have eyes everywhere. You think you can move without me knowing You don’t know what you’re up against. He fixed his eyes on Nathan, his gaze heavy with threat. I know men like you—tough, proud—but pride can get you buried. And Naomi, you’re smart, but smart doesn’t always keep you safe. We are the US government. Do you know what that means We a single sentence, both of yall could be squashed. Naomi didn’t blink. We know exactly what we’re up against. Black people been watching your war on us for years. The question isnt do we know who we are dealing with. The question is—do you Nathan’s stare matched hers in defiance. Again, why are we being held Nathan asked, his voice steady but firm. If you don’t have any charges, then release us. Cronus stood abruptly. We’re done here. He signaled to an officer. Get them out. Within hours, Naomi and Nathan were released. As they stepped out into the daylight, they exchanged a glance—one that carried relief and determination. Cronus knew the truth. Nathan Walker was a threat—his strength and loyalty made him dangerous. But Naomi Ellis She was the mind, the strategist. The one who could ignite the fire and make sure it burned precisely as she intended. He smirked to himself at the thought. As he sat in the back of his car, driven home by his Black chauffeur, he stared out the window but saw nothing. His thoughts lingered on Naomi and Nathan. He had seen plenty of men like Nathan—fighters, leaders on the ground. But Naomi… she was different. And worse—people believed in her. He adjusted his tie, glanced at the back of his driver’s head, and reminded himself—that power was knowing when to strike, and when to wait.   Chapter 13 The Heat of Battle  That evening, after being released, Naomi and Nathan called a meeting in the community hall. Word spread quickly. The room filled with neighbors—some anxious, others resolute, but all present because they knew the time had come. Mariel stood near the front, surrounded by a few women sorting food supplies—bags of flour, beans, rice, and jugs of water—taking note of which families might need help first. She looked up as Naomi and Nathan entered, relief on her face but concern in her eyes. Naomi didn’t waste time. She stepped forward, her posture rigid, her jaw tight. Her voice was clipped, urgency laced in every word. Mariel, where do we stand on resources Mariel wiped her hands on her skirt. “We’ve got food—flour, beans, rice, water—the basics. It should hold us for close to a month if we’re careful. We also have a few people on standby—folks who said they can get more if we need it.” Nathan nodded. We’ll get through it. We always do. Naomi gave him a small nod. Dessa heard Naomi come through the door and ran to her, wrapping her arms tightly around her sister. She had been on edge since Naomi’s arrest. Are you okay Did they hurt you Dessa whispered, her voice laced with worry. No, I’m fine. They were just trying to scare us, Naomi reassured her. Harold chimed in, We were worried sick. What they say you did Naomi shook her head with a smirk. You know how they do. We were Black and breathing, so that was enough. Dessa shook her head, frustrated. Lord, I was ready to tear that place down. Naomi gave a small laugh, but her eyes were still heavy with the weight of the day. I know, Dessa. I know. But we’re out now. Dessa held her by the arms, searching her face. You sure you good Naomi nodded. I’m good. Harold crossed his arms. And Nathan Naomi looked over her shoulder. He’s good. We’re good. But this ain’t over. Dessa sighed, holding back tears. Just glad you’re home. Naomi turned to face the room. Her voice was calm but firm. “We met with Cronus. He offered us crumbs—slight raises, but still less than white workers. He said we had to be patient. He wanted Nathan and me to work for him—be his eyes and ears in this community. He even offered to move us out, somewhere comfortable near Alderman Curtis.” Murmurs filled the room, anger growing like a slow burn. A woman near the front asked, “And what did you say” Naomi’s gaze was sharp. We told him no. We told him we want to be paid what we’re worth—same as the white folks. We want safe conditions and a fair shot to move up. He said that would never happen. A younger man called out, “So what now” Nathan stepped in, his voice low but resolute, but there was a fire in his eyes that spoke of years of hardfought battles and painful losses. He had seen movements like this before—had seen good men broken by the weight of resistance, had seen hope crumble under fear. But he had also seen victory, however small, however fleeting, and he knew that standing down now meant surrendering to a life of subjugation. He took a breath, steadying himself, his jaw tight with conviction. Now we make them listen. No one works—starting tomorrow. No factories, no shops, no service jobs—nothing. If they don’t respect us as workers, they don’t get to profit off our labor. The room went still. The weight of his words settled over them like a heavy blanket. Faces filled with uncertainty, some with fear, but others with a growing sense of purpose. The room went still. Another voice, hesitant but brave, No one What about food Rent Kids How long do we hold out Naomi met their eyes. That’s why we’ve been gathering supplies. That’s why we’ve been planning. We take care of each other. We share what we have. But I need everyone to understand—this won’t be easy. They will threaten us. They might cut off power or water. Some of us may get arrested. Some of us may be attacked. But if we hold, if we stay strong together, they will break before we do. If one of us breaks, they win. We cannot let that happen. Mariel took a step forward, her voice clear. She’s right, but I know some of y’all are scared, and it’s okay to be. None of us have all the answers. Naomi’s leading us, but we’re standing beside her—me, Nathan, Dessa, Harold. We’re connecting dots, making sure we don’t miss a thing. Curtis and Cronus think they got us figured out, but we’re smarter than they think. We move careful, we move smart, and we don’t give them nothing they can use against us. We have to lean on each other. If we’re hungry, we’ll share food. If someone is in danger, we protect them. If someone wavers, we bring them back. We are stronger together, but we only make it if we trust one another. Naomi turned to Mariel, gratitude flashing in her eyes. She didn’t have all the answers, but she wasn’t alone. They would figure it out—together. Another man called out, What if we run out of food What if they cut off our power What if they start evicting people What if someone needs medicine My daughter’s got asthma—if she can’t get what she needs, I don’t know what I’ll do. Mariel spoke up, her voice steady but laced with an urgency that hadn’t been there before. We ration. We’ve planned for this, but I won’t lie—this is going to test us. If someone’s got a medical emergency, we need a way to get them help. We’re working on allies outside the city, and we’ll have runners checking in every day. We will not be alone in this. But we need to be smart, and we need to be prepared for the worst. We have runners set up communication between households. We make sure no one is left in the dark, no one goes hungry. Our allies are willing to send help. A woman near the back raised her hand. And what if some folks get scared What if they go back What if the factory offers some folks a deal to break us Naomi’s eyes hardened. She took a deep breath, letting the silence settle around her before she spoke again, her voice carrying through the room like a steady drumbeat. We don’t let fear win. We talk to them. We remind them what we’re fighting for. Why this matters. But we do not turn on each other. That’s what they want—to divide us, to make us weak. We hold together, no matter what. She let her words linger, then stepped forward, looking into the eyes of those gathered before her. I didn’t get here on my own. When I was a little girl, an old white lady, poor like the rest of us, helped me and Mariel when we had nothing and was running for life. She didn’t have much herself, but she gave me what she could—kindness, wisdom, and a reminder that some folks still got hearts bigger than what they going through. I remember Mason and Leon—good men—beaten just for wanting to vote, for believing in their right to a voice. And I remember every mile between Dallas and Chicago, every cruel hand, every turned back, every time I was told I was nothing, that I didn’t belong. I have seen my people suffer and fight, stand and fall, all for dignity. My mother and father died because I didnt think my father should be disrespected over a bag of flour—flour, something so small, so basic—but it was enough for them to be seen as less than human. She swallowed hard, her voice thick with emotion. I carry all of that with me. I feel it in my bones, in my blood. And I know you feel it too. But tonight, we release the spirit of all of it—not to forget, but to make sure it means something. We stand because we have no other choice. We stand because we refuse to kneel any longer. Her eyes swept the room, her resolve unshaken. Tomorrow, we hold the line. Together. Nathan added, “And if you see someone struggling, you check on them. We lift each other up. We’re stronger together.” He took a step forward, letting his gaze sweep across the men in the room. “We’re strong, all of us. But strength ain’t just about fightin’. It’s about protectin’ those who can’t protect themselves—the elders, the children, the women who done carried this load for too long. We stand now, not just for ourselves, but for them. If we let fear stop us, what kind of men are we We got a duty, same as any soldier in a war. And make no mistake, this is a war. Not with guns, but with resolve. We hold the line so the ones too frail, too young, or too old don’t have to.” Harold stepped forward, his veteran brothers at his side. “We’ll be watching—police, Curtis, any outsiders. We’ll know if they’re coming.” Just then, one of Harold’s friends, a wiry man named David, stepped forward. I got word on Curtis. He’s been visiting families, trying to pull whatever he can out of them. Asking questions, offering help that don’t feel like help. He’s feeding everything back to Cronus. Murmurs rippled through the room. The realization settled like a heavy weight—Alderman Curtis wasn’t just another politician he was a plant, an extension of Cronus’s grip on their lives. Naomi clenched her jaw. Has he gotten anything Lou shook his head. No. Folks been tightlipped. Far as he knows, we got no immediate plans. But he ain’t gonna stop trying. Harold clapped David on the shoulder, his expression grim but appreciative. Good work, David. Keep tracking him. If he makes another move, I want to know about it first. Lou nodded, his eyes sharp with understanding. You got it. A younger woman’s voice trembled. “What if they start locking us up” Naomi’s jaw tightened. “Then we stand together. They can’t lock us all up. They need us more than we need them.” Harold stepped forward, his voice carrying the weight of years of service and sacrifice. He reached down, rubbing his injured leg, a silent reminder of battles fought both abroad and at home. You know, I fought for this country. Wore the uniform. Risked my life, same as any other soldier. But when I came home There was no parades, no gratitude, no respect. And I know I ain’t the only one. There are a lot of us out here—veterans who gave everything only to be shut out. They can’t keep telling us we’re not good enough to be treated like men and women, not after all we’ve given. Wore the uniform. risked my life, same as any other soldier. That’s why this matter. Dessa, standing beside him, crossed her arms, her voice filled with quiet fury. And what about us The maids, the cooks, the nannies—Black and Brown women keeping their homes, raising their babies, cleaning their mess. We work ourselves ragged, and they still act like we’re invisible. Like we ain’t worth a fair wage like we’re supposed to just be grateful for scraps. And that’s just it—the scraps they throw at us aint even enough to live on. The food they give us Rotten, stale, the leftovers of what they wouldn’t eat themselves. It’s a reminder every day that they see us as less, that they don’t think we deserve better. But we do. We ain’t their servants, and we ain’t their mules. Enough is enough. Mariel stepped forward, her eyes dark with experience. And it’s not just the wages or the food, she added. You think working in those homes is safe It ain’t. I know too many women who had to fend off hands that didn’t belong to them. Young girls, old men, powerful men—acting like they had the right to take what they wanted just because we were in their house, in their space, expected to be silent. And if we fought back We lost our jobs. If we spoke up We were called liars or worse. We walked into those houses knowing we were always one step away from danger, and we had to pretend like we weren’t afraid. That’s why this matters. That’s why we can’t afford to back down now.” A murmur of agreement rippled through the room, their words striking deep. Naomi gave them both a nod, her respect evident. They weren’t just standing with her—they were standing for something bigger than themselves. Silence fell, but it wasn’t fear. The weight of what lay ahead settled in the room, but so did the understanding this was their moment. Naomi encouraged everyone to speak to their families and friends, both near and far. Heads nodded across the room, some whispering to neighbors, others already making mental lists of who they needed to talk to. Spread the word, she said. Let them know this isn’t just about wages. It’s about dignity. It’s about our future. Her voice softened. I know what it’s like... to work twice as hard, be twice as smart, and still get treated like you ain’t nothing. Someone in the crowd murmured in agreement, and another said softly, We all do. The room seemed to tighten around her words, the shared pain binding them together. I’ve watched my daddy die trying to protect me. I’ve seen good men and women work to the bone and still get pushed aside like they don’t matter. That’s why we’re here. She paused, eyes sweeping the room. We ain’t just fighting for ourselves. We fighting for our mamas and daddies, and for our babies, so they don’t have to come up like this. Mariel and Dessa handed out papers outlining their demands—equal pay, safe working conditions, and real opportunities for advancement. The papers also detailed the risks possible arrests, threats from employers, and the financial strain on families. At the bottom was a simple message Hold the line. Together. Read it. Share it. If they have questions, bring them to me, to Nathan, to Mariel. We answer to each other—no one else. Nathan’s voice carried the final word, but inside, doubt gnawed at him. He had seen it before—how these things could unravel, how people could be turned against each other. What if they had miscalculated What if Cronus wasn’t bluffing He knew what the bosses were capable of, and how far they would go to crush dissent. People had families, bills, and fears that could push them to break. He squared his shoulders, burying the doubt deep. He couldn’t afford to let them see it, not yet. He had seen what happened to movements like these—seen men beaten, families torn apart, seen hope rise only to collapse under the weight of fear and hunger. He knew this wasn’t just about standing together. It was about surviving together. He let his gaze sweep over the faces in the room, each one carrying the same desperation, the same fire. He wanted to believe that fire would hold, but he also knew the world had a cruel way of putting it out. He exhaled, steadying himself. Tomorrow, we stand together, he repeated his voice firm, carrying both conviction and quiet dread. Naomi nodded. “Tomorrow, we stop working.” The room was still, but power hummed beneath the quiet. An older woman, Miss Geraldine, clasped the hand of the person beside her. She had seen it all—the marches, the protests, the heartbreak. Her husband had been a union man, one of the first to speak out for better wages, and she had spent her life watching both progress and setbacks shape her world. A young man near the back gave a small nod, his jaw tight with determination, as if drawing strength from her quiet resolve. Someone whispered, It’s time. The hum of resolve grew stronger, binding them together. At the back of the room, an elderly lady raised her hand. With some effort, she stood. I’ll help y’all any way I can. I’m too old to march, but I can do what I can. Her voice cracked with age but held strength. If I could ask for one thing before the Lord takes me, it’d be to vote without somebody standing over me, making me feel less than. I want to sit down and eat where I please. I’m tired of getting up off my seat for white folks on that bus. But more than anything... I want to vote before I leave this earth. That’s all I want. Naomi’s eyes softened, and she glanced at Nathan. She leaned toward him and whispered, We got a lot to do. As the crowd slowly dispersed, Naomi and Nathan remained behind to help clean up. They moved quietly at first, picking up chairs, gathering papers, and sweeping the floor. The silence between them was comfortable but heavy with the weight of the evening. Every now and then, their eyes met briefly, but neither spoke. Finally, Nathan broke the silence. You alright he asked softly. Naomi looked up from folding a chair. Yeah... Just a lot on my mind. You He nodded. Same. But... I worry about you. Where’d you get all that strength She hesitated, then leaned against a table. Life didn’t give me much of a choice. My daddy raised me to fight, but losing him... confirmed what I already knew. Nathan stepped closer, his voice warm but teasing. So, you been fighting since you were little, huh Bet you had them boys scared to even say hello. Probably thought, you were gonna’ knock them out for lookin’ at you wrong. Naomi smirked, shaking her head. His teasing felt easy, familiar, like something from another lifetime. But beneath the playfulness, she heard something else—respect, maybe even admiration. It was different from the dismissiveness she was used to from men, and for a moment, it caught her off guard. Naomi laughed, the tension breaking for a moment. I held my own. They knew better than to mess with me. Nathan grinned. I can see that. But I see somethin’ else. You got heart. You care. I think thats what makes you different. Naomi’s eyes softened. You see all that, huh He shrugged. I see you. Naomi paused, then asked, trying to sound casual, You married Got a girl Nathan raised an eyebrow, a playful grin forming. Why She frowned, but there was a hint of a smile. Just makin’ conversation. Nathan chuckled. Nah, no wife. No girl. You wanna apply Naomi rolled her eyes. Boy, please. Nathan chuckled, but as his laughter faded, his eyes lingered on her. For the first time, he truly took in her beauty—a tall, darkskinned woman with striking features. Her large brown eyes held both fire and softness, and her full lips seemed to yearn for a smile that life had too often denied her. Her thick hair, braided with care, framed her face like a crown. She was beautiful. At that moment, he felt his guard begin to lower. He wanted to open up to her—to let her see the man beneath the strength. A brief silence settled between them before Nathan leaned against the wall, his tone turning reflective. When I was young, I was wild. Got in my share of trouble. He rubs a small scar on his chin. He takes a deep breath before continuing. My best friend, Willie, was murdered when we were just kids. We were down in Alabama. His mama worked as a maid for this white man. That man started messin’ with her, harassin’ her, and Willie—he stood up to him. Beat the man up good. But they came back for him. Beat him... hung him from a tree. He was just a boy. Nathan pauses, Strange thing is... they found that same white man hung in his house a week later. Naomi’s eyes narrowed slightly. Willie... he didn’t deserve that. The police were never able to explain those bruises all over that mans body. He stops as if in deep thought. Well, they never found out what happened. I left Alabama after that. Thought maybe Chicago would be better. I fight for Willie as much as anything else. Naomi nodded slowly. She took a breath, her voice gentle. I’m sorry about Willie. He sounds like he was a good friend. She paused, eyes searching his. She took a good look at him—his strong, muscular frame, skin just a shade lighter than hers. His broad chest and shoulders, arms that looked like they could carry the weight of the world, but with a gentleness that set him apart from the roughness she’d known. He was a man who worked hard, a man who had seen things—but had not let those things break him. His face was handsome—but street smart, with just enough facial hair to make him look like a tough guy, a sharp jawline, and eyes that held both pain and warmth. There was something in those eyes—something that made her feel seen, understood, maybe even protected. This guy was a hunk, no doubt about it, but it was the strength beneath the surface—the kind that didn’t need to shout—that made her heart stir. Her voice softened further. Sometimes... I get scared. Scared that all this fighting won’t change nothin’. But then I see folks standin’ tall, and it reminds me why we’re here. Nathan reached out, gently touching her hand. For a moment, Naomi tensed, uncertainty flickering through her. She had spent so long bracing for battle that softness felt foreign, almost dangerous. But as his warmth settled over her fingers, she let herself breathe. This wasn’t a weakness—this was a strength of a different kind. A silent assurance that she wasn’t alone in this fight. That, for once, someone was standing beside her, not just watching from a distance. For a split second, Naomi tensed, the instinct to pull away flickering through her. But she didn’t. Instead, she let the warmth of his palm settle against hers, grounding her. His grip was firm but reassuring, not claiming, not demanding—just steady. We got each other. We’ll get through it. Naomi smiled, feeling the strength in his touch and the comfort in his words. For the first time in a long while, she allowed herself to feel safe. They finished cleaning in silence, but now it was different—easier. Together. Both of them mentally went over how things were changing tomorrow. The weight of it pressed on their chests, but neither dared speak it aloud. The night air was thick with tension, but also something else—something that felt like hope. They ran through every detail in their minds, praying they were ready for the fallout, knowing there was no turning back. As they reached the door, Naomi walked him out. For a moment, they lingered—standing close, their shoulders nearly brushing. They didn’t say anything—the words felt too small. Their eyes met, holding a quiet understanding. A nod. silent, steady. Ready. Then, he stepped into the night, and she closed the door behind him, exhaling slowly into the stillness. Naomi stepped back into the apartment, the weight of the day settling over her. She exhaled deeply, rolling her shoulders as if trying to shake off the burden pressing down on her. Every muscle in her body ached, exhaustion creeping in, but her mind refused to rest. The dim glow of the lamp illuminated the room, casting long shadows across the walls. She moved slowly, her eyes sweeping over the familiar space. Her gaze fell first on Mariel, curled up in a chair, her breathing slow and steady in sleep. Even at rest, there was tension in her posture, as if her body knew the weight of what was coming. Mariel had been beside her from the very beginning—through every hard lesson, every quiet moment of doubt, every victory that felt too fleeting. She was more than a friend she was her sister in every way that mattered. Dessa and Harold were asleep on the couch, their heads tilted toward each other, exhaustion finally claiming them after days of preparation. Even in sleep, Harolds hand rested protectively over Dessa’s, a silent promise of strength. Her niece and nephew lay curled up under a blanket, their small faces peaceful, unaware of the storm about to unfold. Naomi felt a pang in her chest—they were the reason she couldn’t afford to fail. Naomi’s chest tightened. This was the future she was fighting for. She made her way to the sofa and settled onto the edge, staring out the window. The city stretched before her, its streets glistening under the faint glow of streetlights. A few figures moved in the distance—some heading home, others lost in the weight of their own struggles. The distant hum of car engines and muffled conversations filtered through the glass, a reminder that the world outside kept turning, unaware of the battle brewing within these walls. Above, the night sky was vast and open, but the stars seemed dimmer, as if the universe itself held its breath, waiting for what was to come. The city stretched before her, restless and waiting. In her mind, she replayed the plan, searching for gaps, any flaw that could undo everything they had built. The weight of it pressed against her, a silent challenge. She inhaled deeply, steadying herself. Alma’s voice echoed in her head, sharp and unwavering. Be strategic. Always be strategic. Naomi closed her eyes, remembering the first time Alma had said those words. She had been just a girl, standing in the kitchen as Alma prepared dinner, her hands quick and practiced as she kneaded dough. This world aint fair, baby, Alma had told her, flour dusting her fingers. They’ll take everything if you let them. You gotta think three steps ahead—always. Even then, Naomi had understood. Alma had lived through too much to believe in easy victories. Now, standing on the edge of something so much bigger, Naomi felt those words settle deep in her bones. She inhaled sharply, steeling herself. Alma had been right then, and she was right now. Naomi’s eyes flicked toward the telephone resting on the nightstand. She hesitated only for a moment, her fingers hovering over the receiver. She let out a slow breath, rubbing her temples before finally picking it up. The dial tone hummed in her ear as she punched in the familiar numbers, her pulse quickening with each click of the rotary dial. On the other end, a voice answered—strong, familiar, but cautious. Hello She closed her eyes for a brief second, letting the warmth of Alma’s voice wash over her. It’s me, Alma. A beat of silence, then Mason’s voice came through, deep and steady. You alright You sound like you got somethin’ heavy on your chest. Naomi exhaled, gripping the phone a little tighter. Tomorrow’s the day, Mason. We’re doin’ it. No work. No movement. We stop everything. A low whistle came from Mason. That’s big, Naomi. Real big. You sure your people are ready Alma’s voice softened, but the steel was still there. And Mariel She holdin’ up Naomi hesitated for a moment, glancing at Mariel, but she remained still in sleep, her face finally free of worry. Naomi let out a slow breath, grateful that at least for now, Mariel could have this moment of peace. Naomi smiled slightly. She’s strong. We both are. But this is bigger than us. I just... I needed to hear y’all’s voices. Alma chuckled lightly, but there was nothing but pride in her tone. Baby, you been ready for this. You just needed to believe it yourself. You got folks standin’ with you Naomi nodded, even though they couldn’t see her. Yeah. We got a plan. We got food and support. We’re ready. Mason’s voice was firm. Then you ain’t got nothin’ to be scared of. You do this, you don’t look back. You hold that line, Naomi. And don’t you let ‘em break you. Naomi swallowed hard. A lump formed in her throat, her pulse quickening as the enormity of the moment pressed down on her chest. Her hands trembled slightly, the cold sweat on her palms making her grip tighten around the phone. Her breath felt shallow as if the very air had thickened with the weight of responsibility. The trust of so many people wrapped around her like a heavy cloak, its warmth reassuring but its weight nearly suffocating. She closed her eyes for a moment, centering herself, letting the strength of those who believed in her anchor her to the ground. Slowly, she straightened her spine, her resolve hardening like steel beneath the pressure. For a moment, she let it press into her, testing her resolve. Then, slowly, she straightened her spine, gripping the phone a little tighter. I won’t. Alma’s voice turned soft again. We are proud of you, baby. You know that, right Naomi blinked against the sting in her eyes. Yeah. I know. She lingered for a second before finally saying, I gotta go. Mason exhaled. Alright. We here if you need us. Naomi hung up the phone, staring at it for a moment before turning back to the room. Mariel met her eyes. We good Naomi nodded. Yeah. We’re good. She straightened her shoulders. Tomorrow, everything will change.    