At exactly 3:30 AM, the silence over the city of Kuruva was shattered.
A thunderous explosion ripped through the sky as an F-16 fighter jet roared overhead, releasing its bombs onto the defensive positions of the Zarakhanda National Defence Forces stationed around the Capitol.
Moments earlier, the soldiers had been preparing their defenses against an approaching convoy of more than a hundred radical resistance fighters advancing from the highway.
The bombs slammed into the streets surrounding the compound.
Fire erupted instantly.
Shockwaves blasted through nearby buildings as burning debris scattered across the road.
Chaos spread among the government troops. Some immediately raised RPG launchers, while others unleashed a barrage of AK-47 fire toward the incoming convoy now speeding toward the city center.
Sirens began wailing across Kuruva.
Inside their homes, civilians woke in panic. Some stayed hidden behind locked doors while others rushed into nearby establishments, searching desperately for cover as gunfire and explosions echoed through the darkness.
Under increasing pressure on the ground, government forces were forced to deploy two of their aging Mil Mi-17 military helicopters stationed at the capitol compound.
Only three minutes later, the aircraft thundered into the sky.
The helicopter circled above the battlefield before the door-mounted machine gun suddenly opened fire.
A stream of tracer rounds rained down on the militia convoy below, which was already locked in a fierce firefight with government soldiers.
Vehicles in the convoy were riddled with bullets as rounds tore through metal doors and shattered windshields.
The militia attempted to return fire using an anti-aircraft machine gun mounted on the rear of a Toyota Hilux, but the helicopter kept shifting direction, banking sharply across the sky. The gunner couldn't land a clean hit.
The night sky filled with blazing streaks of tracer ammunition—like red lightning cutting through the darkness—while rounds from the ground whistled violently through the air.
Then suddenly—
One of the convoy vehicles erupted in a massive explosion.
A bullet from the helicopter had struck a crate of explosives loaded in the back of a Toyota Land Cruiser.
The blast tore the vehicle apart.
Six militia fighters were killed instantly.
Burning debris scattered across the highway.
As the battle raged on, several buildings surrounding the capitol began to catch fire.
Flames climbed rapidly up the sides of nearby structures, spreading from rooftop to rooftop as burning debris rained down onto the streets below.
Above the chaos, the Mi-17 helicopter swept back and forth across the sky, relentlessly providing air support to the government troops fighting below.
The battlefield flickered with the burning trails of tracer rounds coming from every direction.
For hours, the fighting continued.
Eventually, additional units from the Zarakhanda National Defence Forces arrived as reinforcements. Some rushed directly into the capitol compound, moving quickly to secure the safety of President Emmanuel and his family.
But the battle was far from over.
Standing among the advancing militia, Commander Sefu raised his AK-47 and scanned the battlefield with calm precision.
Through the smoke and flames, he spotted several of his fighters climbing onto the rooftops of buildings surrounding the capitol. They carried RPG launchers, M4 rifles, and submachine guns.
From their elevated positions, the fighters opened fire.
A relentless barrage of bullets and rockets rained down toward the capitol compound.
Inside the defensive perimeter, a government soldier suddenly shouted:
"Watch your right!"
—but it was already too late.
An RPG rocket slammed into the perimeter wall.
The explosion erupted directly in front of the defenders, sending concrete fragments flying across the courtyard.
Meanwhile, above the city, two Mi-17 helicopters roared across the night sky, circling over the militia convoy below.
Both aircraft unleashed bursts of machine-gun fire into the streets, tracer rounds raining down as the militia fighters scrambled for cover.
Then—
A new sound ripped through the sky.
The thunderous roar of a fighter jet.
A NATO F-16 streaked across the darkness above Kuruva.
Inside the lead Mi-17, the crew barely had time to react.
High above them, the F-16 pilot locked onto the first helicopter.
"Fox Two."
A missile detached from the fighter's wing and screamed through the air.
Seconds later—
The missile slammed into the lead Mi-17.
The explosion tore through the helicopter instantly. Flames burst from the fuselage as the aircraft broke apart mid-air, burning wreckage spiraling toward the city below.
Inside the second Mi-17, the crew watched in horror as their partner disintegrated in the sky.
Warning alarms blared inside their cockpit.
But the militia forces were still advancing below.
The pilot made the decision.
The helicopter dove lower, committing to the attack despite the danger.
Its side gunners unleashed another relentless burst of machine-gun fire across the streets of Kuruva.
They were taking the risk.
High above them, the F-16 had already locked on again.
"Fox Two."
Another missile launched.
Inside the Mi-17, alarms screamed—but it was already too late.
The missile struck the helicopter's side.
The explosion ripped through the aircraft as flames burst outward.
