THE DICTATOR

The pain woke him first. A deep, gnawing ache in his ribs, spreading like fire through his limbs. He gasped, choking on dust and the thick, stale air. The world around him was dim, a heavy twilight hanging over jagged ruins and twisted metal. The sky—if it could be called that—was a dull grayish-blue, pulsing as though it were alive. A low hum vibrated in his bones, an ever-present whisper from the world itself.

He coughed and pushed himself up, his hands scraping against rough stone. Every movement sent fresh waves of agony through his body, but he forced himself to rise. His mind was sluggish, still piecing together what had happened. The last thing he remembered—his sister's scream, his mother's body falling, Zord's masked face, and then…the betrayal. The weight of it all crashed down on him, heavier than the broken city around him.

"You're awake."

The voice was smooth, measured, yet laced with something sharp.

He turned too quickly, his body protesting, and saw a figure standing atop a pile of debris. The man was tall and lean, his white hair falling over one eye. His other eye gleamed red in the half-light, scanning him with an unreadable expression. His fingers were black, as though dipped in ink or burned beyond healing. Resting against his shoulder was an umbrella—deep red, covered in sharp, thorn-like protrusions.

The boy tensed. "Who are you?"

The man smiled faintly. "They call me Engine."

Engine stepped forward, the crunch of debris beneath his boots the only sound in the still air. "You're new here. I can smell it on you."

The boy staggered to his feet. "Where is here?"

Engine tilted his head. "Welcome to the Down World."

Something about the way he said it sent a shiver down the boy's spine.

"You fell," Engine continued, tapping his umbrella against the ground. "Or rather, you were thrown. The ones who rule up there think this place is a death sentence. And for most, it is."

The boy swallowed hard, glancing around. The city—if it could be called that—stretched endlessly in all directions, a maze of shattered towers and sinking streets. It felt…wrong, as if the ground itself was shifting when he wasn't looking.

"You're lucky I found you first," Engine said.

"Why?"

A slow, knowing smile. "Because not everyone down here is as friendly as I am."

The boy clenched his fists. "I need to get back."

Engine laughed softly. "Back? Oh, that's adorable. Nobody goes back."

He stepped closer, his red eye gleaming. "But you… you don't belong here, do you? Not really. I can see it in your eyes. You still think there's a way out."

The boy took a step back.

"Listen," Engine continued, his tone dropping. "You're in a place where the rules are different. The things you knew up there? They don't matter down here. Strength, status, loyalty—none of it means anything. The only thing that matters is surviving. And for that, you'll need help."

The boy narrowed his eyes. "Yours?"

Engine smirked. "Oh, I like you. You've got fight in you. But fight alone, and you won't last long."

For a long moment, they stared at each other. Then Engine turned, walking away.

"Wait," the boy called after him.

Engine paused, tilting his head just slightly.

"You never asked my name."

Engine chuckled. "Names don't matter here, kid. Only what you do."

And with that, he vanished into the shadows.

The boy clenched his fists. Whatever this Down World was, whatever horrors it held, he wouldn't die here. He would find a way back.

He swore it.

The neon lights of the city blurred into streaks as Valdo sped down the highway, the engine of his vintage car growling like a beast let loose. The night was alive with energy—holographic billboards flickered overhead, the streets thrumming with an undercurrent of danger.

Beside him, his driver—a wiry man with sunglasses perched low on his nose—laughed, the sound coarse and filled with reckless abandon. Valdo grinned, tapping his fingers against the dashboard.

In the boot, a glass bottle rattled with every sharp turn.

"This is the life," the driver mused, exhaling smoke from a cigarette. "Speed, drinks, and no damn worries."

Valdo smirked. "No worries until someone starts chasing us."

The words had barely left his mouth when he caught something in the rearview mirror. Headlights. Too many of them. Moving too fast.

His smirk faded. "Speaking of which…"

The driver frowned, glancing back. "Shit."

The pursuing cars weren't just anyone's—they were Balotelli's. Sleek, black vehicles with tinted windows, their engines purring like caged predators.

"They found us fast," Valdo muttered, shifting gears. "Hold on."

The car lurched forward as he pushed the accelerator to the floor. The city blurred past, neon reflections streaking across the windshield. Behind them, the black cars gave chase, weaving through traffic with deadly precision.

Gunfire erupted.

Bullets shattered the side mirror. Valdo cursed, jerking the wheel to avoid a barrage of shots. The driver fumbled for his gun, rolling down the window.

"Do something!" the driver shouted.

Valdo swerved hard, sending their car skidding onto a side street. The pursuers followed effortlessly.

"They're not letting up," Valdo muttered.

The driver leaned out, firing wildly. A tire on one of the black cars burst, sending it spinning into a crash. But two more vehicles replaced it immediately.

Then, without warning—a roadblock ahead.

Valdo's pulse spiked. He had seconds to decide.

He slammed the brakes, twisting the wheel. The tires screeched as the car spun, sliding into a narrow alley just before the blockade. Metal scraped against the walls, sparks flying.

The alley was too narrow for the black cars. They skidded to a halt, engines revving in frustration.

Valdo exhaled, heart hammering. "That was close."

The driver wasn't as lucky. A sniper's shot rang out—clean, precise.

Valdo heard the thud before he saw it. His driver slumped forward, blood staining his shirt.

For a split second, the world slowed.

Then Valdo grabbed the bottle from the boot, shoved the door open, and ran.

Footsteps pounded behind him. The henchmen weren't giving up.

He darted through the maze of the city, twisting through alleys and leaping over debris. The streets were a blur of flashing lights and shadows, the air thick with tension.

A bullet grazed his arm, pain searing through him. He ignored it, pushing forward.

He reached a dead end.

Valdo gritted his teeth. No way in hell was this how he was going out.

Then, an idea.

He spun, yanking the cap off the bottle. Alcohol sloshed inside.

With one smooth motion, he pulled out his lighter.

A wicked grin spread across his face.

The men rounded the corner—too late.

Valdo threw the bottle. The flames ignited mid-air, and the alley exploded in fire.

The men shouted, stumbling back as the blaze roared between them.

Valdo didn't waste the opportunity. He disappeared into the night.

Balotelli's men wouldn't stop looking for him. But for now?

For now, he was free.