Chapter 14 Fire and Fury   The morning was deceptively beautiful. The sun cast a warm golden hue over the quiet streets, and a light breeze drifted through the trees. It was the kind of morning that should have been filled with the sounds of life—cars moving, doors opening, children laughing on their way to school. But instead, the city was still. Naomi and Nathan had given clear instructions no one was to congregate in the streets, no marches, no protests—just silence. Naomi stood by the window, watching as the city held its breath. Her fingers curled into her palm, pressing against the tension rising in her chest. She had expected silence, had planned for it, but now, seeing it unfold, the weight of it settled differently in her bones. She thought of all the moments that had led here—Alma’s quiet lessons, Mason and Leon’s bloodied faces after daring to vote, the nameless women she had seen broken along the road from Dallas to Chicago. Her parents, murdered. The memories swirled in her mind, anchoring her in the reality of what they had built. They had taken everything from her. From them. But today, the city was theirs. The absence of movement wasn’t just defiance—it was reclamation. And for the first time in a long while, Naomi felt something beyond exhaustion. Beyond rage. She felt in control. People were to stay in their homes as much as possible. Teams had been formed the night before, each with a lead responsible for checking in on families, ensuring they had food and supplies. In the early morning hours, quiet footsteps carried baskets of food and jugs of water to the homes of those who needed them most. Families rationed what they had, stretching their supplies for the long haul. The plan had been executed—not with shouts or banners, but with an eerie absence that unsettled the city like a slowmoving storm. It was not a protest it was a withdrawal, a refusal to participate in a system that had bled them dry for too long. Harold had taken it upon himself to organize a security crew—veterans and other men, young and old, who stood in the halls of apartment buildings. As he adjusted his stance near the stairwell, he glanced at David, one of the younger men who had served under him years ago. You holding up Harold asked, his voice steady. David nodded, gripping the wooden bat in his hands. Ain’t nothing different from before. Just another fight we ain’t backing down from. Harold clapped him on the shoulder, a brief but firm gesture of solidarity. That’s right. We stand, we watch, and we make sure nobody messes with our people. We’ve fought before—we fight again, but this time, on our terms. The quiet understanding between them spread through the others, each man nodding, reaffirming their purpose. They weren’t just a barrier they were a line no one would cross without consequence. They knew employers would eventually show up, searching for answers, demanding workers return. They also knew many of these employers would show up alone. The sight of Black and Brown men lingering in the corridors would trigger their irrational fear. It was a psychological shield, keeping the most vulnerable from direct confrontation. But beyond that, they were there for protection. If any employer tried to push their way in, if anyone got aggressive with a woman or a child, they would find themselves facing a quiet, unwavering wall of men who had long since learned how to stand firm. David had his eyes on Curtiss every move. The handful of Black and Brown workers who didn’t participate had already been expected and identified. It certainly wasn’t enough to run even a single business properly, and their presence did nothing to break the resolve of those who had stepped away. If anyone tried to pry for details, they were given less than crumbs. Naomi and Nathan laid low for days, purposely. They knew it wouldn’t take long before someone would want to speak to them, but they weren’t ready to talk. Not yet. They were too busy. There were no interviews or reporters and no trail for the press to follow. They knew Cronus understood exactly whose names were all over this. But they also knew that power was in controlling the narrative. When they were found, it would be on their terms, in public, and in a way that was safe for both of them. Until then, the city would be left to stew in uncertainty, forced to reckon with the silence they had created. No one was in their apartment Dessa, Harold, and Mariel had spread out, making it nearly impossible to track their movements. Employers, police, and government officials would waste days trying to put together a puzzle Naomi had already dismantled. Some employers initially dismissed the silence as an inconvenience, assuming workers would return by the next shift. Others panicked, sending messengers and knocking on doors, only to be met with rehearsed excuses and drawn curtains. As confusion deepened, frustration turned to desperation—bosses showing up at homes, pleading, threatening, offering small raises, anything to break the eerie stillness. But Naomi had anticipated every move. The silence held. And the brilliance of it all They weren’t breaking any laws. There were no picket lines, no confrontations—just absence. It wasn’t a crime to not show up to work. By refusing to engage, by removing their labor and nothing else, they were untouchable. They had turned the system’s own rules against it, and the longer the silence stretched, the more panicked those in power became. The confusion was intentional. Some people had swapped homes, others staged illnesses, and a few had prerehearsed excuses ready to disarm whoever came knocking. Every possible scenario had been accounted for. Naomi instructed everyone to tearup any flyers or notes about their plans. If it wasn’t memorized, it didn’t exist. She knew how they operated—she had seen it before. They would search homes, flip mattresses, and rifle through, desperate for a thread to pull. But there was nothing left to find. The power belonged to those who held the silence, and Naomi intended to keep it that way. Factories sat eerily still, their great machines dormant. But this movement was never meant to stay confined within the city. For weeks, quiet messengers had been traveling to neighboring towns and cities, spreading the strategy, and helping others prepare their own resistance. In the dead of night, notes were passed, meetings were held in whispered tones, and communities were strengthened through shared purpose. As Chicago fell into silence, similar plans were taking shape elsewhere. The timeline had been shared, the steps outlined, and now, other cities were watching, waiting, ready to follow suit. What had begun as a singular act of defiance had already outgrown its origins. The silence was spreading. Buses idled in garages, their routes unfulfilled. Hotel lobbies remained unkempt, sheets unwashed, and kitchens unstaffed. Restaurant doors never unlocked, and coffee never brewed. Cabs lined the curbs, their drivers nowhere in sight. The silence grew heavier with each passing moment, a defiance more powerful than any protest. But the silence did not mean inaction. The Nation of Islam organized food distribution, ensuring that families who needed help received it. The local NAACP chapter gathered donations to support those struggling financially. And SNCC college students, eager to contribute, stepped into tutor children, making sure their education did not suffer in the absence of traditional schooling. The people had stopped working, but they had not stopped building—supporting one another in ways the powerful could not predict or control. A nagging tension clung to him before he even opened his eyes as if the world had shifted overnight. His jaw clenched involuntarily, and as he sat up, a cold sweat formed at the nape of his neck. His heart beat just a little faster, his instincts flaring in warning. Something was wrong. He swung his legs over the bed, rubbing his temple, the heaviness in his chest deepening as the silence of the morning settled in, thicker than it should be. This wasn’t just a feeling—it was a sign. A nagging tension clung to him before he even opened his eyes as if the world had shifted overnight. Reports had already started coming in—something was happening, but it wasn’t clear yet. He wasn’t concerned at first. He had a meeting with contractors who had long bought his favor. But before he could get out of bed, his wife burst into the room, her face flushed with panic. “The maids aren’t here,” she stammered. “Neither are the cooks. They didn’t call, nothing” Cronus sat up, irritation flickering across his face. “Call them.” “I did,” she said, wringing her hands. “None of them are answering.” He swung his legs over the bed, rubbing his temple. “Then call the neighbors—see if their maids want to make extra money.” “I already did.” She shook her head, her voice trembling. “They didn’t show up either.” A slow realization crawled up Cronus’s spine. He stood abruptly. “Where’s my driver” His wife’s silence was the answer. A sharp jolt of realization shot through him, and his stomach clenched. His breath came a little quicker, his pulse pounding in his ears. He gripped the edge of the dresser, his knuckles white as his mind raced. This was no ordinary disobedience—this was something bigger, something deliberate. A cold sweat formed at the base of his neck as the weight of it settled in. He had lost control. Time stopped. Cronus strode to the window, looking out onto the perfectly manicured street. It was too quiet. No cars coming and going, no paperboys shouting, no workers rushing to catch buses. His chest tightened. This wasn’t a fluke. This was coordinated. And it was spreading. No one seemed to have an answer. What the hell is happening in Chicago Senator Wainwright barked, slamming his fist on the table. It’s not just, Langston, a progressive senator, replied coolly. This movement is organized. Other cities are watching. Some are already preparing to follow suit. Jacobs leaned forward, his face red with frustration. We need these people back at work. Now. This is economic sabotage Redfield smirked. Economic sabotage Or longoverdue justice These workers aren’t asking for anything outrageous—fair wages, safe conditions, basic dignity. Cronus, seated quietly at the head of the table, finally spoke. His voice was calm, but the steel in it was unmistakable. Justice You call this justice Hotels are empty, shipments delayed, businesses crumbling under this—this tantrum. And you’re telling me we should sit back and watch Harper grumbled, If they get away with this, what’s next We lose control of everything Caldwell nodded. They need to be made an example. We cant let this spread. Langston scoffed. You good ole’ boys are predictable. Your first instinct is always force. But ask yourselves—who are you going to replace them with Most of your ‘available’ workforce is old, sick, or unskilled. And the ones who can work They see what’s happening. You really think they’re going to cross that line Wainwright sneered. So what do you suggest We give in Redfield leaned back in his chair. I suggest you understand that the world is changing. A hush settled over the room, the air thick with unspoken tension. Some shifted uncomfortably in their seats, exchanging wary glances. Others clenched their jaws, their fingers drumming anxiously against the table. The weight of his words pressed against them, the realization creeping in like an unwelcome shadow. For a moment, no one spoke, the silence stretching, amplifying the unease. Then, with a sharp exhale, Wainwright broke the stillness, his voice laced with barely contained frustration. And what, exactly, do you propose we do about it You can either negotiate, or you can watch it all burn. But mark my words, gentlemen—this silence It speaks louder than anything youve ever seen. Their world, built upon the labor of the unseen, was unraveling before their eyes. Their maids, their cooks, their nannies—gone. Breakfasts went unmade, linens remained unchanged, and children ran wild without their caretakers. This is unacceptable Evelyn Caldwell hissed, pacing the length of her marble kitchen, her silk robe fluttering behind her. Where is Margie I pay her good money Its all of them, Evelyn, sighed Marianne Wainwright, her normally poised demeanor fraying at the edges. The staff at the club didn’t show either. We had to serve ourselves our own coffee Can you believe that Dorothy Harper sat at the grand dining table, her fingers tapping impatiently against the polished wood. I don’t care what’s happening. We need to put an end to this nonsense. Charles says it’s spreading, but these people need to understand their place. They should be grateful they have jobs at all. Louise Jacobs scoffed. And what exactly do you propose we do Chase them down and drag them back They have no phones, no way to be reached. It’s like they vanished into thin air They’re doing this on purpose, Evelyn seethed. It’s coordinated. And mark my words, if we let them think they have power over us, we will never get it back. Marianne exhaled sharply, rubbing her temples. The men will handle it. They always do. But if this goes on much longer, society as we know it will collapse. Society Dorothy scoffed, finally standing. Darling, we are society. And I refuse to let a bunch of servants dictate how I live. Theyd been laying low for a couple of days. With the help of the Nation of Islam and a few trusted activists, Nathan and Naomi secured a private location, away from the community and any prying eyes. They left before morning, ensuring no one could track their movements. Only a handful of trusted guards remained with them, keeping a careful watch on every entrance. The isolation gave them time—to plan, to reflect, to simply breathe for the first time in days. The tension of the past days had settled over them like an unshakable weight, yet in this rare moment of quiet, they found space to breathe. Nathan paced near the window, his hands resting on his hips, his mind still running through every possibility. Naomi sat at a small table, absently tracing the wood grain with her fingers, deep in thought. We need to move faster, Nathan muttered, shaking his head. Sitting still doesn’t sit right with me. Naomi sighed, her patience thinning. We don’t move until we have to. That’s the whole point. Let them come undone trying to figure us out. Nathan turned to her, arms crossed. And what if they don’t What if they start dragging folks out of their homes If we’re not out there— If we’re out there too soon, we lose everything we’ve built, she cut in, her voice firm but measured. We control the pace, Nathan. Not them. He exhaled sharply, running a hand over his jaw. I just don’t like waiting. Action makes more sense to me. Naomi softened slightly. I know. But sometimes, patience is the most dangerous weapon we have. Nathan smirked, shaking his head. You sound like some old wise woman. She arched a brow. Maybe I am. A small chuckle passed between them, the tension easing just enough. He watched her closely, admiration flickering in his gaze. You ever think about what comes after this When we win She hesitated, her fingers stilling against the table. After Haven’t had much time to think about after. Too much to do now. Nathan stepped forward, his voice softer now. Well, I think about it. About you. About us. Naomi lifted her eyes to meet his, something unspoken passing between them. Nathan— But before she could say more, he reached out, cupping her face gently with his hand. He moved slowly, giving her space to pull away, but she didn’t. Instead, she leaned into his touch, allowing herself—for just this moment—to feel something other than the weight of responsibility. His lips met hers, warm and steady, not demanding but offering. A quiet promise. When they parted, his forehead rested against hers, his breath stilling as he whispered, We’re gonna make it through this, Naomi. Together. She nodded, exhaling against his skin. Yeah. Together.   Chapter 15 Smoke on the Horizon   The shot rang out, shattering the stillness of the Memphis evening. For an instant, time seemed to stop. The air held its breath, heavy with tension. Then, chaos erupted. A scream pierced the silence, followed by another, then a chorus of cries. People dropped to the ground, some scrambling for cover, others frozen in shock. The sharp echo of the gunshot lingered, bouncing off the motel walls as if the city itself was recoiling from the horror. The world had changed in a single, deafening instant. For a split second, there was nothing—no movement, no sound—just a deafening silence as if the entire world had gasped at once. Then came the chaos. A frantic cry cut through the air, footsteps pounding against concrete, voices rising in panic. The humid air thickened with fear as people scrambled, some ducking for cover, others frozen in shock. The weight of the moment pressed down like an invisible force, shifting history in an instant. It wasn’t just a bullet—it was a rupture, tearing through history, through hope, through the very fabric of the movement. Martin Luther King Jr. was dead. Shot down on the balcony of a Memphis motel. The country was already a tinderbox—his murder was the match that set it ablaze. In the stunned moments that followed, a hush swept through the streets, a silence thick with disbelief. Then came the eruption—gasps turned to wails, disbelief turned to rage. In some places, people stood motionless, their hands clasped over their mouths, refusing to believe what they had just heard. Others dropped to their knees, grief overtaking them. And then, as if on cue, the tension shattered. Protests surged forward, voices rising in a mix of sorrow and fury, fists clenched, ready to strike back at a system that had taken yet another leader from them. Naomi heard the news before she even saw the headlines. A chill ran through her body, her breath catching in her throat. Her fingers curled into fists at her sides as a slow, numbing disbelief settled over her. For a moment, everything around her faded—the voices, the room, even Nathan at her side. It felt like the air had been stolen from her lungs as if the world itself had tilted. Then, the weight of reality slammed into her chest, heavy and unrelenting. She gritted her teeth, forcing herself to stay steady, to push past the shock. There was no time to fall apart. Not now. It came through in hushed whispers from the guards outside, their voices tense. The radio crackled in the corner of the dimly lit room where she and Nathan remained hidden, a secure location provided by the Nation of Islam. Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. has been assassinated… The broadcaster’s voice carried a mix of shock and devastation. Naomi’s breath came fast, her heart pounding, her mind racing. A thousand thoughts collided in her head—grief, anger, strategy, and survival all battling for space. She felt the weight of history pressing down on her, the crushing realization that everything had just shifted, that they were standing on the edge of something far more dangerous than before. The sorrow threatened to pull her under, but she forced herself to push past it. There was no time to mourn, no space for hesitation. The world wouldn’t wait for them to grieve. It was already demanding their next move. This was it. This was the moment everything shifted. She could feel it pressing down on her, an unbearable weight. They had been winning—crippling the economy, forcing Cronus and the government into desperate measures. But this This changed everything. The world was about to burn. “We don’t lose our heads,” Naomi said, her voice steady despite the fire in her chest. “We knew they’d try to break us. We knew they’d push us to the edge. This is their play.” Nathan’s fists clenched, his jaw tightening as frustration and helplessness warred inside him. His breath came sharp and heavy, the weight of the moment pressing down on his chest. It’s working, he muttered, but there was no triumph in his voice—only a steely resolve. He knew they had struck a blow, but at what cost The fire in the streets, the grief rippling through the people—this wasn’t just strategy anymore. It was survival. ”She wanted to grieve, but there was no time. The streets were alive with fire and anguish, and every instinct told her that the people were in danger. They had to move fast. She turned to Nathan, urgency overtaking the numbness threatening to set in. We need to get word out, she said. People need to stay inside, stay down. They don’t see it yet, but they’re walking into a slaughter. Nathan nodded sharply. Mariel, Dessa, Harold, David—they can keep people calm. We get them to organize, control the message before this turns into something Cronus can use against us. Naomi exhaled, forcing steel into her spine. Then we move. Now. Beyond their walls, the city roared to life. Screams pierced the night, wails of anguish rising in waves. The sharp crack of gunfire echoed through the streets, followed by the chaotic crash of shattered glass. Fires flickered in the distance, their glow licking against the buildings like angry tongues. Car horns blared, their panicked bursts overlapping with the distant shouts of protestors clashing with police. The ground trembled under the stampede of footsteps—some running in fear, others charging forward with defiance. The air itself felt charged, thick with smoke and the acrid scent of burning debris, as the city teetered on the edge of something irreversible. A siren cut through the air, then another. Naomi didn’t need to see it to know what was happening—Chicago was about to explode. She and Nathan exchanged a look of understanding. They needed to do more than control the chaos—they had to reach King’s people. His closest advisors, the ones who had led beside him, needed to know that his death wouldn’t mean the end of everything he built. Nathan stepped toward one of their guards, a man with deep ties to SNCC. We need a line to them. Now. Someone who can get us in contact with King’s trusted people. The guard gave a sharp nod. I know someone who can make that happen. But we have to move fast. It didn’t take long for word to come—King’s allies were willing to meet. They had seen what Naomi and her people had done in Chicago, and they were desperate not to let his efforts die with him. Naomi and Nathan moved in the dead of the night. No fanfare, no unnecessary risks. Because they were careful, the journey to an undisclosed location to meet with SNCC leaders and King’s most trusted advisors took longer than expected. Everyone involved understood the stakes—anyone among them could be a target. They had to be cautious, calculating every step, and ensuring that no one was followed. The weight of the moment pressed down on Naomi, but she knew there was no turning back now. This meeting would define the next stage of their movement. When they arrived, the air in the room was thick with tension. Sadness clung to every corner, but more than that—anger burned in the eyes of every leader present. They had lost not just a man but a symbol, a visionary whose dream had ignited the fire in so many. Now, that fire threatened to consume everything. Seated around the table were the movement’s strongest voices. Reverend Isaiah Clarke, a fiery orator and longtime ally of King, sat with his hands folded tightly, his gaze distant but calculating. Dorothy Simms, a key organizer in the Southern Christian Leadership Conference, had her arms crossed, her jaw set as if she were barely containing her fury. Elijah Ramsey, a former union leader who had become one of King’s closest economic advisors, drummed his fingers against the table, deep in thought. Lewis Gardner, an SNCC field organizer, looked restless, as if ready to take action at any moment. The room fell into solemn silence as those gathered bowed their heads, honoring the man whose vision had brought them together. When they lifted their heads, the fire of purpose burned even brighter in their eyes. Nathan cleared his throat, his voice heavy with emotion. I wish we had time to honor Dr. King the way he deserves, to mourn him properly. But we cant afford to stop now. They’re counting on our grief to slow us down. We have to keep pushing forward, not just for him, but for everything he stood for. Im sure everyone knows why we’re here. The question is—what do we do next Dorothys eyes flashed. We don’t sit back and wait. That’s what they want. They think fear will break us. Isaiah exhaled sharply. But if we move too fast, we risk losing everything we’ve built. They’re looking for an excuse to tear this down for good. Naomi leaned forward, her voice steady, her presence filling the room. Then we don’t give them one. We move, but we move smart. She paused, letting her words settle before pressing forward. Look at what we’ve already done. Nathan and I have been leading the charge in Chicago, and despite everything they’ve thrown at us, we’re still holding the line. We’ve crippled industries, forced the powerful to acknowledge us, and now, they’re the ones scrambling. This movement isn’t fragile—it’s strategic, disciplined, and dangerous to the ones who want to keep us in chains. She straightened, letting her voice carry. Dr. King always knew the power of economic resistance. He showed us in Montgomery when the bus boycotts brought the city to its knees. He proved that when you hit their wallets, they listen. That’s what we’ve done here. That’s what we must continue to do. My tactics—the way we’ve held the line in Chicago—came directly from what I learned from him. This isn’t about rage alone. This is about power. Sustained, unshakable power. Her eyes swept across the room, locking onto each leader. We don’t have to start from scratch. We’ve already hit them where it hurts. Now we take that momentum and make it impossible for them to recover. We don’t just react—we control the battlefield. Nathan stepped in, his voice firm but urgent. But our people are already out there. They’re angry, and grieving, and they don’t have direction. That makes them vulnerable. If we don’t move fast, this turns into a bloodbath, and the crooked politicians win before we even get the chance to strike. He took a breath and continued, his voice sharpening. And it won’t just be the police coming down on us. The FBI, the CIA, maybe even the National Guard—they’ll all be watching, waiting for the moment to crush this movement before it spreads any further. They’ve infiltrated us before. They will try again. They’ll set traps, plant informants, and if they can’t break us that way, they’ll use force. If we don’t pull our people together, if we don’t get them out of the streets, they will use this moment to justify everything they’ve been waiting to do. He glanced around the room, then continued. Somehow, we have to get everyone on the same page. We need to pull our people out of the streets before they give the government the excuse they’re looking for. If we don’t, they’ll come down on us with everything they have. Elijah Ramsey nodded, his fingers still drumming against the table. Nathans right. Weve spent years organizing and building the framework. We still have Kings machine—the network, the alliances. We don’t need to start from scratch. We need to activate it. Dorothy Simms leaned forward, fire flashing in her eyes. Then we use what we’ve built. We get word to every organizer, every preacher, every union leader still standing with us. This isn’t the time for scattered action. We pull back, we regroup, and we channel this anger into something strategic. Lewis Gardner scoffed, shaking his head. Easier said than done. Folks are mad. They’re in the streets because they feel like this country has once again spit in their face. Telling them to go home aint gonna work. We need to give them something to do. Reverend Clarke folded his hands together, his voice calm but firm. Then we take control of the message. We meet them where they are—not just in churches or meetings, but in the streets, in the neighborhoods, in the workplaces. We give them purpose. We remind them that King never wanted them to be sacrificial lambs to the system. We don’t just pull them out of the fire—we turn them into the force that will break the system apart. Before Clarke could continue, a voice from the SNCC side of the room cut through. Malik Richardson, one of the younger, more militant members, leaned forward, his jaw tight with frustration. All this talk about control and patience—we’ve been patient. King was patient. And where did that get him Dead on a balcony. The same people who smiled in his face took him out. And now you’re telling us to pull back No. We need to hit back. If they want war, let’s give them one. Dorothy Simms shook her head. And what happens when they bring the full weight of the government down on us You think we can win that kind of fight We move strategically, or we lose everything. Malik scoffed, his anger barely contained. We’re already losing The people in the streets aren’t asking for strategy. They’re asking for justice. And justice doesn’t come from waiting. Naomi let the tension sit for a moment before speaking, her voice is even but forceful. This isn’t about choosing between fighting and waiting. It’s about choosing how we fight. Every move we make from here on out has to push them further into desperation, not give them the excuse to wipe us out in one fell swoop. You want war, Malik Then fight smart. Because if we rush into battle blind, we won’t just lose—we’ll be erased. She took a step closer, locking eyes with Malik. There may come a day for war. But today, the battle is economic. Whether its through protest or battle, the goal isn’t just to fight—it’s to win. And not just win, but win big. I hear your anger, Malik. I feel it, too. I am just as young as you, and I know what it means to want to strike back. But you don’t go into battle without knowing your enemy’s weakness. And for men like Cronus, like the ones pulling the strings behind him, their greatest fear isn’t us in the streets—it’s losing the power that money gives them. That is what keeps them up at night. That is where we hit them. Over the next few hours, the room became a war room. Information poured in—reports from across the country, and updates on the immediate fallout. Calls were made, leaders were contacted, and the NAACP stepped in to help shape the next steps. Every voice in the room carried experience, but as the discussions deepened, Naomi’s voice cut through with clarity and purpose. Without force or arrogance, she naturally rose to the top. Her sharp mind and ability to translate strategy into action commanded attention. She laid out, with precision, how she and Nathan had managed to bring Chicago’s economy to a near standstill. How businesses were crumbling under the weight of the strike. How workers had remained strong despite the government’s pressure. This isn’t just a citywide fight. This is national. What we did in Chicago can happen across the country, and if it does, they won’t be able to stop it. We don’t just make demands. We make it impossible for them to ignore us. She explained, with precision, how she and Nathan had managed to bring economic activity in Chicago to a near standstill. How businesses were crumbling under the weight of the strike. How workers had held strong despite government pressure. This isn’t just a citywide fight. This is national. What we did in Chicago can happen across the country, and if it does, they won’t be able to stop it. We don’t just make demands. We make it impossible for them to ignore us. From across the room, Elijah Ramsey leaned forward, his gaze sharp. Chicago is proof of what’s possible, but if this is national, we need to expand—fast. Can you and Nathan get to California We need organizers on the ground there, and we need them now. Nathan and Naomi exchanged a look, both understanding the weight of what was being asked. Naomi leaned forward, resting her hands on the table. We have a lot of work to do.       Chapter 16 Burning Bridges Mariel moved through the heart of the neighborhood with a quiet authority, her presence both reassuring and commanding. The streets were still tense, charged with the raw emotions left in the wake of Dr. King’s assassination. Before leaving for her mission, Naomi had called Mariel, her voice steady but full of emotion. Hey, don’t get all serious on me now, Mariel had teased, trying to lighten the moment. But Naomi’s voice softened. I need you to listen, Mariel. I love you. I trust you completely. You’ve stood by me every step of the way, and I need you to hold the line while I’m gone. Make sure people stay inside, keep them safe. Dessa will help keep the women and children calm. And Harold—he’ll have his veteran friends patrol the apartment buildings, make sure no one catches us off guard. How are we with supplies Mariel rubs her forehead, We have food for now, but we may need more supplies soon. Naomi taking a mental note. Let me know the moment we start running low. We have too many people depending on us. Mariel swallowed the lump in her throat, sensing the weight behind Naomi’s words. You be careful, alright Don’t go acting like you can take on the whole damn world by yourself. Naomi had chuckled. No promises. Then the line had gone silent, leaving Mariel with the responsibility Naomi had placed in her hands. Now, she remained, stepping into the role of stabilizer, ensuring that the movement held firm despite the chaos threatening to consume it. She wasn’t Naomi, and she didn’t try to be. Where Naomi carried the fire of revolution, Mariel wielded the steady hands of a builder. She didn’t make speeches that shook the ground she spoke in whispers that planted roots. And right now, the people need both. She stood before a gathering of men and women in the back of a community hall, her hands resting firmly on the table before her. I know youre angry, she said, her voice even but strong. I know youre scared. But you are not alone. This is not the end. We are still here, and that means we still have work to do. Dessa sat near the front, nodding along, her presence a quiet pillar of support. Her fingers tightened in her lap, nails pressing into her palms as she fought to keep her composure. The weight of Dr. Kings death hung heavy on her chest, and no matter how strong she tried to appear, she couldnt shake the gnawing fear creeping in. Had they taken on more than they could handle Naomi was out there, unseen, orchestrating something that could shift everything—but what if they lost her too Dessa held tight, but deep inside, the doubt whispered louder than ever. But inside, she felt the crushing weight of loss. The death of Dr. King had shaken her to the core, and no matter how strong she appeared, fear gnawed at the edges of her resolve. Had they bitten off more than they could chew Naomi was out there, unseen, leading a battle that could consume them all. What if they lost her too Harold, his leg still aching from old wounds, leaned against the wall, absently rubbing at the scarred flesh. He thought about his time in the service, fighting for freedom in lands far from home, only to return to a country where freedom was still a battle for his own people. And now, the beacon of that fight—Dr. King—had been struck down not by an enemy overseas, but by someone right here in the place that claimed to stand for liberty. The irony burned, deep and bitter. Watching Mariel, he saw the weight of leadership settling on her shoulders, and he wondered if any of them were truly ready for what was coming. The city is on edge, and the people need direction, Mariel continued. We keep the line steady. We keep our homes secure. We do not let them bait us into reckless action. We follow Naomi’s plan because she has never led us wrong. A murmur of agreement rippled through the crowd, but there was still unease. The tension in the room was thick, a volatile mix of grief and anger. They had been cooped up for weeks, barely holding on, and now with Dr. King’s death, they were ready to tear something apart. A young man barely out of his teens stepped forward, his fists clenched at his sides. But what if they come for us The police, the soldiers What if they don’t care about a peaceful fight We can’t just sit here while they try to break us. Mariel met his gaze without flinching. Then we stand. We do not cower. We protect our own, but we do not turn into the monsters they want us to be. That is how we win. A hush settled over the room, heavy with tension. Some nodded, their resolve hardening, while others still shifted uneasily, fear lingering in their eyes. Mariel felt the weight of their hesitation but held firm, knowing that in moments like this, even the smallest crack in conviction could unravel everything. She couldn’t afford doubt, not now. She forced herself to sound unwavering, but deep inside, doubt crept in. Did she truly believe this, or was she just saying what they needed to hear The anger in the room was a living thing, pressing against her, threatening to consume everything theyd built. If it came down to it, could they really hold the line Or would the weight of their pain and grief push them into the very destruction they were trying to resist The young man held her stare for a long moment before nodding. As the meeting ended, Mariel stepped outside, inhaling the cool night air. The sky stretched wide above her, endless and dark, yet speckled with the quiet resilience of stars. She thought of Naomi—her sister in this fight, in this life. They had built something together, and though Naomi was miles away, Mariel felt her presence, steady as ever. A voice pulled her from her thoughts. Mariel, I know you’re carrying a lot right now, Dessa said softly, stepping up beside her. But you’re not alone in this. We all trust you, and we’ll hold the line together. Mariel exhaled slowly, nodding. Thanks, Dessa. That means more than you know. She knew there was still more to do. Mariel pulled out the worn rotary phone and dialed. After a few rings, Alma’s voice came through, weary but steady. Mariel, honey, is that you Yeah, it’s me. I just needed to hear your voice, Mariel said, her grip tightening on the receiver. Are you and Mason okay Alma exhaled, the weight of weeks of worry laced in her breath. We’re managing. just scared. But we’re holding on. What about you, baby Y’all and Naomi holdin’ up Mariel swallowed hard, forcing a steady tone. We’re okay. It’s rough, but we’re standing. Just wanted you to know we’re still here. And we love you. Alma’s voice softened. We love you too, Mariel. You take care of yourself, you hear me And tell Naomi the same. I’ve been reading about her in the news. They say she hasn’t been seen, but everyone knows she’s the one behind the strikes. Now, with Dr. King gone, I’ve been worried sick. I’ve been praying for you both. Mariel felt the weight of Alma’s words settles in her chest. We feel it, Alma. And we appreciate you more than you know. With everything going on, and you and Mason getting up in years, Naomi and I wanted to talk to you about moving to Chicago. It’d give us peace of mind knowing you’re close and safe. There was a pause. Then Alma let out a small laugh. Ain’t it cold in Chicago Mariel chuckled, the tension momentarily easing. Yeah, but we’ll keep you warm. When things quiet down a bit, we’ll talk more about it, okay Alma’s voice softened again. You be safe, Mariel. Both of you. Promise me that. Mariel nodded, even though Alma couldn’t see her. I hear you. You do the same. The phone line went silent, the weight of their conversation lingering in the still air. A voice pulled her from her thoughts. You holding up Harold asked, stepping beside her. Mariel let out a soft chuckle. Trying. Feels like every time we stand, the world tries to knock us back down. Harold nodded. Yeah. But you know what We keep getting up. That’s gotta mean something. Dessa walked over and stood next to him, her presence a quiet reassurance. She reached for his hand, giving it a gentle squeeze. It means everything, she said softly. Mariel smiled, the warmth of their shared purpose settling into her bones. Yeah. It does. And we’re not done yet. Dessa sighed, shaking her head. Man, when it rains, it pours. Losing Dr. King... its like losing the sun. He was a guide for the people. We weren’t one of his activists, but our fight and his always ran side by side. Now, without him, I don’t know if people will hold on or if the whole thing will just fall apart. And now Naomi... I just—I just hope we aint walkin into the dark with no way out. Harold exhaled, glancing at her. Ain’t that the truth But we ain’t drowned yet. Mariel managed a small smile, the weight of everything still pressing on her. No, we haven’t. And we won’t. Just then, David walked in with two veteran friends, his face grim. They’ve cut off all electricity to the community, he announced, his voice carrying the weight of the news. And it ain’t just that. Military vehicles are riding up and down the streets. Armed soldiers are on every corner. They’re lockin’ us down. The room fell into a tense silence, the gravity of their situation sinking in deeper. Fear flickered in the eyes of those gathered, a sharp reminder of the power they were up against.       Chapter 17 Inferno Rising   The White House was in chaos. The air inside the grand halls was thick with tension, the onceorderly corridors now a storm of frantic movement. Advisors, military officials, and government aides flooded the Situation Room, their voices overlapping in a cacophony of panic and desperation. The weight of Dr. King’s assassination had ignited a firestorm across the country, and the administration was struggling to contain it. Chicago had been economically crippled for weeks, and now, with the civil unrest reaching a boiling point, the cracks in the nation’s foundation were beginning to split wide open. Cities were burning, protests swelled into riots, and the people’s anger—stoked by years of oppression and now the sudden loss of their greatest leader—threatened to consume everything in its path. Cronus stood at the center of it all. He was not the President, not yet, but in that moment, he held more power than anyone else in the room. The President sat at the head of the table, sweat beading at his temple as he listened to the warring voices around him. Some called for immediate military intervention, others urged caution, and a few, still clinging to the last shreds of optimism, pleaded for negotiation. Cronus said nothing at first. He let them spiral, let their voices rise, let their uncertainty deepen. But as they debated military action and civil unrest, there was one glaring omission—no one was mentioning the economy or the stock market, at least not in a way that acknowledged the suffering of the people. No, their concern was wealth—money that was no longer lining their pockets, investments disrupted, and markets rattled. They used code words to disguise their greed, framing their fears as concerns for national stability and economic security. He stood motionless, his hands clasped behind his back. There was no urgency in his stance, only quiet calculation as if he had already foreseen this moment and was simply waiting for the inevitable. Then, when the room had reached its breaking point when the President looked ready to collapse under the strain, Cronus stepped forward. His voice cut through the noise like a blade. “Enough.” Silence fell instantly. He let it linger for a moment, allowing the sheer force of his presence to settle in. His gaze swept across the room, meeting the eyes of generals, advisors, and cabinet members who had, just moments ago, been shouting over each other like frightened children. “This administration is failing our people. And we are standing here arguing like fools while our people are turning against us.” Everyone in the room knew what he meant by our people—the money makers, the greedy contractors, the CEOs, the ones who truly made the decisions. But Cronus didn’t care about people. He cared about the power that came with money—so he spoke their language, feeding them the words they wanted to hear. He knew that if they were seen as weak across the world, it would depreciate their standing, leading to a shortening of their reach. There was money in Africa, Latin America, and Southeast Asia, nations the U.S. sought to trade with, kickbacks upon kickbacks—large donations for favors, taking from the little man and woman and selling them dreams for dollars that added up to hundreds of thousands. Then there was the Black and Brown community, practically free labor, decreasing the overall business expenses. His words were measured and calm, but an unmistakable sharpness was beneath them. “If you want to restore order, then we need to act. Now.” Redfield leaned forward, his voice steady but sharp. Do you want to take care of it like youve been handling the young woman who shut down Illinois Or is she just another market disruptor you need to stamp out The room tensed. Cronus jaw tightened, but he forced a smirk, masking his anger. This was his shot—he knew he had to respond correctly, or he wouldn’t get this chance again. My mistake was trying to handle it the way you would have—coddling them, playing politics. That was a waste of time. Now, Ill handle it the way it should have been handled from the start. Cronus took his time, ensuring that every pair of eyes remained locked on him. He had already heard the whispered concerns about economic instability and market confidence—code for their real fears. The stock market had taken a hit, foreign investors were pulling out, and supply chains were stalling. The industries that funded their campaigns—oil, steel, banking—were all feeling the pressure. But none of them dared say it outright. Instead, they danced around the truth, masking greed with patriotic rhetoric about protecting national interests. He had heard enough of their coded concerns. They weren’t worried about the people—they were worried about their corporate donors, their business interests, and the financial empires they had built on the backs of others. He could use that. He was still seething from Redfield’s attempt to trip him up, but he wouldn’t let it show. This was his moment to solidify his power, and he refused to falter. “We enforce control, real control. Not empty speeches. Not soft measures. We deploy forces where they are needed most, lock down key cities, and make an example of anyone who dares defy the stability of this nation.” The President hesitated. It was a drastic call that seemed to make many in the room smile—some emboldened by the sheer force of authority Cronus exuded, seeing in him the ruthless leadership they craved. Others cringed, their discomfort evident, shifting uneasily in their seats. A few exchanged uneasy glances, their fingers twitching against the table. One aide turned slightly, as if considering an exit, while another swallowed