The Mi-17 spun violently out of control before plunging toward the residential district of Kuruva.
Seconds later, it smashed into a cluster of apartment buildings.
The impact triggered a massive explosion that lit the night sky.
From the cockpit of the fighter jet, the pilot calmly confirmed over the radio.
"Fox Two. Target hit. Second Mi-17 splash confirmed."
After witnessing the destruction of the two air support helicopters of the Zarakhanda Defence Forces, the militia fighters erupted into triumphant cheers.
Some raised their rifles into the air. Others shouted in celebration as the burning wreckage lit the sky above Kuruva.
For a brief moment, it felt as if the battle had turned in their favor.
Three minutes passed.
Then the thunderous roar of a fighter jet echoed across the sky once again.
This time, the aircraft locked onto a column of five Soviet-era battle tanks advancing along the highway—reinforcements from the Zarakhanda National Defence.
The pilot didn't hesitate.
Missiles streaked downward from the jet.
The first tank erupted into a massive fireball.
Then the second.
Then the third.
One by one, the armored vehicles were destroyed along the highway of Kuruva, their burning hulls lighting the streets with orange flames.
As the tanks burned and thick smoke swallowed the skyline of the city, the militia fighters shouted in unison:
"god is great!"
Amid the chaos, Commander Sefu remained strangely calm.
Leaning against the side of a vehicle, he spoke casually on his cellphone while taking slow drags from a cigarette.
Smoke curled into the air as distant explosions echoed across the city.
"Ah… yes, President Emmanuel," Sefu said quietly into the phone.
A cold face.
"No problem."
A short pause followed.
"For the right price."
He ended the call and flicked the cigarette aside before stepping out of the vehicle.
With a sharp gesture of his hand, he signaled the gunner manning the anti-aircraft machine gun mounted on a Toyota Hilux.
The gunner immediately swung the weapon toward the government soldiers positioned barely fifty meters away at the capitol perimeter.
Then the weapon roared.
A storm of bullets ripped across the compound.
Rounds tore through concrete barriers and armored vehicles alike. Soldiers collapsed one after another—some still crawling desperately across the ground in search of cover.
The outer walls of the capitol were quickly riddled with bullet holes as equipment inside the first floor was shredded apart.
Under the relentless assault, the pressure on the Zarakhanda forces doubled.
Some soldiers began to tremble.
Others hid behind walls and vehicles, barely daring to breathe.
With casualties mounting rapidly, the field commander of the Zarakhanda Defence Forces finally shouted the order no soldier wanted to hear.
"Retreat!"
The surviving troops abandoned their positions.
Some scrambled over the capitol walls.
Others ran blindly into the smoke-filled streets.
Within moments, the defensive line collapsed.
Inside the capitol, deep within its underground bunker, an elite unit of the Zarakhanda Defence Forces had finally located the President, along with his wife and two children.
"Sir, we are leaving now! The West is against us!" one of the soldiers shouted urgently.
The President did not respond.
He simply stood there for a moment—silent—realizing the situation had already collapsed beyond recovery.
Without another word, the unit began moving him through a hidden passage beneath the capitol, escorted by members of the Royal Elite Guard.
Above them, the surface world was collapsing.
Outside, thick smoke blanketed the entire compound. Visibility was reduced to only a few meters. Some militia fighters wore improvised respirator masks, while others covered their faces with scarves as they advanced through the ruins.
On Commander Sefu's order, a demolition team moved toward the main gate of the capitol.
Instead of randomly placing explosives, they secured multiple breaching charges along the structural weak points of the reinforced steel gate.
A few seconds later—
A deafening blast ripped through the entrance.
The gate was blown inward with violent force, tearing steel from its frame and sending fragments of metal across the courtyard.
The militia immediately pushed inside.
AK-47 fire echoed through the interior halls as they cleared the entrance area with brutal efficiency, ensuring no surviving resistance remained in their path.
They moved deeper into the ground floor, following intelligence reports of a possible hidden escape route beneath the building.
One of the fighters spotted something unusual—a side table slightly out of place.
He shoved it aside.
Beneath it was a reinforced steel access door, about shoulder-width wide.
They attempted to force it open with a crowbar, but the door held firm. It was clearly designed as a secure emergency exit.
Realizing forced entry would take too long, the militia switched tactics.
They opened fire on the hinges and lock mechanism, attempting to weaken the structure.
To ensure full breach, one of them pulled a grenade and tossed it toward the base of the door before taking cover behind the wall.
Inside the tunnel, the President and his family were escorted by the Royal Elite toward the exit. Before opening the door, they approached quietly and listened, trying to sense any danger at the mouth of the tunnel.
Outside, more than ten militia members were already waiting. Someone had tipped them off about the exact location of the tunnel—the secret exit behind the capitol's fence.
