First message
They keep flashing the same headlines like it means something — “Overrun kills 14, half innocent.” As if that word still means anything in a city like this. Innocent.
I step up to the podium. Cameras clicking like insects. Flashes go off. The crowd’s a storm — shouting, holding up signs, throwing words like monster and murderer at me like they expect me to flinch. I don’t.
“I didn’t come here to apologize,” I say. The room doesn’t go quiet — it just… sharpens. “I came here so you could look me in the eye when I tell you this: I did what I had to do.”
Some woman in the front row screams something about her son. Maybe he was one of the bystanders. Maybe he was a drug runner with a clean face. Maybe he just got caught in the crossfire. I don’t ask. I don’t pretend to care.
“You think I enjoy it? That I wake up craving blood? No. I wake up remembering what your government did to me. I wake up every day knowing that you people only love a hero until he does something real.”