hard, his face pale with apprehension. The room was silent. The President looked at the cabinet members and the generals he knew would sign off on Cronus proposal, using the pretense of conferring to come up with his response. Finally, the President gave the green light to Cronus. Everyone was stunned. You could hear a pin drop. A general shifted in his chair, his knuckles white as he clenched the armrests. One of the aides swallowed hard, darting a nervous glance at the President. A cabinet member, usually composed, tapped his fingers against the table, his jaw tight with unease. Cronus looked back at the President, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his lips, his eyes cold and assessing. The Presidents fingers twitched slightly against the table, his throat bobbing as he swallowed. He masked it well, but Cronus caught the subtle hesitation—the momentary realization that he had let something uncontrollable slip through his grasp. The air in the room felt heavier, thick with an unspoken shift. Langston, seated beside Redfield, exhaled sharply. This is madness, he muttered, shaking his head. Across the room, Senator Wainwright let out a dry chuckle, shaking his head in amusement. Spoken like a man who doesnt understand how power works, he sneered. Senator Caldwell smirked, exchanging a knowing glance with Cronus, while others simply looked away, unwilling to engage in a battle they had already conceded. Langston, undeterred, met Cronus gaze with steady defiance, refusing to be intimidated. Redfield, however, remained steady, his gaze shifting to his colleagues in the House and Senate. He had been a senator for a long time, long enough to have allies not just in Congress but within the military and throughout the White House. He wasn’t afraid of Cronus, and he wanted everyone in the room to know it. You think ruling by force will make the people bow Itll break this country apart. Some of Cronus allies smirked, emboldened by the power shift, while others—those who still clung to the idea of democracy—exchanged wary glances. A few nodded ever so slightly, resigned to the path that had just been laid before them. Outside, the distant hum of military preparations had already begun. After the meeting, Redfield and Langston met at a coffee shop down the street. The scent of roasted beans did little to mask the unease settling between them. Redfield stirred his coffee absently, his mind racing. He wasn’t fooled by Cronus’ answer about the girl. He saw the writing on the wall. Cronus was making his attempt to roll back the clock, going to war with anyone who didn’t toe the line. This wasn’t about law and order—it was about power, about erasing what little progress had been made. “The Constitution” Redfield scoffed, shaking his head. Cronus thinks its only relevance now is whatever part benefits the people at the top. Langston exhaled sharply. He’s taking his shot, Redfield. He won’t stop. And neither will they. Have you heard them They’re already talking about business security initiatives and economic reinforcement policies—all of it just an excuse to consolidate wealth while everyone’s too distracted to fight back. Redfield nodded. I know. And I know his weakness. It’s her. She didn’t just shut down Illinois—she shook the markets. And that’s what they actually fear. Not protests, not riots, but that their money isn’t safe anymore. Langston frowned. The girl Redfield leaned in, lowering his voice. Naomi Ellis. My sources tell me that’s her name. We have to find her before Cronus does. I have sources, Generals who are absolute that they will not go to war against citizens of the United States—Black or otherwise. My source says these issues are becoming a cancer within the ranks. The rifts are showing, and it’s only a matter of time before we have a real problem with separation in the military. Langston sat back, considering his words. So what’s the move Redfield’s grip tightened around his cup. We get to her first. Before its too late.   Chapter 18 Trial by Fire   Naomi moved swiftly through the dimly lit safe house, her heartbeat pounding in her ears as she took in the whispered updates from her contacts. The air inside was thick with tension, the weight of the moment pressing down on everyone in the room. Nathan stood beside her, but she knew him well enough to see the storm brewing beneath the surface. She had been relentless, moving through California, Florida, New York, Boston, Georgia, and Alabama—each state another battleground in the war she was waging. But two places carried a weight heavier than the others. Arkansas, where she was able to steal brief but cherished moments with Alma and Mason, a reminder of where she came from. And Texas, the place that had chased her away as a child, now stood as a symbol of what she would never run from again. Her strategy to cripple the economy in the name of the people was spreading like wildfire. In each city, she and Nathan didn’t just teach communities how to shut down industries—they taught them how to wield their power, how to make their absence felt so deeply that those in power had no choice but to acknowledge them. Factories slowed, transportation ground to a halt, and corporations that once saw their workers as disposable were now grasping at straws, desperate to regain control. She spoke with Mariel weekly, keeping tabs on Chicago’s status. Food was still coming in, albeit in trickles, and activist organizations remained steadfast in their support. The people were holding on, even as resources thinned. They weren’t just fighting anymore—they were surviving, and Naomi knew survival was the first step toward victory. When the news reached her, she felt a sinking weight in her chest. The power had been cut in Chicago. The military was patrolling the streets. Soldiers were stationed on every corner. Her people were under siege. Naomi realized that Mariel would be more useful with her and Nathan. Besides, she really missed her—this was the longest they had ever been apart. But first, she needed to secure Dessa and Harold, get them to a safe place, and make sure the people who had started with her were going to be okay. Mariel’s latest message had confirmed what Naomi feared the raids had begun. Some people had been beaten, but for the most part, they were holding their own. Mariel had warned her that people were asking about her, and she knew it was only a matter of time before someone connected her to Alma and Mason. They would have to be moved—soon. She had no idea how, but she would find a way. She needed a miracle from God. Her first instinct had been to reach out, but she knew better than to act on impulse. The blackout meant communication was limited, and if Cronus had escalated to this level, he was closing the net on her movement. She couldn’t risk exposing anyone by rushing in without a plan. Then, the door creaked open, and a scout rushed inside, breathless. His shirt was damp with sweat, and his hands were clenched like he was trying to steady himself. Nathan turned, his expression instantly hardening. Naomi’s stomach twisted—she already knew what was coming. It’s David, the scout managed, still catching his breath. He’s gone. A slow, suffocating pause filled the room. Naomi felt her heartbeat steady, not from calm, but from something colder—focus. Gone she repeated, her voice eerily level. They took him. Cronus’s men. It wasn’t random. They came straight for him. Naomi inhaled slowly, forcing herself to think through the storm inside her. If they had David, that meant— A second scout stepped forward, tension written all over his face. We know how they found him. Naomi turned her gaze to him. How The scout hesitated, then exhaled. It was Curtis. A cold wave passed through Naomi, but she didn’t flinch. She had already suspected—she had always suspected. Curtis, Nathan muttered under his breath, jaw tightening. It was him, wasn’t it The second scout nodded. Yeah. Curtis has been sniffing around for weeks, asking about movements, pressing for details on supply lines. He’s been careful, but not careful enough. We tracked one of his men heading straight into Cronus’s sector right before they took David. This wasn’t an accident. Curtis set him up. A slow exhale left Naomi’s lips, but her eyes burned with anger. Curtis had always been a politician first, a survivor second, and a leader only when it suited him. But now, he had made a move he couldn’t take back. He had handed over one of their own. He had aligned himself, fully, with the enemy. Nathan’s voice was steady but sharp. What do you want to do Naomi closed her eyes for a brief second, then looked up. We deal with David first. Curtis isn’t going anywhere. Not yet. She turned to Nathan, her voice low but firm. We need to move Mariel out. If Cronus is taking it this far, he’s not going to stop. He wants control, and that means breaking anyone tied to us. Nathan nodded, already calculating. We need a route, and contacts along the way. We cant go straight in, or we’ll walk into a trap. Before Nathan could respond, the door opened, and a trusted associate of King’s stepped inside, his expression tense but composed. His gaze shifted between Naomi and Nathan, measuring their readiness before he spoke. I have a message for you, he said, his voice low and urgent. Redfield and Langston want to meet with you. Theyve been looking for you for some time, quietly gathering information. They believe they can help, but more than that, they believe you can help them. Naomi narrowed her eyes, her posture straightening. Redfield and Langston. Their names had drifted through movement circles, always shrouded in uncertainty. Some whispered that they were allies, willing to take real risks against Cronus. Others claimed they were just another breed of politicians—watching from the shadows, waiting for the right moment to seize control. Naomi had learned long ago that powerhungry men disguised their ambitions well. And now, they were reaching for her. She let a measured silence hang in the air, studying the messenger’s face for any flicker of deception. He was tense but resolute, a man caught between duty and caution. Naomi leaned forward slightly, lowering her voice to something razorsharp. And what do they want from me The man hesitated, just for a second. Not enough for an average person to catch, but Naomi saw it. He wasnt entirely sure. The man took a step closer, lowering his voice. They aren’t fools, Naomi. They know the stakes, and they know you’re the one making the system buckle. But don’t mistake their interest for loyalty. They’ve played the political game for years, maneuvering where power shifts. You’re the power now, and they see it. They want to be on the right side of history—or at least, the side that survives. His gaze flickered toward Nathan before returning to Naomi. I’ve heard them speak in private circles. They respect what you’ve built, but they don’t fully understand it. They think this is just about breaking the system. They don’t realize you’re rebuilding something entirely new. That’s what makes them dangerous. They want to be close, but whether it’s to support or to control—that’s what you need to find out. He stepped back. Whatever you decide, they’ll be watching. And so will Cronus. Nathan exhaled, folding his arms, his gaze locked on Naomi. That means they’ve been keeping tabs on us, too. And not just watching—they’ve been gathering information, making their own calculations. The question is, do we let them get any closer Or do we make them prove they’re not just another set of politicians trying to control the narrative He shifted his weight, tension tightening his jaw. I don’t like that we don’t know their endgame. They could be genuine, or they could be looking to leverage your power for their own gain. Either way, we can’t afford to be blindsided. He glanced toward the door, then back at Naomi. We don’t just meet them, Naomi—we test them. We see how far they’re willing to go before we decide if they’re worth our time. After a long moment of consideration, Naomi and Nathan agreed to the meeting—but it had to be on their terms. There would be no blind trust and no unnecessary risks. The meeting would be conducted under strict security, with multiple checkpoints and layers of protection. They would not be given Naomi’s exact location instead, they would be directed to a neutral site, heavily guarded, where Naomi could assess them without exposing herself. This was too critical a decision to take lightly, and she wasn’t about to let her enemies—or potential allies—dictate the terms. It took a couple of days to find out they were holding David. She had reached out to the Nation of Islam, leveraging the connections she had cultivated over time. They had always been a force of discipline and strategy, and they didn’t hesitate to help. It was through them that she learned where David was being held—a secure police facility, a temporary holding center used for highvalue targets before they were moved to undisclosed locations. If Cronus had his way, David wouldn’t stay there long—Naomi had to act fast. The Nation didn’t just provide the information they provided the men. Two disciplined, unwavering members disguised as officers, their movements crisp. They understood the gravity of the mission and executed it with military precision. Her team moved with precision. Disguised as officers, two of her men arrived at the station with forged transfer papers, their uniforms crisp, their demeanor practiced. The front desk officer barely looked up as they approached. Transfer order for David Greene, one of Naomi’s men said, handing over the paperwork. The officer glanced at the file, then at them. Didn’t hear about a transfer. Who authorized this The second man, playing his role perfectly, sighed impatiently. Captain Reynolds. You need to call it in Go ahead. Just make it quick. We’ve got another pickup in twenty minutes. The officer hesitated. He didn’t want to slow things down if this was legitimate. With a nod, he motioned for another officer to retrieve David from the holding cell. Minutes later, David appeared, his hands cuffed, his face bruised but defiant. He had survived worse. A Korean War veteran, he had faced horrors on the battlefield only to return home to another war—one waged in his mind. PTSD had driven him to addiction, but he had clawed his way back. Cronus thought that made him weak. Thought he would cave easily. But Cronus was wrong. They had tried everything. Tempted him with drugs, whispered false promises of relief. When that failed, they resorted to fists, but nothing worked. David endured it all with the hardened resilience of a man who had already fought and won his most brutal battle—himself. Now, standing before these two officers, he knew this was another test. He just didn’t know if it was one he could trust. His eyes flickered with suspicion as he saw the two officers waiting for him. Where are you taking me he asked cautiously. Relocation for security purposes, one of Naomi’s men responded, his voice clipped, professional. Let’s go. David hesitated, but when one of the guards nudged him forward, he moved. It wasn’t until they were outside, past the first checkpoint, that the man on his left leaned in and whispered, Stay quiet. We’re getting you out. Naomi sent us. His heart pounded as he processed the words. Naomi sent them. Not Cronus. Not another trick. He swallowed hard, forcing his body to move, but his mind raced. They weren’t real cops—they were his way out, and for the first time in days, he allowed himself to believe escape was possible. By the time the real officers inside realized the transfer was a hoax, the vehicle carrying David was already gone, disappearing into the night, heading straight for Naomi. The realization hit the station like a bomb. What do you mean hes gone the sergeant bellowed, his face turning red as he snatched the transfer paperwork from the desk officer’s trembling hands. The officers had clearance, the man stammered. The papers checked out, and— They weren’t our damn officers the sergeant roared, slamming a fist against the desk. Silence rippled through the station as heads turned. Someone was getting fired for this. Meanwhile, across the city, Cronus listened in silence as his informant breathlessly delivered the news. His jaw tightened, fingers flexing as he absorbed the failure. You’re telling me, he said slowly, voice dangerously calm, that my men were standing there while Naomi’s people waltzed in and took my prisoner And no one thought to question it Sir, the uniforms, the paperwork— Cronus exhaled through his nose, shaking his head. You incompetent fools. His grip tightened around the glass in his hand until it cracked. Naomi had humiliated him. Again. The meeting was set, for a week later. Naomi and Nathan sat in a dimly lit room, positioned directly across from the door. Two of their most trusted guards flanked the room, standing silent but alert. The air was thick with tension, the weight of what was to come pressing down on them like an unseen force. The door creaked open. Redfield and Langston stepped inside, their presence immediately commanding attention. Redfield, a broadshouldered man in his late fifties, carried himself with the quiet authority of someone who had spent years in the trenches of political warfare. His deepset eyes, lined with fatigue and experience, moved sharply across the room, missing nothing. Langston, slightly younger but no less hardened, was leaner, his features sharp. His suit was crisp, but there was an air of weariness about him as if the weight of the moment—and the choices ahead—were pressing heavily on his shoulders. They paused just past the threshold, taking in their surroundings, their eyes scanning the room for any signs of deception or danger. Redfield’s fingers twitched slightly, a subtle tell that Nathan caught immediately. Langston, more composed, exhaled through his nose and adjusted his cuffs, a calculated movement to steady himself before stepping further inside. Neither of them spoke first—they were waiting, just as Naomi was. The balance of power in the room had yet to be decided. Naomi remained still, waiting for them to speak first. She had spent years watching men like them navigate power, using words to manipulate, to shape perception. But this was her arena now. This time, she would set the terms. Redfield and Langston took in the sight before them. Naomi sat poised, exuding the quiet control of a woman who had not only survived but thrived in the chaos that had consumed the nation. She wore simple, practical clothing, yet there was an undeniable presence about her—something regal, something commanding. What struck them most, however, was her beauty—unexpected, understated, yet impossible to ignore. It wasn’t just in her features but in the way she carried herself, in the confidence that radiated from her like an unshakable force. Her eyes, sharp and dissecting, studied them before they could even open their mouths. She wasn’t just waiting—she was assessing, calculating, and deciding whether they were worth her time. Nathan, beside her, was a solid presence—steady, calculating. His broad shoulders, his upright posture, and the careful stillness of his movements marked him as a man accustomed to battle, whether on the streets or in strategy. His arms rested on the table, but his muscles were tense, ready for whatever came next. He wasn’t just Naomi’s second he was a force in his own right. Together, they projected something that unsettled both men. Langston, who had spent years in political circles, had seen powerful figures before, but this was different. There was no pretense with Naomi. No carefully rehearsed lines or empty promises. She sat before them like a commander before the war—unmoved, unconcerned with how they might perceive her. And for the first time, he felt like he wasn’t the one in control. Redfield took a slow breath, masking the discomfort tightening in his chest. He had expected a strategist, someone pragmatic enough to listen to reason. But looking at her now, he realized Naomi wasn’t just planning for survival. She was planning to win. Nathan shifted slightly, his presence a steady force beside her. He, too, understood the game being played. The only question now was whether Redfield and Langston had come to negotiate—or to take control. Redfield leaned forward first, his voice measured but laced with the weight of experience. You’ve caused quite a storm, Naomi. The kind of storm that makes men like Cronus desperate. And desperate men are dangerous. Naomi didn’t blink. So are cornered ones. Langston chuckled softly, shaking his head. She’s got fire, I’ll give her that. But fire alone doesn’t win wars. It burns out fast if it isn’t controlled. Nathan smirked, his voice low and unwavering. And men like you think you’re the ones who can control it Redfield held Nathan’s gaze for a moment before exhaling. We didn’t come here to patronize you. We came here because we recognize what’s happening. You’re shifting the balance of power. The government, the corporations, even the military—none of them expected you to get this far. And now They don’t know how to stop it. Naomi studied him, reading between the lines. And what about you Do you know how to stop it Langston leaned back, thoughtful. We don’t want to stop it. But we do want to understand what the endgame is. You’ve built something powerful, Naomi. But power without direction That just leaves chaos. Naomi crossed one leg over the other, her eyes narrowing slightly. You came here because you’re trying to figure out if I’m someone you can work with—or someone you need to eliminate. Redfield’s expression darkened for a fraction of a second before smoothing out again. Let’s just say we need to know what you’re really after. Because whether you like it or not, you’re not just leading a movement anymore. You’re steering the future. And if we’re going to stand beside you, we need to know where this is going. Naomi tilted her head slightly, considering his words. Then I guess we’d better find out if you’re worth our time. Sit, Naomi said, her voice measured but firm. She fixes Redfield with a steady gaze, her voice measured and unwavering. Tell me, how close is Cronus to finding my family There is no urgency in her tone, no trace of fear—only the cool precision of a woman who understands the stakes and refuses to flinch. Redfield exhales, his gaze steady but troubled. Cronus is getting closer than you’d like, he admits. He has informants embedded in places you wouldn’t expect, and he’s leveraging every resource to track you down. Right now, he’s focusing on cutting off your network—isolating your key people, making them vulnerable. If you don’t move quickly, he will find them. It’s not a question of if, but when. She maintains a neutral expression. With a calculated pause, she smoothly shifts the conversation. Im a busy woman, she states coolly, and I don’t have time for small talk. What do you want They outline the nations escalating crisis, emphasizing the dire need for stability. Cronus, they warn, is a ruthless force who, if not stopped, will solidify his grip on power, making resistance nearly impossible. With the President granting him unchecked authority, he has free rein to suppress opposition and enforce his rule. The consequences, they stress, will be devastating—especially for the poor, who will bear the brunt of the fallout if action isn’t taken immediately. She responds with unwavering resolve. This country is already broken. Poor people have been suffering for generations, she states. Cronus is a psychopath, and yes, he must be stopped—but this isn’t just about him. If we don’t dismantle the system that allows men like him to rise, another will take his place. The real fight isn’t just against Cronus—it’s against the machinery that creates him. This is the moment she turns to Redfield and Langston, fixing them with a steady gaze. Why do you think I’m in this fight she asks, her voice measured but firm, pressing them to reveal their true understanding of her cause. Langston answers, Because youre exhausted from struggling in a system that offers low wages and no opportunities for growth. You want stability, security, and the chance to build a life on your own terms. He continues, Black people deserve equal treatment in the workforce—fair pay, dignity, and the ability to thrive without discrimination. Nathan and Naomi share a knowing laugh, the sound edged with irony. Naomi leans forward slightly, her gaze steady, her voice rich with conviction. There will always be the poor and the sick, the learned and the ignorant. But the true crime is greed—the relentless manipulation of economic power to strip people of their right to determine where they stand. A system that decides for them, that cages them in without an escape, that is the real enemy. Opportunity is a mirage for most, a privilege hoarded by a select few. And what fuels this monopoly Money. Strip them of their wealth, and you strip them of their control. Then tell me—what will they have left Naomi lets their words settle before she speaks, her voice unwavering. Now they must start over, just as we have—perhaps that is the only way forward. This is evolution, the inevitable transformation toward something greater. We need a system that uplifts rather than oppresses, one that doesn’t thrive on the exploitation of power. Nothing is permanent—power, wealth, control—all of it can be taken. Have you not heard The Lord giveth, and the Lord taketh away. And now, it is time to take it back. Redfield studies her intently before speaking. Do you realize the global consequences of dismantling the country he asks, his voice weighted with caution. Nathan and Naomi nods in unison. She laughs. If this keeps up, it will happen in time anyway. We are hurrying it along, and we are more than willing to stand for this because it is the only way we can survive. We, the people, will survive. She’s ready to bring this to a close—they never stay in one place too long. Fixing them with a steady gaze, she asks one final time, So, what is it that you want Redfield leans forward, his voice firm. We want Cronus gone. His power is unchecked, and if we dont act now, there wont be anything left to fight for. Langston nods. This isn’t just about us. It’s about the Constitution, about making sure the people aren’t just pieces in some tyrant’s game. We must restore balance, to stand against oppression. Redfield meets Naomi’s gaze. We believe in this fight. We believe in you. But we need to know—are you willing to stand with us Nathan’s voice cuts through the air. Your words sound good, but we don’t make decisions based on words alone. We need to know that you’re all in, that you’re not playing both sides. Redfield asks, How can we show you that we can be trusted Naomis meets their gazes, her tone sharpening. Get my family to a safe place with everything they need. No halfmeasures. Move Alma and Mason before Cronus’ people make the connection—I want them all together so they can watch after each other. Take care of my community—get them protection, food, and resources. And bring Mariel to me. Redfield holds Naomi’s gaze for a long moment before nodding. Alright. We’ll make it happen. We’ll get your family to safety, move Alma and Mason, and bring Mariel to you. As for your community, we’ll get them what they need—protection, food, and resources. It won’t be easy, but if we’re in this together, then we’ll prove it.   