The captain quickly pulled the President, his wife, and their child back.
"Behind me! Stay behind me!" he ordered firmly.
One of the unit operators stepped forward. He approached the steel gate of the tunnel and suddenly swung it open, tossing a flashbang outside.
One second. Two. BOOM!
A blinding light erupted, accompanied by a sharp, concussive explosion.
In that instant, he raised his submachine gun and aimed down the tunnel's entrance.
"Positive! There are multiple hostiles!" he shouted into the radio.
Outside, chaos erupted among the militia. They blinked and pressed their hands to their eyes, disoriented by the flashbang.
He didn't waste a moment. His finger squeezed the trigger.
RAT-TAT-TAT-TAT!
One. Two. Three.
The militia closest to the entrance fell, shot in rapid succession.
But not all had been blinded. From the side of the road, AK-47 fire rang out.
The operator staggered back as a bullet struck his cheek. Blood spread across the side of his face as he pressed a hand to the wound.
"Contact! Contact!" he yelled.
And outside the tunnel, even more militia were closing in.
The wounded operator gasped for air, wiping the blood streaming from his cheek.
The captain peered down the tunnel entrance again. Outside, shadows of militia moved continuously behind vehicles and concrete barricades. There were too many of them.
"Captain, we're going to get overrun here," one of the team muttered, reloading his magazine.
The captain paused for a moment, weighing the situation quickly.
"We can't get trapped here," he muttered under his breath.
"We move now."
He pulled a small cylindrical canister from his vest—a smoke grenade.
"On my signal," he said, glancing at his team.
"Two smokes. Suppressive fire. We exit and fall back to the ridge."
The operators nodded.
The captain pulled the pin, crouched low, and hurled the first smoke grenade out of the tunnel. Immediately after, the second followed. PSSSSHHHH!
Thick white smoke rapidly filled the entrance, blanketing the area and masking their movements.
The thick smoke covered the entire street and the positions of the militia.
"NOW!"
They surged out of the tunnel together.
RAT-TAT-TAT-TAT!
The captain and an operator unleashed suppressive fire while the smoke rapidly concealed their movements. Outside, visibility was almost zero.
"Move! Move!"
They sprinted forward, carrying the President—one on each side—ducking as they ran. Bullets cracked again from the other side of the smoke.
Ratatatatatat!
Rounds whistled through the air, striking the ground dangerously close to where they ran.
"Thirty meters to the ridge!" one of the operators shouted.
As they ran, two operators stayed behind to provide cover fire.
One operator carried the President's ten-year-old child, weaving through narrow alleyways until they reached an old white Nissan van parked behind a nearby establishment.
The two operators fell back, staying behind the cover of the smoke—when they heard a new sound.
A heavy engine rumbled.
Gradually, the shadow of a pickup truck appeared, a heavy machine gun mounted on its rear.
But before it could open fire, they were already sprinting away, weaving through the same alleyways their team had passed moments earlier.
Several militia fighters entered the tunnel, bu they find it empty.
For a moment, there was only silence.
Then—
Footsteps.
Soft. Echoing.
From the far end of the tunnel.
The sound suddenly stopped.
The fighters froze.
They raised their AK-47s toward the darkness, fingers tightening around the grips. No one spoke. The only sound was the slow drip of water somewhere along the concrete walls.
"Did you hear that?" one whispered.
No answer.
The men exchanged uneasy glances. Someone gestured forward.
Slowly… cautiously… they began moving toward the direction of the sound, rifles aimed straight ahead, nerves stretched tight.
A faint beam of light flickered across the tunnel wall.
Then suddenly—
Shapes appeared in the darkness ahead.
Both groups froze.
For a split second they simply stared at each other, startled by the sudden encounter.
One fighter—already shaking with nerves—flinched.
His finger twitched.
The trigger snapped.
The first gunshot cracked violently through the tunnel.
A man dropped instantly.
Panic exploded.
"What the hell—?!"
"SHOOT! SHOOT!"
Rifles erupted all at once, bullets ripping through the narrow tunnel as gunfire echoed violently against the concrete walls.
Men shouted in confusion, some ducking, others firing blindly into the darkness.
Two fighters were killed on the far side, while several others collapsed wounded, clutching their bleeding bodies.
The firefight continued for several chaotic minutes—
Until a voice suddenly screamed from the smoke and darkness.
"YOU IDIOTS! IT'S US!"
The gunfire faltered.
"STOP! STOP SHOOTING!"
"FUCK! YOU KILLED SALIK!"
Silence fell over the tunnel.
Everyone froze.
Salik.
Commander Sefu's nephew.
When they finally saw his body lying motionless on the concrete floor, the realization spread through the militia like ice.