Chapter 19 Molten Resolve   Two weeks later, they had another scheduled meeting to discuss the status of their efforts. Naomi and Nathan sat at the same table, anticipation heavy in the air. The door creaked open, and the tension in the room shifted. Mariel stepped through first, her eyes searching—then locking onto Naomi’s. The moment stretched, thick with something unspoken. Mariel didn’t hesitate. She crossed the room in a few strides, throwing her arms around Naomi before she could even rise. Naomi stiffened for half a second—years of discipline, of survival instincts kicking in—but then Mariel whispered her name, and something inside her fractured. She felt it in the way her fingers clenched the fabric of Mariel’s jacket, the way her breath hitched just once before she forced it steady. She had trained herself to be untouchable. But this wasn’t just anyone. This was Mariel. For a fraction of a moment, Naomi allowed herself to close her eyes, to take in the warmth, the quiet reassurance of an embrace she hadn’t realized she needed. Then, just as quickly, she pulled back—not roughly, but deliberately. When she met Mariel’s gaze again, she was Naomi the strategist, the leader, the unbreakable force once more. She turned, eyes flicking to Redfield. He nodded—an almost imperceptible acknowledgment. He had seen it. A glimpse of the woman beneath the warrior. And now, she knew she could never let him see it again. Where are we with Curtis she asked, her tone clipped. Redfield exhaled, his jaw tightening. He’s in the location. Two of my guys are with him. Redfield kept his expression neutral, but inside, a quiet unease settled over him. He shifted uncomfortably. why do you..., her expression stopped him in midsentence. Naomi simply held his gaze, long enough that he understood the conversation was over. Redfield adjusted his coat. I brought someone to meet you. Trust me. He wants to help us strengthen your forces. Naomi barely reacted. She didn’t like surprises, and Redfield knew it. Still, she nodded, allowing the moment to unfold. Nathan’s posture tensed beside her, both he and Naomi immediately skeptical. Their eyes darted toward the door as it opened once more. A tall man stepped in, his presence commanding without effort. He wore a military uniform, the insignia on his chest marking him as a highranking Black officer. He exuded a quiet confidence, the kind that only came with years of experience in war rooms and battlefields. He extended a hand toward Naomi. Naomi smirked slightly, crossing her arms, though the gesture was more calculated than casual. She could feel the weight of the moment pressing on her, the significance of who this man was and what he represented. But she refused to show hesitation. Her face remained steady, but deep inside, she was already assessing—was this truly an ally, or just another player in a game she refused to lose I didn’t even know they let Black men become generals in this country. I guess we’ve made some headway in the sixties. A small chuckle passed through the room, easing the tension just a fraction. She leaned forward, locking eyes with him. Well, General Kirkpatrick, we have one real hardfast rule here—Nathan and I We’re the highestranking generals in this force. Is that a problem General Kirkpatrick let a slow smile stretch across his face before shaking his head. His sharp eyes flickered between Naomi and Nathan, taking in their posture, their unwavering presence. He had assessed countless leaders before—some full of bluster, others dangerously competent. These two They were the latter. He squared his shoulders slightly, his movements deliberate, projecting the confidence of a man who had seen war from both the battlefield and the war room. Not at all, he finally said, his voice steady, carrying the weight of experience. He extended his hand toward Naomi. She hesitated only for a moment before grasping it firmly. In that handshake, the Forces of Nike were born—a force destined to be etched in history, not just as warriors, but as liberators, defenders of justice, and the embodiment of unyielding resistance. Curtis paced the small, dimly lit room, his mind racing. The door opened, and Naomi slowly walked in. He was shocked. He had been confident—certain, even—that he was about to meet with Cronus, expecting praise for the good job he had done in locating David. But instead, the door had opened, and there she was. There was silence for a moment. Naomi’s presence was cold, her demeanor suppressing any trace of gender roles. She wasn’t a woman at this moment—she was only a general in armor. Nathan stepped inside behind her, turning to close the door with a deliberate finality. Mariel glared at Curtis as she slowly walked to the adjacent wall, her movements controlled, simmering with contempt. Curtis was surrounded. Naomi took a step closer to him, her gaze like ice. When she spoke, her voice was slow, deliberate. Do you know what the problem is with men like you, Curtis He was too frightened to answer. His body trembled, but no words came. She reached out, gripping his face, forcing him to look at her. In that moment, she saw them all—the Black people throughout history who had helped the oppressors, the ones who had turned on their own for power, for safety, for greed. She saw the replicated image of the master’s lynchmen, stretching across time, haunting the past and infecting the present. Something burned deep inside her, an anger older than herself. Her grip tightened. Men like you, she said, her voice measured, seething, have caused almost as much damage to the Black community as the slave masters you crawl behind. Curtis stumbled over his words, searching for something—anything—that might save him. Naomi, listen—whatever you think I did, it wasn’t like that. I didn’t have a choice You think I wanted this You think I wanted to be in the middle of all this I was trying to survive, just like everybody else His voice wavered, desperate, but no one in the room responded. They only stared, unblinking, as the silence pressed down on him like a weight he could not shake. Naomi slapped him so hard that his head snapped to the side, and blood trickled from the corner of his mouth. He gasped, stunned, his eyes wide with disbelief. Calm down, she said coldly, her voice steady, unwavering. I have you here for more important reasons than the thing you did with David. After all, David was a risk anyway—being a dope fiend and all. She took a step back, tilting her head as she studied him. A small, knowing smile played at the corner of her lips. I think you can help us, Curtis. She glanced at Nathan, who gave a subtle nod, validating her words. Mariel, taking her cue from Naomi, softened her expression slightly, offering Curtis a small, warm smile. The energy shift was subtle, but it was enough to make him hesitate, enough to make him wonder—just for a moment—if there was a way out of this that didn’t end in his destruction. He blinked, confusion flickering across his face, still reeling from the slap. You know Cronus never cared about you, she continued, her tone smooth but sharp. He used you. That’s all you ever were to him—a tool, something convenient until you weren’t. And now Now you’re nothing to him. Curtis swallowed hard, his breath shallow. Naomi leaned in slightly, her voice dropping to something almost mocking. Remember the time he called you ‘boy’ and told you to shut up Right in front of me I hated seeing him treat a black man like that. You see, I know you’re a man, Curtis. The question is—do you Because now’s the time to prove it. Curtis flinched. He remembered. Naomi nodded, watching the impact of her words settle over him. Listen, Alderman, I need you, she said, her tone shifting just enough to keep him off balance. You can help us because you’ve spent a lot of time with Cronus. Talk to me. I know he doesn’t let you in on everything, but a smart man like you has to have learned something that might be useful. Curtis hesitated, his lips parting slightly, but no words came. He was still trying to process what was happening, still unsure if this was a trap or an escape route. Naomi took a step back, keeping her gaze locked on him. You know I’ll protect you, she assured him. And I won’t keep you long. Cronus might start looking for you soon, and I wouldn’t want to mess up the confidence he has in you. Curtis shifted in his seat. He looked around the room and, feeling a little emboldened—thinking that being an alderman and having Cronus ear made him safe—he began to talk. And when he did, the floodgates opened. Lemme tell you somethin’ about Cronus, Curtis continued, dropping his voice like he was lettin’ her in on some real secrets. He got people everywhere—folks you wouldn’t even think. Cops, politicians, and even some socalled community leaders. He don’t trust nobody though, keeps ‘em all in check by makin’ ‘em scared of each other. That way, ain’t nobody ever comfortable enough to turn on him. He shook his head, licking his lips. And his real play He settin’ up somethin’ big. He tryna push through this emergency order, somethin’ that’ll let him start roundin’ people up legally—sayin’ it’s for ‘public safety’ and all that. Once he gets that, it’s over. He ain’t just tryna control the streets no more. He wants the whole damn system under his thumb. Curtis started rattling off names—judges, business owners, even a preacher who ran one of the biggest churches in the city. These folks They aint just workin’ with him they part of the machine, he said, his voice picking up. He gave up locations too—spots where Cronus held meetings, where money exchanged hands, places that weren’t supposed to exist on paper. Then, as if a realization hit him midsentence, Curtis let out a nervous laugh. But you wanna know what really eats him up He can’t stand losin’. Aint just about power for him—it’s about winnin’. He’d burn it all down before he let somebody take somethin’ from him. That’s his weakness—he’ll do anything, risk everything, just to make sure he don’t lose. Look, Naomi, Curtis started, leaning forward slightly, his voice eager. Man, I been waitin’ on somebody like you to come through. You don’t even know how much I can’t stand that man—Cronus walk around like he God or somethin’, treatin’ folks like dirt. But you You aint like that. You got heart. Bout time somebody put his ass in check. He forced a chuckle, testing the waters. I always knew you had it in you. He leaned back slightly, shifting his weight, eyes flicking to Nathan, but Nathan didn’t react. His arms were crossed, his expression carved from stone. Curtis’s confidence wavered just a little, but he pushed forward anyway. A woman like you You’re destined to lead. Mariel didn’t speak, but she tilted her head ever so slightly, watching him like a specimen under a microscope. Naomi caught the flicker of unease in Curtis’s eyes, the subtle shift of his shoulders as if his own words had started to weigh on him. He had talked too much, and now, he was realizing it. Naomi chuckled on the inside. How often had white people talked in front of the help, thinking they were too stupid or too scared to listen If justice were truly justice, and the help could testify against them, they would be under the jails. Satisfied, Naomi stood and turned to look at Nathan, then at Mariel. The meeting was over. She straightened, offering Curtis a nod of acknowledgment. I appreciate you helping us, she said, her tone measured. I see a future for you. She paused, then added, I think you should stay here for the night. We’ll drop you off somewhere in the morning. We cant be too careful, and trying to get you home tonight is too risky. Well get you some food, and then you can rest. We’ll try to get you out of here early. With that, Naomi, Nathan, and Mariel turned and left the room, leaving Curtis alone. For the rest of the night, Curtis felt relieved. Hed dodged a bullet. This could have gone really bad. But tomorrow, he’d be back in his world. He let out a slow breath, convincing himself he had played this right. Then, a thought crept in, unsettling. They wouldn’t blindfold him in the morning. He didn’t like that. He spent most of the night thinking about his options. And in the end, only one made sense. The next morning, Naomi—alone—knocked on the door to the area where Curtis was sleeping. He barely had time to sit up before the door swung open. The last thing he heard was, This is for the ones we couldn’t get to. He felt the blade pierce his heart. His body jerked, his breath hitching in shock as warmth spread across his chest. He gasped, eyes wide, searching Naomi’s face for something—mercy, regret, hesitation. There was none. She watched as he hit the ground, her expression unreadable. She wasn’t happy. She wasn’t sad. She simply understood—men like him were cancers they couldn’t afford. She turned as Nathan and Mariel approached. Nathan barely glanced at Curtis’s body before looking at Naomi and then the 2 guards. Get his ass out of here. And no one is to find him. Ever. While Curtis, was enjoying his reprieve the night before, Naomi and Mariel sat together in a dimly lit room, drafting a note to Cronus, making sure to include just a few details they had learned from Curtis—just enough to unsettle him. At the bottom of the note, Naomi signed it simply Secret Admirer.   Chapter 20 The Pyre of Resistance   In the months following Curtis’s death, Naomi moved swiftly, never staying in one place for too long. Her forces controlled key cities and states across the country, while Cronus maintained a stranglehold on others. The United States had become a battlefield divided—Naomi’s army secured strongholds in cities like Chicago, Detroit, Atlanta, and Houston, where resistance movements flourished and local governments aligned with her cause. Meanwhile, Cronus’s grip remained firm in Washington D.C. and key areas in the South, where his influence dictated every move of the crumbling federal government. She strengthened her networks, securing new alliances while tightening security around her core team. The information Curtis had given her proved valuable—Cronus’s emergency order was closer than she had anticipated, and his grip was tightening. Naomi knew his greatest weakness—his fear of losing—and she was exploiting it. Every move she made now had to be precise. The country was shifting, the war escalating, and she was ready. Meanwhile, Cronus was not idle. The disappearance of Curtis sent a ripple through his ranks, igniting a storm of retaliation. He launched an internal purge, eliminating anyone he suspected of disloyalty. Fear became his tool, and with it, he tightened his control, extending his surveillance, deploying more enforcers, and rewarding those who remained unquestionably loyal. But he wasn’t just reacting—he was planning. He needed to make a statement, a show of force that would remind everyone who held the real power. Then, it happened. One evening, without warning, an explosion ripped through a quiet Black neighborhood. A local grocery store, a cornerstone of the community, was reduced to rubble. Smoke choked the air, sirens screamed through the streets, and the terrified cries of survivors echoed through the night. No one claimed responsibility, but Naomi knew—this was Cronus. He wasn’t just tightening his grip. He was striking at the heart of the people she swore to protect, daring her to respond. So she did. When Cronus hit the poor communities, Naomi hit the rich ones. She dismantled their power where it hurt the most—through their wealth. Banks tied to Cronus’s network were infiltrated, and their assets were drained or frozen. Mansions that once symbolized untouchable privilege burned in the night. Black market suppliers catering to the wealthy were taken over and redirected to Naomi’s cause. The elite who had funded Cronus’s war found themselves under siege, their security compromised, their influence slipping away like sand through their fingers. She sent a message—no one would be spared the consequences of this war. If Cronus wanted to target the vulnerable, then she would make sure his strongest supporters felt the weight of their own destruction. The game had changed. And Naomi was ready to play. The fracture in power ran deeper than ever. The military was splintering—some units had defected, siding with Naomi, believing in her cause. Others remained loyal to Cronus, driven by fear, ambition, or blind allegiance. Some left in outright defiance, refusing to serve under either side, vanishing into the chaos. Commanders were turning on each other, soldiers questioning their orders, and entire battalions quietly shifting their allegiances. The government was no better. Chaos reigned in the highest offices, with officials caught in the crossfire. Some politicians and key leaders had openly declared support for Naomi, seeing her as the only path forward. Others clung to Cronus, desperate to maintain their grip on power, using propaganda and brute force to keep their control intact. There was no middle ground anymore. The country was at war with itself, and every day, the lines became clearer. Months stretched into years. The battlefield shifted, but the war never stopped. Upandcoming militants—fighters who, in another time, would have been part of the Black Panther movement—joined Naomi’s forces. They came with precision, discipline, and a blinding determination that turned them into one of her most formidable assets. They were not just soldiers they were revolutionaries, trained in urban warfare, countersurveillance, and strategic disruption. They moved with purpose, striking where it hurt Cronus the most, dismantling his networks piece by piece. Naomi’s army was not built overnight. Redfield, Langston, and General Kirkpatrick had been among the first to defect, bringing entire divisions of soldiers, commanders, and strategists with them. Their influence had drawn others—officers who had grown disillusioned, politicians who saw the cracks in Cronus’s empire, and civilians who believed in Naomi’s vision of a new future. With every passing day, the divide within the military deepened, and soon, it was no longer just defectors—it was an entire split in the nation’s armed forces. And the people felt it. No one was untouched by the war. Wealthy neighborhoods, once insulated from crisis, now saw their fortunes crumbling as the markets collapsed. Business owners—Black, white, rich, poor—faced impossible choices align with one side and risk retaliation from the other, or try to stay neutral and get swallowed whole. The working class suffered the worst, caught between the fighting, their communities ripped apart as supply lines fractured and violence became an everyday reality. Race, once a defining battle line, became muddled in the chaos. Some white families found themselves standing shoulder to shoulder with Black, Latino, and immigrant communities, drawn together by the shared struggle for survival. Others clung to Cronus’s rule, believing his iron grip was the only thing keeping the country from complete anarchy. For the poor, survival became a daily battle. Food and medicine were scarce, and the government’s rationing system was failing. Cities became battlegrounds, while rural areas turned into selfsustaining fortresses, with neighbors banding together for protection. The wealthy who had fled to gated compounds and private islands soon learned that money meant nothing if there was no functioning system left to uphold their power. Families were divided, and friendships shattered. Some saw Naomi as a liberator, the only one willing to tear down a corrupt system and rebuild something new. And then some saw her as a terrorist, an agent of destruction who had driven the country into ruin. The same could be said for Cronus—some feared him, but others still clung to his vision of absolute control, believing order was more important than freedom. The war wasn’t just on the battlefield—it was in the streets, in homes, in whispered conversations behind closed doors. And no one knew how it would end. But they all knew why it had started. The people had been pushed too far for too long. The wealth gap had become a canyon, with the rich hoarding resources while the poor fought over scraps. Black communities had endured systemic oppression for generations, their voices drowned out, their labor exploited, and their lives deemed disposable. Immigrants were scapegoated, workers were underpaid and overworked, and the nation’s institutions had long abandoned the very people they claimed to serve. This war was not just about Naomi versus Cronus. It was about a system built on exploitation, on control, on the powerful feeding off the powerless. Naomi’s movement was not just an uprising—it was a reckoning. A demand for something different. A refusal to be ruled by the same hands that had tightened the noose around them for centuries. And Cronus He represented everything they were fighting against—the iron grip of authority, the belief that power should be absolute, that order was worth more than justice. He wasn’t just trying to win a war he was trying to ensure that no one like Naomi, no one like her people, would ever rise again. That was why the country was burning. That was why people were choosing sides. Because for the first time in history, the question wasn’t just who would win—but whether the world they rebuilt afterward would be one worth living in. The economy was collapsing under the weight of the conflict. Supply chains had crumbled, industries had shuttered, and essential goods were becoming scarce. Major cities were in turmoil, with black markets replacing formal trade and desperate citizens scrambling for resources. The financial elite clung to whatever power they had left, but even they were beginning to realize that money meant little in a system on the verge of implosion. Inflation surged beyond control, banks were failing, and entire regions were left without reliable infrastructure. The damage had spiraled beyond what either Naomi or Cronus had anticipated. In response, the government declared a state of constitutional emergency, suspending key civil liberties under the guise of restoring order. Martial law was imposed in major cities, curfews were strictly enforced, and dissenters were rounded up without due process. The fractures ran even deeper—courts were no longer neutral ground. Judges were taking sides, some openly aligning with Naomi’s resistance, while others upheld Cronus’s rule with ruthless efficiency. Even the Supreme Court was caught in the crossfire, split between those seeking to uphold the law and those bending it to serve their own survival. The Constitution, once the backbone of the nation, had been reduced to a tool wielded by those desperate to cling to power. This wasn’t just about power anymore—it was survival. Naomi understood what that meant. The time for maneuvering was coming to an end. The real battle was about to begin. The country was at war with itself, and every day, the lines became clearer. He knew Naomi was gaining ground, and he needed to shift the game. He began a campaign of misinformation, using the media to paint her as a dangerous extremist. Anonymous tips and fabricated evidence surfaced, branding her movement as a terrorist organization. His influence spread through the airwaves and into the minds of the people, poisoning their perception before she could reach them. At the same time, he was preparing something more. His forces started moving, securing strategic locations, and pulling key players into closeddoor meetings. Naomi knew his greatest weakness—his fear of losing—and she could see the desperation in his actions. But desperation made men reckless, and that was something she could use. Every move she made now had to be precise. The country was shifting, the war escalating, and she was ready. Nathan and Harold’s leadership during this process was golden. Their strategic insight and ability to command troops kept Naomi’s forces disciplined and effective. Under Naomi’s insistence, women were trained to fight in battle—not just as support, but as warriors. They learned to handle weapons, engage in covert operations, and step into leadership roles. Mariel stood at the top of that structure, a force of her own, guiding and executing missions with precision. Alma and Mason served as her advisors, grooming her into a tactical mind that could think ahead of Cronus’s every move. The United States was no longer an outside force helping allies across the seas with their battles. This war was on their doorstep—inside their house. The relationships they had cultivated overseas crumbled as other oppressed nations took notice. The unrest spread beyond American borders, inspiring revolutions worldwide. Countries once thought to be stable began to fracture.   Naomi’s example of resistance. What had started as a civil war was now becoming a global reckoning. She strengthened her networks, securing new alliances while tightening security around her core team.   Chapter 21 A World in Flames  George, a mole in Naomis camp, delivers a chilling message to Harold—his wife and kids are in danger, and Cronus is coming for them. The words hit like a hammer, knocking reason from his mind. Without hesitation, Harold springs into action, his training momentarily drowned out by the primal instinct to protect his family. The mole assures him they’ve already been moved to another location for their safety. His voice drips with urgency, leaving no room for doubt, and no time to strategize. Harold doesn’t stop to verify, doesn’t take a breath to question. He just moves—because nothing else matters. Harold’s stomach dropped, a cold wave of dread washing over him. His breath caught in his throat as his mind raced, grasping for an explanation. What How the hell did that happen he demanded, his voice tight with urgency. His pulse pounded in his ears, and for the first time in a long while, he felt a flicker of fear gnawing at the edges of his control. Harold knew better than to move without backup. He had learned that lesson the hard way years ago during a covert mission overseas—hesitation had saved his squad from an ambush. But this wasn’t a battlefield, and these weren’t soldiers. This was his family. His past instincts clawed at him, warning him to slow down, to think, but desperation drowned out reason. His military instincts screamed at him to doublecheck, to verify. Every operation he had ever run told him this was reckless, but this wasn’t just any mission—this was his family. Logic took a backseat to desperation. He couldnt afford to hesitate. Without notifying Naomi or Nathan, without a second thought, he grabbed his weapons and followed George into the night, his pulse hammering with urgency. Harold and George drove through the dead of night, the hum of the engine the only sound breaking the silence. The tension between them was thick, unspoken. As they neared the location, Harold cut the headlights and pulled off the road, scanning the darkened structure ahead. He drew his gun, his instincts prickling with unease. The mole mirrored his movements, pretending to be just as cautious. They crept forward, surveying the building. The place was eerily quiet, no movement in the windows, no sign of life. Harolds trained eye caught a weak spot in the perimeter—a section of the fence sagging, a blind spot in the structure’s defenses. That’s our way in, Harold muttered, signaling toward it. The mole nodded. I’ll circle around to the other side, he whispered. If we time it right, we can catch the guards in a crossfire. Harold gave a curt nod, suppressing the nagging feeling clawing at the back of his mind. Something wasn’t right—but there was no time for doubt. Once inside the building, Harold moved cautiously, his steps silent, his grip firm on his gun. Every shadow felt like a threat, every breath a warning. He crept forward, scanning the dimly lit corridors for any sign of his family. His heart pounded as he turned a corner and stepped into a large open space. Cronus sat at the center of the room, lounging in a chair as if he had been waiting for Harold to arrive. Surrounding him was an army of men, their guns resting easily in their hands, fingers itching to move. Among them, standing with a smug confidence, was George. Cronus gestured lazily toward him, reclining slightly in his chair, one hand draped casually over the armrest, the other holding a glass of whiskey. Come on in, Harold. We’ve been expecting you. Harold’s gun remained raised, his voice sharp. Where is my family Cronus chuckled, shaking his head. Straight to business, huh Harold took a step closer, his jaw tight. I’m not here to play games. Where are they George smirked, arms crossed. Damn, man. You still don’t get it They’re fine. Safe. They were never in danger. Harold’s stomach clenched, realization dawning on him. You lied. George shrugged, his smirk widening. You and that Black ass of yours caused all this mess. Things were better before you and Naomi started thinking you could go up against these people. You really thought you could win Thought any of this was gonna end different Harold’s jaw tightened, his grip on the gun unrelenting. His trigger finger twitched slightly, a bead of sweat forming at his temple. His breath slowed, and controlled, but the fire in his chest burned hotter. Every fiber of his being screamed to act, but he forced himself to stay still—for now. Harold’s fingers twitched against the trigger, his breath steady but slow. He locked eyes with George, and for a brief second, the room fell silent. He knew one thing—this wasnt going to end well. But if he was going down, he was taking someone with him. As much as he wanted to put a bullet between George’s eyes, Cronus was the real target. He had to be the one. Cronus leaned forward slightly, tilting his head. Now, Harold. Put the gun down before we have blood on the floor. George smirked, his chest puffed with pride, his arms crossed as he soaked in the moment. He glanced at Harold with a mocking tilt of his head. You and that Black ass of yours caused all these problems, he sneered. Things were better before you and Naomi started thinking you could take on these people. You had a good life, Harold. You had a place. But no—you had to stir shit up. And now look where you are. He let out a short chuckle, shaking his head. You don’t even get it, do you These people are the reason we have anything at all. You don’t fight them. You serve them. That’s how we survive. But y’all had to make it messy. Harold’s hands clenched into fists, his entire body rigid with fury. His mind raced, calculating the angles, the exits, and the number of men in the room. His military instincts kicked in, assessing who to take down first, and how to create a diversion. But even as he planned, another part of him, raw and primal, urged him to act on instinct, to strike first and think later. His breath was steady, but inside, his blood boiled. He knew one thing—this wasnt going to end well. If this was his last stand, he refused to go alone. He had to take someone with him. As much as he wanted it to be George, that smug, traitorous bastard, Cronus was the real prize. If Harold was going down, he was making sure Cronus went with him. Now, why don’t you put that gun down before this gets messy Harold didn’t move. His grip tightened on the gun, his knuckles white, his breathing steady. His mind raced—not with fear, but with the certainty that this was it. There was no walking away. But if he was going down, he’d make damn sure he took someone with him. I’m not putting down shit, he growled, his eyes locked on Cronus. If this is how it ends, I’ll make damn sure you go with me. Cronus smirked, leaning back in his chair, one hand idly drumming against the armrest while the other toyed with a halfempty glass of whiskey as if he had all the time in the world. If thats what you want, he said casually. I got George. He can tell me and show me where your bitch sister is and the rest of them. Cronus stood slowly, his eyes locked on Harold, gauging his next move. Harold’s hand twitched, his gun raising slightly, his breathing measured but ready. The tension in the room coiled tighter. In one swift motion, George saw it—saw what Harold was about to do. His instincts kicked in, and he lunged forward just as Harold pulled the trigger. A gunshot cracked through the room, and George’s body jerked violently as the bullet tore into his heart. His eyes went wide in shock before his knees buckled, and he collapsed onto the floor, gasping his last breath. Harold sensed it before it happened—the shift in the air, the quiet scrape of a boot against the floor. His body tensed, but before he could react, a grizzled redneck—thick with muscle, a sunscorched face, a Confederate flag patch on his vest—stepped up behind him. Cold steel pressed against the back of his head, sending a sharp spike of dread through his spine. The trigger clicked. Harolds body stiffened, then went limp, crashing onto the floor next to George. Cronuss nostrils flared, his jaw tightening as he stared at George’s lifeless body. A slow, burning frustration coiled in his chest. He had counted on George to be useful a little longer—to squeeze out every last drop of intelligence before discarding him. Now, that possibility was gone, and the setback gnawed at him. He wasnt concerned about the man himself—George was a pawn, disposable. But the information he carried That was irreplaceable. Now, everything that George knew had died with him. Cronus exhaled sharply, his fingers flexing at his sides. His hands clenched into fists, the veins on his knuckles standing out as he resisted the urge to lash out. Instead, he forced himself to stillness, his mind already recalculating the next move. Killing Harold was always part of the plan. He had no use for him. But he had wanted George alive long enough to pry just a little more from him—to get closer to Naomi, who never stayed in one place for long. Now, that opportunity was gone. Cronus’s face darkened, his frustration barely contained. He turned to his men, his voice cold and sharp. Take that trash back across state lines. Dump it near the garbage where it belongs. Make sure they find it in the morning—make it messy. I want them to see exactly what happens when they cross me. Make sure they’re found. The men nodded, dragging Harold’s lifeless body without care, his blood leaving a trail across the floor. Cronus wanted it to send a message—a clear warning. Naomi would know that he could reach anyone, anywhere. And the next time, it would be her. David found Naomi just before dawn, his expression grim. Reliable sources found Harold, he said. Hes dead. Naomi froze, her breath catching for a moment as a flood of emotions crashed over her—shock, grief, rage. But she couldnt afford to break now. She quickly composed herself, shoving the turmoil deep inside. Mariel, standing beside her, was just as stunned. It was the one thing Naomi had tried so hard to prevent—her family becoming casualties of this war. She had done everything she could to protect them. And now, Harold was gone. She forced herself to move. All eyes were on her. Get my brotherinlaw and take him to the funeral home I trust, she ordered, her voice steady. Dessa, the kids—move them. Alma and Mason too. I want them all relocated immediately. She wanted them under her watchful eye, where she could make sure nothing happened to them. But that was too risky. The weight of responsibility pressed heavily on her chest—was she doing the right thing, or was she simply delaying the inevitable She had to keep them safe, even from a distance. Still, something nagged at her. Harold wouldnt have left alone, she muttered, more to herself than anyone else. He knew better. And why werent Dessa and the kids hurt The questions swirled in her mind, but there was no time for hesitation. She turned back to David. What did they do to him David swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he tried to steady his voice. One shot. Executionstyle. Back of the head. His hands clenched into fists, his gaze dropping for a brief moment as if he could hardly bear to say the words out loud. Naomi exhaled slowly, though a flicker of pain flashed in her eyes before she buried it. Her fingers curled slightly at her sides, the tension in her body betraying the storm raging beneath her composed exterior. Cronus got to him. But how Her sharp gaze fixed on David. You said there was another body. Who was it A new guy, David said. I think his name was George. Naomi’s head swam. Harold had been tricked. He had paid for it with his life. But not once did she consider that he had given up any information. Harold would have laid on a sword before betraying them. He was a war hero. Her resolve hardened. She would answer Cronus for this—but she had to remain strategic. Letting her emotions take control was not an option. She needed to analyze his weaknesses, exploit his overconfidence, and strike when he least expected it. A direct confrontation would be reckless, but a carefully orchestrated takedown—one that left him vulnerable and isolated—was the only path to victory. In the dead of night, Dessa, the kids, Alma, and Mason were moved. The relocation was swift and silent, carried out with military precision. The hushed whispers of orders being exchanged, the hurried yet careful footsteps on gravel, and the distant hum of an idling engine filled the night air, heightening the tension of the moment. Dessa had a lot of questions about Harold’s whereabouts, her worry barely concealed. But Naomi had already given strict instructions—she would be the one to tell her sister. No one else. The next day, Naomi, Nathan, and Mariel were meeting with the generals to discuss their progress on taking over Cronus’s strongholds. Before the meeting, Naomi made time for what she had been dreading—visiting Dessa. The house was quiet when Naomi arrived, but the weight of grief and uncertainty pressed against the walls like an unspoken force. The distant ticking of a clock punctuated the silence, a relentless reminder of time slipping away. Inside, Dessa sat in the living room, her hands clasped tightly together, her eyes redrimmed from exhaustion and fear. She looked up the moment Naomi entered, and the silence between them was suffocating. Naomi stepped forward, but before she could speak, Dessa stood abruptly, her voice sharp, raw. Where is he, Naomi Where is my husband Naomi held her sister’s gaze. Her pain flickered beneath the surface. Her breath hitched for just a second, a brief hesitation before she pushed it down, locking away the turmoil threatening to rise. Sit down, Dessa, she said softly. No Don’t do that Don’t tell me to sit down like I’m a child Tell me where Harold is Dessa’s voice cracked, and she clutched her arms as if holding herself together. Naomi exhaled slowly. Dessa… he’s gone. Dessa stumbled back slightly as if Naomi had struck her. She grasped the edge of the couch for support, her fingers trembling as her knees threatened to buckle beneath her. The room felt impossibly small, closing in on her. No, no, no, she whispered, shaking her head violently. You’re lying. He wouldnt leave us. He wouldnt— Naomi stepped forward and took her sister’s trembling hands, a wave of guilt washing over her. She had fought so hard and sacrificed so much, yet the cost always seemed to fall on the ones she loved. He didn’t leave you, Dessa. He was tricked. He thought you were in danger, and he went after you. That’s the kind of man he was. He died protecting his family. Tears welled in Dessa’s eyes before they spilled down her cheeks. Who she croaked. Who did this Naomi’s jaw tightened. Cronus. Dessa pulled away, pacing the room in a fury of anguish. Her fists clenched at her sides, her breath coming in ragged gasps as she fought against the overwhelming grief threatening to consume her. Then kill him, Naomi Make him suffer You have all this power, all these people. Kill him She turned back to Naomi, her face twisted in grief and fury. Promise me. Naomi met her sister’s gaze, her own eyes dark with resolve. A storm raged within her—grief, anger, duty—all colliding in a relentless battle. She wanted to comfort Dessa, to promise her justice, but she knew this war demanded more than empty vows. I don’t make promises I can’t keep. But I will end this war. I will make sure no more of us die because of him. Dessa let out a shaky breath, collapsing onto the couch, her body wracked with silent sobs. Naomi knelt beside her, pressing her forehead to Dessa’s. I’ll take care of you and the kids. You’re safe now. Harold made sure of that. For a long moment, neither of them spoke. The weight of loss hung heavy between them, but so did the fire of vengeance. Naomi stood, her shoulders squared. Rest, Dessa. I have work to do. Mariel had waited outside the house, giving the sisters space. When Naomi stepped out, Naomi turned to her. Stay with her. Take care of her and the kids, Naomi said, her voice steady, though edged with something dangerous. I need to move. Mariel searched her face, wanting to say something, but she simply nodded. Naomi was stunned, but she was in no way stopped. The war wasnt over. It had only just begun.   Chapter 22 Phoenix’s Reckoning   The room was dimly lit, the weight of the mission pressing down on everyone seated around the table. Senators Langston and Redfield, who had long since severed ties with the White House, had been the ones to bring the intelligence. Their sources within Cronus’s circle had uncovered the planned money transfer, and now they were here to ensure Naomi’s team had the best chance to intercept it. Naomi, Nathan, Mariel, General Kilpatrick, and the senators—Langston and Redfield—leaned over the map, tracing routes, and identifying weak points. Langston pointed to a marked route on the map. This isn’t just a shipment—this money funds Cronus’s entire network. His bribes, his mercenaries, his power. But it’s more than that. He’s been siphoning money from the government, stashing it away so he can flee the country and still be rich if he loses this war. If we take this, we don’t just weaken him—we cut off his escape. We take away his safety net, and that makes him desperate. Desperate men make mistakes. Redfield interjected, his voice measured but firm. And when he makes a mistake, we will be ready to exploit it. This mission isn’t just about the money—it’s about forcing Cronus into a corner. If we do this right, he won’t have anywhere left to run. But make no mistake, he will lash out. We need to anticipate his next moves, and that means being ready for retaliation. You take this money, then you don’t just hit his wallet—you ignite a fire that will burn through his whole operation. Nathan tapped the airstrip’s perimeter. The decoy team will keep their attention. They’ll stir up enough noise to keep Cronus’s men distracted. By the time they realize what’s happening, we’ll be inside. Naomi folded her arms, her gaze sweeping over the map. This isn’t just about causing a scene. They need to be ready for whatever comes. Cronus doesn’t let things go unanswered. If they get caught, they’ll need an exit strategy of their own. We make sure they have it. Redfield leaned back, arms crossed. We’re giving you everything we have, but once this starts, we can’t pull strings to save you. You’ll be on your own. General Kilpatrick nodded. We need clean escape routes. The moment we take that plane, we have to move fast. Cronus will retaliate. Our drivers need to be ready to move the second we secure the package. We’ll have vehicles stationed at three separate exits, ensuring we have multiple escape routes. David studied the plan. We hit hard, we hit fast, and we take what we came for. No drawnout fights. We get in, we get out. Nathan, are your men clear on the explosives Nathan nodded. Yes, the first detonation goes off at the hangar to create chaos. The second blast will be at the refueling station as a last resort if we need additional cover. The charges are placed with timed fuses to ensure precision. Mariel glanced at Naomi. And if something goes wrong Naomi met her gaze, resolve in her voice. Then we adapt. That money is more than just cash—it’s leverage. It’s a statement. We don’t leave without it. Kilpatrick added, I’ll have snipers positioned on the control tower. If things get too hot, we’ll give you cover, but this needs to be clean. No unnecessary casualties. As the group began to gather their gear, Naomi pulled Mariel aside. The two women stood in the dim light, their eyes locking in a moment of unspoken understanding. They had been running together since they were sixteen, fighting since they were six. We always find a way, don’t we Mariel said, a small smirk playing on her lips despite the tension in the air. Naomi exhaled, shaking her head with a smile. Yeah, we do. But this one feels different. We’re not just running—we’re taking something back. Mariel nodded. And we’re doing it together. No matter what happens, you know that, right Naomi reached out and gripped Mariel’s forearm. Always. You’re my sister, Mariel. We’ve come too far to let fear shake us now. Mariel returned the grip, her voice firm. Then let’s finish what we started. A flash of memory hit Naomi. She was six years old, fists clenched, facing down the white boys who had tormented her. They had pushed her, laughed at her, and told her she didn’t belong. But she hadn’t backed down. She had swung first, taken the hits, and gotten back up. She had learned something that day—if she wanted to survive, she had to fight, no matter how outnumbered she was. That fire never left her. It burned now, stronger than ever. The night air was thick with tension as Naomi stood at the edge of the abandoned airstrip, the distant hum of an incoming plane vibrating in her chest. The faint glow of the floodlights cast long shadows across the cracked pavement, and the scent of fuel lingered in the air. She glanced at Nathan, both of them poised and ready. The mission was clear—take the plane, secure the money, and make sure Cronus felt this loss deep in his bones. Across the airstrip, near the explosion site, David and Mariel remained in position. Their task had been executed flawlessly—the distraction set, sending Cronus’s men scrambling. Now, they had to fight their way back to regroup with Naomi and Nathan before the final push toward the plane. The decoy team was already moving into position, their presence meant to draw attention away from the real objective. A young white couple, dressed in designer clothes, stood near a private plane, loudly arguing over their flight. Their heated exchange drew the attention of Cronus’s security, causing them to shift. Huey’s men, disguised as the couple’s personal staff, hovered nearby, playing their roles. Meanwhile, the Panther operatives remained stationed as part of the main force, ready to step in if things escalated. It was working. General Kilpatrick and his team had mapped out every escape route. As the battle raged, he took command from the sidelines, issuing sharp, decisive orders. Spotting a group of Cronus’s men regrouping near the hangar, he signaled his snipers, and within moments, their advance was cut short. When one of Naomi’s wounded fighters faltered, Kilpatrick moved in, dragging him behind cover before returning fire with lethal accuracy. The plane couldnt leave. Neither could the money. Naomi leaned in close, her voice barely above a whisper. If something goes wrong, we burn it all before Cronus gets his hands on it. This money isnt just for us—its for the people. The ones hes stolen from, the communities hes kept in poverty. We take this, and we turn it into something that fights back. Kilpatrick gave a sharp nod, the final goahead. David and Mariel exchanged a quick glance before David pressed the detonator. Mariel inhaled sharply, steadying herself, her fingers twitching at her side. She gave a small nod, her jaw set in determination. They had come too far to hesitate now. For a split second, his fingers hesitated over the trigger, his pulse thrumming in his ears. This was it—the moment they set everything in motion. He exhaled sharply, shoving aside any doubt. No turning back now. A spark. A roar. The explosion ripped through the airstrip, a fireball consuming a nearby fuel truck. The impact sent guards scrambling, some ducking for cover, others running toward the chaos. Even in the midst of it all, David found himself stealing a glance at Mariel—noticing the way she stood steady, fearless. Naomi wasn’t the only strong woman on this mission. It was time. Naomi surged forward, gun drawn, her breath steady as she advanced. Determination burned in her chest, fueled by the weight of everything at stake. Anger simmered beneath the surface, controlled but present, pushing her forward. This wasn’t just about winning—it was about making Cronus pay. Nathan moved beside her, their steps perfectly in sync. As they closed in on their target, they locked eyes for a brief moment. Without saying a word, the love they shared was evident in their gaze. Nathan leaned in slightly, his voice low. Are you ready, Miss Fighter Naomi nodded, determination flashing in her eyes. Always. Just then, the explosion went off, shaking the ground beneath them and lighting up the night sky in a fiery glow. The decoys scrambled to their designated spots, their movements sharp and practiced as they reinforced the distraction, keeping Cronus’s men disoriented. Meanwhile, the rest of Naomi’s force moved quickly, planting detonators on the cars scattered across the area. If things went south, they wouldn’t leave anything behind for Cronus to reclaim. Gunfire erupted. The sharp crack of bullets split the night, punctuated by the desperate shouts of men scrambling for cover. David and Mariel led the charge, bullets ripping through the air as they advanced, dropping Cronus’s men with deadly precision. Sparks flew as rounds struck metal crates, and a guard collapsed with a pained grunt, clutching his chest before falling lifeless to the ground. Another enemy fighter screamed as a bullet tore through his leg, sending him sprawling onto the tarmac. Naomi’s men weren’t untouched—one of her fighters let out a sharp cry as a bullet tore through his shoulder, his body jerking back before he hit the ground. Another staggered, clutching his thigh as blood spread through his pants. Despite the pain, they pushed forward, gritting their teeth and returning fire, determined to see the mission through. Nathan was moving in front of her, his focus locked ahead as they neared the plane. His boots pounded against the pavement, the sharp echoes cutting through the chaos. Naomi’s breath hitched for a second, her body coiled with tension as she scanned for threats. Every step felt like a countdown to something inevitable. Suddenly, one of Cronus’s men popped out from behind a crate, gun raised. He had Nathan dead to rights. Without hesitation, Naomi lunged forward, striking with brutal precision—one swift blow to the back of the neck, and the man crumpled. Nathan turned, eyes wide as he took in what had just happened. For a brief second, they locked eyes, an unspoken understanding passing between them. Then, as quickly as it had come, the moment was gone. They moved forward in sync, racing toward the plane, ready to finish what they started. A scream. Mariel staggered, her hand flying to her side as a searing pain shot through her ribs. The heat of the wound pulsed against her skin, dizziness creeping into the edges of her vision. Blood seeped through her fingers, warm and thick, as she gasped for breath, struggling to stay upright. David was there in an instant, catching her before she could fall. His eyes locked on hers, fierce and full of something unspoken. “I got you,” he murmured, before turning his gun on the enemy closing in. Naomi pressed forward, firing with precision. Each shot was deliberate, and each movement was calculated as a result of training under Kilpatricks forces. But even without them, she had been a natural—quick, adaptive, and relentless. Instinct and experience guided her as she weaved through the chaos, taking down enemies with swift, controlled bursts of fire. Her grip was firm, her stance unwavering—muscle memory guiding her every move as she weaved through the chaos, taking down enemies with swift, controlled bursts of fire. Nathan sprinted ahead, reaching the plane first. Without hesitation, he raised his gun and took out the pilot before he could react, ensuring no one could escape. Then, before boarding, he planted a bomb inside the cockpit. If Cronus thought he could salvage any part of this, he was wrong. The plane was theirs. The money was theirs. Cronus would wake up to a new reality—his grip slipping, his empire bleeding. This was for Harold. This was for Dessa. As the last shot rang out, Naomi exhaled, gripping the cargo hold and staring out into the dark horizon. They scrambled to their vehicles, engines roaring to life. Just as they sped off, the detonators ignited one after the other, sending shockwaves through the airstrip. Flames erupted from the vehicles, casting eerie shadows across the wreckage. The force of each explosion rumbled through the ground, shaking the very foundation of the airstrip. Naomi caught a glimpse of the fire reflecting in the side mirror, the orange glow dancing in her eyes as the destruction unfolded behind them. Then, the final explosion tore through the plane, a deafening roar swallowing the night as a massive fireball lit up the sky, ensuring there was nothing left for Cronus to reclaim. The fire consumed the wreckage, and in the final moment, the plane erupted in a massive explosion, sealing their victory in fire and ash. The war wasn’t over. But tonight, they had won a battle.   Chapter 23 Scorched but Standing   Back at their secret location, Cronuss money was spread across the room in neat stacks. It was more than any of them expected—enough to change lives. Naomi took in the sight before her. The sheer amount of money wasn’t just wealth—it was power. It was survival. It was a target on their backs. Nathan, Mariel, David, and General Kirkpatrick looked at the different piles of crisp bills. David tapped on the table and let out a low whistle. This is more money than I’ve ever seen in one place. Nathan nodded, arms crossed. Yeah. It’s a lot. But it’s got to be handled right. We can’t just stash it all in one place. Mariel added, And we have to make sure the right people get it—the ones who need it most. Naomi, fingers curled slightly at her sides as the weight of what they had done settled in her chest. They had pulled off the impossible, but what came next would determine everything. She exhaled, steadying herself, pushing aside the fear that whispered about the risks they now faced. Naomi looked at them all. Then let’s get to work. David proposed using his connections to discreetly channel money into the neighborhoods, ensuring that those struggling would have access to food, medical supplies, and other essentials. He and Mariel took charge of that mission, while Nathan focused on securing the necessary funds to sustain their war efforts and keep the fight alive. As they divided the money, Naomi’s gaze flickered across the room. She placed a steady hand on General Kirkpatrick’s arm, her touch firm yet subtle, and leaned in slightly, her breath warm against his ear. Walk with me, she murmured, her voice low. Without waiting for a response, she turned, her movements fluid, slipping toward a dimly lit corner. The flickering light cast long shadows as she led him, each step deliberate, widening the distance between them and the others’ watchful eyes. Naomi handed Kirkpatrick a small note. I need you to find someone for me. His name is Leon. He’s in an Arkansas prison. I want him released immediately and his family relocated out of the South to a safe location. Hell need money when he gets out. The note simply said Its never too late and I always keep my promises. Signed A Fighter. Kirkpatrick read the note, his brows furrowing slightly before he let out a slow breath. He hesitated for a moment, then gave a firm nod. I’ll handle it. Naomi studied Kirkpatrick for a moment before continuing. There’s something else I need you to do. Some of this money needs to be placed in a secure location. When this war is over, we’ll need resources to rebuild the country. I want to make sure there’s something left to start over. Later that night, Nathan approached Naomi, his tone casual but laced with curiosity. I noticed you and Kirkpatrick in deep conversation. Is everything alright, Naomi Naomi nodded, her expression thoughtful. She took a deep breath, choosing her words carefully. I asked him to find a secure location to store some of the money. When this war ends, we’ll need resources to rebuild. If we don’t plan ahead, all of this will be for nothing. Naomi’s voice grew quieter as she gathered her thoughts. She glanced away for a moment, her fingers brushing absently over the edge of the table before she spoke again. I told Kirkpatrick to find Leon and get him out of prison. He’s been trapped there for too long, paying for something that was never a crime. And it’s not just about him anymore. Her gaze flickered with something deeper, something raw. I asked Kirkpatrick to make sure his family is moved somewhere safe, far from the dangers that have kept them caged just as much as he has been. She let out a slow breath, her jaw tightening. I owe him that much. I made a promise to get him out of there, and I intend to keep it. No matter what it takes, I wont let him be forgotten. Nathan studied her, sensing something deeper. Did he mean something to you Naomi met his gaze, unwavering. She reached up, her fingers gently brushing against his cheek, lingering as if memorizing the warmth of his skin. A quiet moment passed between them, heavy with emotion. He did. He was part of my past, she admitted softly. But you—youre my future. Youre the absolute love of my life. Nathan let the words settle, exhaling slowly. Whatever lingering thoughts he had about Leon faded. Naomi had made her choice, and it was him. A week later, General Kirkpatrick entered the prison, his boots striking against the cold stone floor with a steady rhythm. He walked past rows of cells, where men sat in silence, their eyes hollow from years of confinement. Some glanced up as he passed, their expressions guarded, revealing nothing. Others stared at the walls, lost in thoughts only they could understand. The dim light cast long shadows against the damp walls, the air thick with the weight of suffering. His sharp gaze swept the room until it landed on Leon, seated at a worn wooden table, his hands resting on the surface as if bracing himself against the weight of his confinement. The air around him was still, thick with the passage of time, his posture one of quiet endurance rather than defeat. Kirkpatrick moved with quiet authority, each step deliberate as he approached. He stopped in front of Leon, his presence looming, then pulled out a chair and sat down across from him. Without a word, he placed the note on the table between them, his eyes steady as he watched Leon’s reaction. Leon glanced up, his brows knitting together before he reached for the note. His fingers traced the familiar handwriting as he read the words. A slow breath escaped him, heavy with understanding. He didn’t need to ask who it was from. He already knew. A faint smile ghosted across his lips, and he gave a small nod, a silent acknowledgment of the promise being kept. Kirkpatrick sat across from him. Your fighter has taken care of everything. You and your family will be safe. Leon’s grip tightened around the note. He looked up, his voice steady. Will I see her Kirkpatrick shook his head, his expression momentarily shifting as a realization settled in. This man—Leon—must have truly meant something to Naomi. He had seen her fight for many things, but this was different. There was a personal weight to it, a sense of obligation that went beyond duty. He exhaled, adjusting his posture as if bracing against the truth of it. No. She doesnt want that. It’s not safe, he said, his voice measured, carrying the burden of caution and a newfound understanding of Naomis past. Leon nodded slowly. He folded the note carefully and slipped it into his pocket, holding onto the promise written in Naomi’s handwriting. Kirkpatrick studied him for a moment before leaning forward slightly. Are you ready to go Leon let out a slow breath, the weight of years lifting from his shoulders. Relief flooded his face as he nodded firmly. Lets get me out of here. A few minutes later, Leon stepped out into the morning sun, his eyes squinting against the brightness. He inhaled deeply, the crisp air filling his lungs—a taste of longoverdue freedom.   Chapter 24 The Bonfire of Change   Cronus sat in his lavish home, surrounded by his most trusted men—generals, senators, and guards who had pledged loyalty to him. The air in the room was thick with tension, but none of them dared speak as Cronus paced furiously, his face twisted with rage. He slammed a fist onto the table, sending papers flying. Everything Everything we built—GONE Stolen by that black bitch His voice was a snarl, venom dripping from every word. That money was meant to fund our entire network, to keep us strong. And now Now it’s in her hands One of the senators cleared his throat carefully. Sir, we still have— Still have WHAT Cronus whirled, his eyes burning with fury. I have nothing You let her get my money, and now she thinks she’s won One of the generals shifted in his seat, exchanging a glance with another. We can regroup. Strike back before she has a chance to use the money against us. Cronus scoffed, raking a hand through his hair. Regroup She’s already ahead of us His mind was all over the place. He had done so much to get here, to be in control. He had even eliminated the President to ensure no one stood in his way, and now this—she had hit him harder than anyone ever had. She had shaken the foundation he built with blood, deception, and force. His hands were curled into fists, his knuckles white with pressure. The room was thick with tension, the weight of their collective failure pressing down on them all. No one dared to speak first. One of the senators finally cleared his throat. We underestimated her. Naomi— Don’t say her name Cronus roared, slamming a hand on the table. The force of it sent a glass tumbling, shattering against the marble floor. You think I don’t know what happened You think I don’t see what she’s done His voice dripped with venom as his gaze locked onto each man in the room. She walked into my empire, took what was mine, and burned the rest to the ground. And you let it happen. A general shifted uncomfortably. Sir, we still have resources, men— Not enough, Cronus seethed. He stood abruptly, pacing toward the massive window overlooking the city. The lights stretched for miles, his empire woven into every street and building. And yet, Naomi had carved through it like a blade through flesh. A guard stepped forward cautiously. Sir, what are your orders As his rage boiled over, he grabbed a glass from the table and hurled it against the wall, watching it shatter into a hundred shards. He took deep, seething breaths, his hands trembling. I want her found. I want her dead. And I want what’s mine BACK. Before anyone could respond, the doors opened. Naomi had walked straight up to the front entrance, where two of Cronus’s guards stood watch. Behind her, Nathan, Mariel, and her fighters stood in formation—disciplined, silent, and powerful. Cronuss face darkened, his rage momentarily giving way to something else—fear, uncertainty. He glanced around the room at his gathered allies, his generals, and senators, but no one moved to help him. He was exposed, vulnerable. Cronus took a deep breath, forcing his rage into something sharper, more controlled. He straightened, smoothing his jacket as he turned to face the woman who had walked into his house as if she owned it. His voice was low, and measured, but still laced with fury. What the hell are you doing here and how did you get past my guards, Naomi Naomi didn’t need to fight her way in her presence alone, backed by overwhelming force, was enough. The guards exchanged glances, uncertainty flickering in their eyes before they slowly stepped aside, letting her pass without resistance. Naomi met his gaze, unwavering. I’m giving you one chance, Cronus. Step down. Walk away from this before it’s too late. Her voice was calm, and steady, carrying the weight of a promise rather than a threat. You and I both know how this ends if you don’t. Cronus exploded. His face twisted with fury, spitting every racial slur he could muster. His voice cracked with rage as he slammed his fists on the desk. There was a time when I would have had you strung up from the highest tree and burned your damn body And before that, I would have taken my time with you, put you in your place, made you know what you were before I let the fire take you he snarled, his eyes wild with sick satisfaction. Nathan took a sharp step forward, his fists clenched, his entire body coiled with fury. But before he could act, Naomi held up a hand, stopping him with a single, steady nod. Her expression didn’t waver, her voice calm. We are in charge here, Nathan. Let him talk. Watch him unravel. Naomi, Nathan, and Mariel remained still. They were watching him unravel, taking quiet satisfaction in his desperation. Nathan took a step closer to Naomi, his stance protective, while Mariel subtly moved to the side, flanking the room in case things turned violent. Just then one of Naomis guards stepped inside, dragging a struggling woman forward before releasing her. Cronuss wife stumbled slightly but caught herself, her eyes darting between her husband and Naomi. Then her gaze swept across the room, taking in the sight before her—Black and Brown faces in charge, standing where her husbands power had once been absolute. A cold wave of terror washed over her. This was not the world she knew, and at that moment, she understood that everything had changed. Cronus’s breath was ragged when he finally sneered, How’s Harold Naomi’s jaw tightened slightly, but she did not break. Nathan and Mariel, too, tensed at the mention of her brotherinlaw—the man Cronus had murdered. The silence in the room thickened. Nathan took a step forward, his voice low and cold. I don’t know, Cronus. But when you see Curtis, y’all can talk about it in Hell. Cronus clenched his fists, but the weight of the moment pressed down on him. He had thought she was running, but now she was here, calm, composed, and completely in control. His confidence wavered as the realization sank in. Naomi stepped forward, her voice like steel. I should kill you for what you did to Harold. For everything you’ve done. But I’m giving you a choice. Step down. Leave this country. Let it rebuild without you, and I’ll let you live. Cronus’s face twisted in rage, but there was something else in his eyes—fear. He knew she wasn’t bluffing. But still, he refused. Never. Naomi exhaled slowly, then reached into her pocket. She pulled out a single dollar bill and placed it on his desk. She tilted her head slightly, her tone mocking. For your services, boy. Just before she reached the door, Naomi glanced over her shoulder. I was never running from you, Cronus. I’ve been planning this meeting since the first day we met. Naomi turned without another word. Nathan and Mariel followed, their pace steady. The guards fell in line behind them, and together, they walked out of the room with the same calm they had walked in with. Cronus’s entire body stiffened, his knuckles white as he gripped the edge of the desk. Desperation flashed in his eyes. His hand shot toward the drawer beneath the desk, reaching for the gun he kept hidden there. Before he could draw it, a firm hand clamped down on his wrist. One of his own generals, a man who had stood by his side for years, held him in place. Don’t, the general muttered, his voice low and firm. This isn’t the time. Cronus’s breathing was heavy, his fury bubbling over, but he hesitated. The general’s grip tightened just enough to send a message—not now. Cronus turned sharply to the men in the room, his voice raw with anger. Someone in this room betrayed me. I want names. I want to know how she got to my money, who opened the door for her, and who has been feeding her information. Find the mole, deal with them, and then we finish this—once and for all. Just then, the phone rang, slicing through the tense silence. One of his guards hesitated before picking it up and passing it to Cronus. He pressed it to his ear, his jaw tightening as he listened. Someone on your team isnt who you think they are, the voice on the other end said, low and knowing. Theyre feeding Naomis team everything. And I know who the gobetween is too. Cronus leaned back in his chair, his grip tightening around the receiver. His voice was cold, sharp. Tell me.   Chapter 25 Tinder to the Cause   The room was thick with tension, the only sound was the occasional creak of Jacobs’ chair as he shifted uncomfortably. He and Langston sat bound, side by side, facing Cronus across the heavy wooden table. The light overhead flickered, casting shadows that stretched and distorted across the walls. Cronus leaned back in his chair, his fingers tapping idly against the table. Around him stood a handful of trusted senators and highranking men, silent witnesses to what was about to unfold. For days, the war had been slipping from his grasp. He could feel it like sand slipping through his fingers. His men whispered of losses—key supply routes seized, his forces ambushed in areas once secure, allies turning their backs out of fear or shifting loyalty. The onceunshakable strongholds of his empire now had cracks, and he was bleeding out faster than he could patch the wounds. Naomis forces weren’t just fighting—they were winning because they had something he didnt. Purpose. He had money, power, and influence. But the purpose was proving to be a more dangerous weapon than all the resources he had at his disposal. Still, he wasn’t done yet. Cronus exhaled slowly, his eyes settling on Jacobs first. Senator Jacobs had once been an ally, a man who sat in these very rooms, nodding in agreement as Cronus laid out his plans. But he had always straddled the fence, never fully committing, always positioning himself where the wind seemed to blow the strongest. Now, the wind had turned against him. Jacobs shifted in his chair, the metal legs scraping against the floor as he fought to steady himself. His breath was shallow, his fingers twitching against the restraints. Across from him, Langston sat motionless, watching the exchange like a man already resigned to his fate. He did not plead, did not react. His silence was louder than anything Jacobs could muster. Cronus leaned forward, his fingers tapping idly against the table. Tell me, Jacobs, how does it feel to be a rat Did you ever think I wouldn’t find out That I wouldn’t hear the whispers about where your loyalties truly lie Jacobs swallowed, his mouth opening and closing like a man gasping for air but finding none. His body tensed as he glanced at Langston, who remained composed, his expression a mask of indifference. Desperation flared in Jacobs’ eyes as he turned back to Cronus, his voice trembling. Please, Cronus, he pleaded, his words stumbling over themselves. Ive always been loyal—I was just caught in the middle I didn’t mean for it to go this far Give me another chance, and I’ll prove it. I’ll fix this. I can be useful Cronus tilted his head, watching him as if considering the pathetic display. The amusement in his smirk did not reach his cold, calculating eyes. Cronus smiled, but there was no humor in it. You’ve put me in a difficult position, Jacobs. You and Langston here have been busy little traitors, feeding Naomi’s people everything they needed to stay two steps ahead. And now that I’ve finally got you both in front of me. Langston chuckled under his breath, shaking his head. Go to hell. Before Cronus could respond, a guard stepped forward and struck Langston across the face with the back of his hand. The sharp crack of impact echoed through the room, and a thin trail of blood dribbled from the corner of Langston’s mouth. He grinned, the fire in his eyes unwavering, then spat a mouthful of blood onto the table between them. That all you got Langston asked, his voice steady despite the sting. Langston chuckled, his lip still stained with blood. He lifted his chin slightly, meeting Cronus’s gaze with unwavering defiance. That little Black girl She’s going to crush your world. You can do whatever you want to me—I don’t matter anymore. But shes coming for you, and there aint a damn thing you can do about it. Cronus’s jaw tightened, his fingers drumming against the table a little faster. He turned his focus back to Jacobs. I’ll make this simple. Talk, and maybe—just maybe—you’ll get to keep breathing. Jacobs hesitated, sweat beading along his brow. I—I didn’t have a choice, he stammered. Langston—he was the one in contact with Naomi. I just—I was the messenger. I swear, I didn’t know everything I only told him what I heard Langston scoffed, cutting him off. He doesnt know anything because I didn’t tell him anything. And I ain’t telling you shit either. Cronus nodded slowly, pretending to consider the words. Then, in one swift, merciless motion, he grabbed Jacobs by the hair, yanking his head back. Ok Senator Langston, you are not going tell me shit, huh The room held its breath as the blade flashed under the dim light. Before Jacobs could let out a scream, Cronus sliced his throat cleanly, the steel cutting deep. A wet, gurgling sound filled the silence before Jacobs slumped forward, his body twitching as blood pooled beneath him. Jacobs’ blood ran across the table, pooling beneath his lifeless body, his face resting in the middle of the crimson smear. Langston looked down for a second, then slowly lifted his gaze back to Cronus. Cronus took his time moving closer, wiping his knife clean with deliberate precision. Do you feel like talking now he asked, his voice calm, almost amused. Langston glanced around the room, then down at Jacobs beside him. A slow, defiant smirk curled his lips as he met Cronus’s gaze. I’ll see you in hell. Cronus’s smile vanished. He stood abruptly, walking around the table with slow, measured steps. The room was silent, but the tension was suffocating. The other men in the room trusted senators and generals, stood rigid, exchanging uneasy glances but saying nothing. Some looked away, as if not wanting to witness what was about to happen, while others watched with grim acceptance, knowing that defiance would mean sharing Jacobs’ fate. The air felt heavy, charged with the anticipation of another inevitable execution. Without hesitation, in one swift motion, he dragged the halfblood knife across Langston’s throat. The senator gasped, a gurgling sound escaping before his body slumped forward, his pool of blood, joining Jacobs onto the table.   Cronus wiped the blade clean with a cloth, his voice eerily calm. Put him somewhere his family will find him. Quietly. And leave this note on him. He paused for a moment before handing his guard a note to Naomi that simply said, See you soon. One of his men nodded, already knowing what to do.     Chapter 26 Torchbearer’s Path  The morning air, pressed against Naomi like a weight she had not felt in a long time. She stood with Redfield. Langston was gone. His body was left for his family to find, a cruel note stuffed in his shirt pocket, See you soon. Redfield’s jaw was tight, his hands clenched into fists at his sides. We can’t just let this go, he said, his voice low, simmering with fury. We need to hit back now. We take the fight straight to them. Naomi studied him for a moment before shaking her head. That’s what he wants, she said evenly. Cronus wants us to react, to be reckless. But the only way we honor Langston is by winning. We don’t move on his terms. We move on ours. Redfield exhaled sharply, his nostrils flaring, but after a moment, he nodded. He knew she was right, but the weight of Langston’s death still burned in his eyes. Damn it, Naomi. He didn’t deserve that. Not like that. None of us do, Naomi said softly. But we don’t get to choose how this ends for us. What we can choose is how we fight. And we fight to win. We get Cronus, and we save the people at the same time. That’s what Langston believed in. That’s why you both stood with me in the first place. She paused, her gaze locking onto Redfield with a mix of concern and conviction. The weight of the moment pressed down on them, thick as the air before a storm. Langston believed that greed was destroying this country. It is 1968 and barely any progress has been made. If we dont stop them now, their greed is going to destroy this country. She took a breath, steadying herself. Get Langstons family to safety, Redfield. And what about yours Do you think they should be moved Redfield hesitated for only a moment before shaking his head. Weariness lined his face, the weight of too many battles etched into his features. Im not worried about me, he said firmly, his jaw set. But yes, my family should go. She reached into her coat and pulled out the folded note left on Langston’s body. Her fingers tightened around the edges as she read it once more. Then, with a slow exhale, she handed it to Nathan. Nathan scanned the words, his jaw tightening. He left this to taunt you, he murmured, his voice like gravel. Bastard wanted you to feel it. He passed it to Mariel. She took it, her fingers curling around the paper as she read, and handed it back to Redfield. A flicker of something sharp crossed her face. When she finally spoke, her voice was quiet but steady. We win. That’s how we answer this. That night, for the first time in what felt like forever, Naomi allowed herself a moment of peace. Nathan, Mariel, and David sat with her, the four of them together, the weight of war momentarily set aside. They laughed—something rare, something sacred. The love Naomi felt for Nathan and Mariel was deep, uncompromising, woven into every glance and unspoken gesture. It was in the way Nathan leaned back, smirking at her with the kind of ease he rarely let show. It was in the way Mariel nudged her shoulder playfully, a small reminder of all the years they had survived together. And David—strong, steady David—watched over them like a quiet sentinel, understanding that these moments were fleeting. Then Naomi heard it. A sound just on the edge of perception, something that didn’t belong. Her body tensed, the instinct too ingrained to ignore. But before she could react, the explosion ripped through the night, sending fire and debris crashing through the room. The door was kicked open. Chaos erupted. Naomi’s team recovered quickly, fighting through the disorientation. Gunfire shattered the walls, the air thick with dust and smoke. Naomi saw David take down an attacker, Mariel moving with deadly precision. And then—Nathan. He was fighting alongside her, his movements sharp, ruthless. But then she saw him shift, turning toward her just as one of the attackers raised their weapon. Nathan moved without hesitation, stepping into the line of fire. The bullets struck him, one after another, his body jolting under the impact. Naomi saw it all, every second stretching into eternity. Nathan looked at her, his eyes locking onto hers in silent understanding before he fell. For a brief moment, everything was still. Mariel, fury in her veins, raised her weapon and fired, the shot tearing into the man’s shoulder. He staggered but remained standing, his gun still raised. Naomi didn’t hesitate. With a steady, unrelenting stride, she closed the distance, lifted her own weapon, and put him down with a final shot to the chest. That single act snapped her back into motion. She unleashed hell. Naomi, David, Mariel, and their forces tore through the remaining attackers with relentless fury. Gunfire echoed through the shattered walls as blades flashed in the dim light. Naomi twisted out of the path of a knife strike, catching her attacker’s wrist and driving her own blade deep into his gut before ripping it free. David tackled a soldier to the ground, wrestling the rifle from his grip before slamming the butt of the weapon into his face. Mariel moved with deadly precision, slashing through one opponent before turning and firing at another. Naomi’s guards fought alongside them, their skills honed for this very moment. One of Cronus’s men lunged at Naomi, knocking her to the ground, his knife slicing through the air just inches from her throat. She caught his wrist, straining against his weight as the blade hovered dangerously close. The rage within her erupted like a force of nature. She twisted, using his own momentum against him, flipping him onto his back. He scrambled to get up, but Naomi was faster. With a guttural cry, she drove her dagger into his ribs, twisting the blade as his body jerked in agony. His gasps turned to desperate gurgles, but she didn’t stop there. She yanked the knife free and plunged it in again, her face impassive as his life drained away beneath her. By the time the smoke cleared, every last one of Cronus’s men lay dead, their bodies scattered across the floor like discarded pieces of a failed war. As they moved to leave, Naomi saw him. Senator Wallis stood by his car, watching. He had not fought. He had not lifted a weapon. He had simply come to witness the destruction, to watch them suffer. Naomi walked toward him. His guards stepped forward, but her team cut them down without effort. Wallis’ face twisted in fear as Naomi closed the distance, her weapon raised. She did not speak. She did not give him the satisfaction of words. She shot him once. Then again. And again. She walked toward him with measured steps, her fury relentless, each shot driving her closer until she was standing over him. His body slumped to the ground, lifeless, and still she did not look away. Only when Mariel’s voice cut through the silence did Naomi move. We have to go. Naomi got into the back seat of the car, her body heavy with exhaustion, but her mind racing. As they drove off, she turned her head, looking back at the ruins of what they had left behind. Wallis was gone. The bodies were motionless. The fire still raged. A part of her lay dead on that floor. She closed her eyes, and the images came unbidden—Nathan’s smirk when he teased her, the warmth in his voice when he spoke her name, the way he always positioned himself just slightly in front of her as if shielding her even in the quietest moments. She saw his hands brushing against hers as they walked, his steady presence by her side. She remembered late nights when they talked about everything and nothing, the way his laughter used to fill the space between them. She opened her eyes, blinking back the emotion clawing at her throat. Mariel sat beside her, silent, but her presence was grounding. Naomi turned forward, her expression hardening. The war wasn’t over. There was still one man left to face. Chapter 27 Firestorm of Justice   Inside a dimly lit room, Naomi sat with Mariel, Dessa and Alma. Her posture rigid, the weight of what lay ahead pressing down on her shoulders. Just on the other side of the room, General Kirkpatrick stood at the head of a tense assembly—Senator Redfield, David, and Mason, their expressions hardened with purpose. Guards flanked the room, their presence not just for protection but as a silent testament to the gravity of the moment. Outside, the air was thick with anticipation. Troops maintained their positions along the perimeter, ensuring their sanctuary remained undetected. Every breath, every movement, carried the unspoken understanding that after tonight, nothing would ever be the same again. Naomi had been the strongest so far, but Nathan’s death—brutal, sudden, and selfless—had carved something deep inside her. The way he had stepped in front of that bullet without hesitation, the way he had looked at her in those final moments, haunted her. But it wasn’t just Nathan’s sacrifice that burned in her veins. The countless people who suffered every day because of those who saw them as nothing. Years of degradation, of being told to know their place. The sneering disrespect toward the poor, toward women, toward people of color—toward anyone who dared to demand fairness. The ceaseless, cruel games of politicians and CEOs who played with lives like pieces on a board, hoarding power while others starved. She clenched her fists, forcing herself to stay steady, but the moment she looked at the women surrounding her—Mariel, Dessa, and Alma—something inside her cracked. Each of them represented a different part of her, a different kind of love and strength she had relied on. Mariel, the sister in arms who had fought beside her from the start. Dessa, her blood, who had known her pain longer than anyone. Alma, the mother figure who had always been there to guide her. Naomi inhaled sharply, her breath unsteady, overwhelmed by their presence and the unwavering support they offered. I can’t— she started, her voice barely above a whisper. Mariel moved without hesitation, crossing the space between them and gripping Naomi’s hands. Alma and Dessa stood nearby, their presence steady and grounding. Alma reached out and brushed a gentle hand over Naomi’s back. Her touch was warm, filled with quiet reassurance. Dessa, still grieving Harold, stood close, her grief palpable, but her strength unwavering. You can, Mariel said softly. Alma’s voice followed, calm and steady. You don’t have to carry all of this alone, baby. We’re here. Dessa exhaled shakily, nodding, unable to find words. For a fleeting moment, Naomi let herself lean into them—the three women who had been her foundation in so many different ways. Her shoulders trembled, the weight of everything pressing too hard. A single tear escaped, slipping down her cheek before she could stop it. But they didn’t let go, didn’t turn away. Alma’s hand pressed gently against her back, steady and warm. Mariel squeezed her hands, her grip unwavering. Dessa, her voice thick with grief, whispered, Youre not alone, Naomi. The words cracked something deep within her, but instead of breaking, she let them settle, drawing from their strength. She pulled back, nodding once, her voice steadier. We finish this. Naomi stood, her movements slow but deliberate. The war had shifted—she had taken nearly everything from Cronus. His oncemighty empire had crumbled beneath the weight of his own arrogance and greed. Only a few strongholds remained, scattered across parts of the South and Washington, the last remnants of his grip on power. She walked out into the war room, where her leadership team was gathered. General Kirkpatrick stood over the table, flanked by a few highranking officers from the Forces of Nike, their eyes scanning the latest intelligence reports. The room smelled of sweat and tension, the air thick with the weight of what was to come. Redfield, David, Dessa, Alma, and Mason stood nearby, their faces drawn with exhaustion yet sharpened with anticipation. The large map stretched before them, streaked with red markings that bled across onceoccupied territories—proof of how much ground they had taken back, how much they had ripped from Cronus grasp. It was almost over. He had nowhere left to run. We have him cornered, Kirkpatrick said, tapping his finger against the remaining enemy zones. His forces are dwindling. He’s lost too much to mount a real counterattack. Naomi took a deep breath, absorbing the reality of what they had accomplished. Then we finish this, she repeated, her voice carrying across the room. No hesitation. No retreat. We end it now. Under the cover of darkness, Naomi, Mariel, David, General Kirkpatrick, and their forces advanced through the outskirts of the compound. The air pulsed with tension, thick with the scent of damp earth and the metallic whisper of impending violence. Their movements were precise, and their breaths were measured. Every step carried the weight of strategy, every shadow held the possibility of death. Ahead, the compound loomed—a fortress of steel and concrete, patrolled by Cronus dwindling but still dangerous forces. Kirkpatrick signaled his unit, and within seconds, suppressed gunfire cut through the night. A perimeter guard staggered, a silent gasp escaping before he crumpled to the ground. Another barely had time to turn before a blade slit across his throat, his body sinking into the darkness. The first wave of resistance was swift, brutal, and absolute. Gunfire erupted deeper within the compound as Cronus’ men scrambled to respond. Kirkpatrick’s forces moved like a welloiled machine, sweeping through the exterior defenses with ruthless efficiency. Naomi pressed forward, the roar of conflict closing in around her. Explosions rattled the night sky, fire licking the edges of buildings, casting long, flickering shadows over the battlefield. Cronus men fought back, but their lines broke beneath the relentless assault. Kirkpatrick’s forces pressed harder, overwhelming them with precision strikes and unyielding aggression. A desperate enemy soldier charged, firing wildly—only to be met with a single, lethal shot from Kirkpatrick himself. His expression remained cold, as he stepped over the fallen man and pressed forward. The compound was collapsing around them. Cronus was running out of time. David whispered, Main access is too hot. We take the west service tunnel—it’s our best shot at getting in undetected. Mariel nodded. We need to jam their internal comms. If they can’t coordinate, their response will be slower. Naomi signaled the tech team forward, and within moments, the signal jammer was in place. The lights along the perimeter flickered—just a small disruption, but enough to give them an opening. Move, Naomi commanded. They slipped inside through the tunnel, pressing against the walls as they advanced. The sounds of distant guards echoed through the corridors, but their path remained clear. Every step forward brought them closer to Cronus. The final confrontation was near. David didn’t hesitate. He rammed his shoulder into the door, sending it flying open with a thunderous crash. Two guards stood between them and Cronus, their weapons raised—but they never got the chance to fire. Mariel was faster. Her gun cracked twice, precise shots tearing through their skulls. The guards dropped instantly, their bodies hitting the floor before they could even register what had happened. Naomi stepped inside, leveling her gun at Cronus. But she didn’t pull the trigger—not yet. Instead, she ordered him to move. They forced Cronus out of the compound, through the darkened streets, past the destruction he had wrought. They didn’t stop until they reached Section 27 of Arlington National Cemetery, where over 1,500 Black Civil War soldiers lay buried. Their graves stretched before them, marked with headstones inscribed with “U.S.C.T.” — a quiet, solemn reminder of the men who had fought for a freedom they were barely allowed to taste. She motioned for him to raise his face. Do you even know Black soldiers are buried here Look at them, dammit. Look at real heroes. Cronus sneered, his lips curling in contempt. Heroes Yall aint no more than our help. You are now and you always will be. We built this nation. You never understood that, girl. His voice was cold, unwavering. Cronus let out a low, knowing chuckle. You think these ends with me There will always be another. Naomi. It’s about order. Structure. The world needs it, even if you refuse to see it. You won a battle, but the war The war never ends. Naomi’s grip on her weapon tightened. The war doesn’t end, but you do. Right here. Right now. Cronus squared his shoulders, his expression hardening. You don’t matter. You kill me, and another takes my place. The machine never stops. Naomi shook her head. How does it feel, knowing youre going to die at the feet of real heroes At their mercy, with their names above you She leaned closer. Oh, by the way. Enjoy Hell. She turned her back on him. The air felt heavier as she stepped away, the sound of Cronus’ steady breathing filling the silence behind her. Dont you turn your back on me he bellowed, his voice thick with rage. You think you can just walk away Bitch Get back here, you Black Bitch Naomi didn’t stop. She didn’t look back. You hear me, girl Im talking to you You don’t get to turn your back on me he shouted, his voice cracking with desperation. You think this is over It’s never over His world had already ended, and he knew it. And for the first time in his life, he had no power left to wield. The weight of his arrogance clung to the air like smoke, but Naomi walked through it, unshaken, leaving him to his final moments. Mariel stepped forward, her gun raised. This is for the people you silenced, she said, her voice steady. She fired. One shot to the heart. Cronus gasped, his body jerking, blood blooming across his chest. His hands clutched at the wound, his lips parting in a final, pathetic whimper. David didn’t hesitate. He lifted his weapon and pulled the trigger. The gunshot cracked through the cold air, sharp and final. The force of the bullet sent Cronus staggering backward, his body jerking as his head snapped back. A thin mist of blood lingered in the air for a fleeting moment before he crumpled to the ground, motionless. The shot echoed sharply, striking Cronus between the eyes. As his body crumpled to the cold floor, life escaping through his lips, there was no glory, no power left—only emptiness. David lowered his weapon, stepping closer to the body. His voice was calm, but his words carried the weight of vengeance long overdue. And this... this is for Harold. Naomi exhaled, before saying. Let’s go. It was over. Mariel stepped onto the street, her boots crunching against scattered debris. The cemetery stretched before her, rows of gravestones standing silent in the dim light. Some were worn with age, others newly marked, but all held the weight of sacrifice. Here, among the fallen, lay Black soldiers who had fought in wars that barely recognized their service. Yet, even in death, they stood as proof of defiance, a testament to resilience, to the generations of fighters who had come before them. The weight of what had just transpired clung to the air, mixing with the distant scent of smoke and blood. The battle was over, but the scars of the war would linger, etched into both the country and the souls of those who had survived. The air was thick with the scent of smoke and blood, the echoes of battle still hanging over the silent city. She looked out at the wreckage—the bodies of the fallen, the shattered remnants of buildings that had once stood tall, the empty streets that had carried both revolution and war. She turned to Naomi, her voice steady but heavy with meaning. Its time to rebuild. David nodded, his gaze fixed on the remnants of the battle. Rebuilding’s harder than tearing it down, he murmured. But this time, we do it right. Naomi squared her shoulders. The weight of the battle still clung to her, but beneath the exhaustion, something stirred—something deep, something unspoken—a pulse, a shift, a quiet whisper in her body she didn’t yet understand. She took in the ruins before her—the broken streets, the shattered glass glinting beneath the rising sun. The silence was heavy, stretching over the city like an unspoken requiem. Smoke still curled from distant fires, the scent of destruction lingering in the air. The streets bore the scars of war, but in the quiet, there was something else—an eerie stillness, the weight of history settling like dust over everything that remained. It was an ending, but it was also a beginning. She thought of Harold, Langston, and Nathan—their sacrifices woven into every breath she took. They had given everything, but this world would not take everything from her or the people. Not anymore.   Chapter 28 Eternal Flame   Talia raised her fist high. The fire never dies. She let the words settle, her voice unwavering, her conviction absolute. The people before her were not just spectators they were the living embodiment of sacrifice, of resilience, of the battles fought and won. And so, we stand here today, not as victims, but as victors. Not as the forgotten, but as the architects of a future built from the sacrifices of those who came before us. The battle was long, the cost immeasurable, but the fire—our fire—never died. Naomi did not just fight. She did not just resist. She endured. She built. She led. She gave everything so that we could stand here today, free—not just in body, but in spirit. Talia took a breath, steadying herself before continuing. She was my grandmother. Nathan was not just a soldier, not just a warrior. He was a man of honor, a man who stood between oppression and the ones he loved. He bled for this cause, and even in his final moments, he chose to protect rather than to fall back. He was my grandfather. And there was Mariel—Naomi’s sister in battle, her ally, her friend. She and Naomi ran for their lives as children, and she never left her side. Through every war, every sacrifice, every impossible night, she stood. And she, too, is why we stand today. Harold, Langston, David, Alma, Mason. Leon, Dessa. Those whose names history tried to erase. We say them now. We remember them now. We honor them now. They tried to break us. They tried to turn the clock back, one second at a time, so slowly we wouldnt notice until we woke up in chains. But we did notice. We fought. We won. Talia’s voice steadied, her gaze sweeping across the crowd. But let me be clear—freedom is not a gift, it is a responsibility. It is not given it is guarded. It is built, brick by brick, action by action, generation by generation. We are free today because they never surrendered. And we will never surrender either. We do not simply mourn the fallen. We carry them forward. In every law we pass, in every injustice we strike down, in every child we teach the truth— Talia raised her fist once more, her voice ringing out like a promise. For a breath, the world stood still. The crowd held its silence as if absorbing the weight of her words, letting them settle deep in their bones. Then, like a dam breaking, a roar of voices shattered the quiet, rising in unison, unstoppable, unyielding—echoing across the city, across history itself. The fire never dies. The crowd erupted, voices rising in unison, a wave of sound rolling through the night. Candles flickered, fists lifted, the weight of history pressing against the present, pushing them forward. The faces of the past watched over them from banners, immortalized in steel and fire, their sacrifices woven into the fabric of this moment. And among the thousands who stood beneath the glow of streetlights and hope, in the very front, stood two figures—silent, strong, and unyielding. Naomi and Mariel watched, their eyes steady, their presence a testament to all they had built. They had won the war. And now, they bore witness to what came next.