A few wounded fighters slowly emerged from the darkness—shocked, shaken, and terrified.
Not because of the firefight.
But because they knew what Commander Sefu would do when he learned how his nephew had died.
"Radio! Radio!" one fighter shouted desperately.
A young fighter ran towards the man to hand over the radio, while carrying a short-barreled AK-74.
"Commander, target is lost!"
Sefu's voice came through the radio, sharp and cold.
"Say that again?"
"Sir… the President has escaped," the wounded fighter replied, his voice trembling.
A long pause followed.
Only the faint hiss of static filled the line.
Then Sefu spoke again, his voice low and controlled.
"Block every exit route from the city."
"Yes, boss!"
Another brief silence passed.
"And where is Salik, by the way?"
The fighters exchanged uneasy glances. One of them swallowed hard before speaking.
"Sir… Sir… Salik is dead."
The words hung heavily in the air.
Seconds passed.
No response from Sefu.
Only the static.
Someone tried calling again.
"Commander? Commander?"
But there was no answer.
The line suddenly went dead.
The fighter slowly lowered the radio from his ear.
Even without hearing Salik respond earlier… even without any words from Sefu after the news…
The fear was already written on his face.
Everyone in the tunnel understood the same thing.
After Sefu received the message, the twelve vehicles in the convoy roared to life, carrying around forty-five militia members. They sped down the highway, aiming to intercept the President's getaway vehicle.
The target vehicle was already pulling away when the two operators, carrying their submachine guns, arrived. Amandou shouted to grab their attention.
The van's door opened mid-motion. The two operators sprinted, leapt inside, and slammed the door shut. Thick dust swirled around them as the van accelerated.
30 to 40 kph. A sharp left. A sudden right.
For nearly thirty minutes, the van sped down the highway toward the extraction point.
Inside the vehicle, the atmosphere was heavy with silence.
The President's wife held their child close. Both looked exhausted, their faces pale with fear after everything that had happened.
The President glanced at the armed man sitting across from him.
"What's your name, son?" he asked.
"I'm Captain Amandou, sir," the man replied. "You sent me to Moscow years ago… for the training program."
Recognition flickered in the President's eyes. He remembered the program well—one of his early military initiatives, sending select soldiers abroad for elite training with Russian instructors.
He gave Amandou a quiet nod and placed a hand on his shoulder.
A silent way of saying: good work.
Suddenly, the President's cellphone vibrated in his pocket.
It began to ring.
He pulled it out and answered.
"Hello? Who's this?"
No response.
Only silence on the other end.
He frowned and lowered the phone.
A few seconds later—
The phone rang again.
He answered once more.
"Hello?"
Still nothing.
He was about to set the phone down when—
BANG!!!
A red Toyota Tacoma burst from a side street and slammed violently into the side of the van.
The impact sent the vehicle skidding across the road.
The driver fought the wheel desperately as the van spun and scraped along the edge of the street before crashing into the front wall of a small house.
"Keep moving! Keep driving!" Amandou shouted.
The driver slammed the accelerator, trying to pull the damaged van back onto the road.
Then—
Gunfire erupted from behind them.
Bullets punched through the metal panels of the van.
"DOWN!" one operator shouted.
He forced the President, his wife, and their child to duck low between the seats.
The operators returned fire through the rear windows.
BRATATATATAT!
Muzzle flashes lit the inside of the vehicle as they fired at the pursuing attackers.
Amandou suddenly realized something.
"They might be tracking us," he said quickly.
He grabbed the President's cellphone.
"Sir, we need to ditch this. They could be using it to locate us—"
But the President refuse, he pulled the phone back
"Thus could put Zarakhanda at the center of a global war!" the President said firmly.
In the convoy, Sefu signaled the lead vehicles.
"Double time!" he shouted.
The vehicles accelerated even more. Under the streetlights, the thick smoke and dust kicked up by their tires was clearly visible.
Sefu noticed a militia fighter standing behind a Toyota Hilux, RPG aimed at the van they were chasing.
"HEY! HEY! DON'T! I NEED HIM ALIVE!" Sefu yelled.
The fighter in the other truck didn't hear him over the roar of the engines. But the man beside him quickly grabbed the RPG and lowered its aim.
From thirty meters away, they spotted the white van suddenly turning into a narrow alley between buildings. Some convoy vehicles slammed on their brakes.
A pickup truck followed and entered the alley. The second truck went in as soon as it saw the first fit through. Then came the third.
The rest of the convoy maneuvered around, searching for alternative routes to intercept the white van.
6:30 AM. The blue, dusty light of dawn began to creep over the city, casting long shadows over the chaotic streets.
Sefu's group was still searching for the van through the residential streets of Dakala District. Some of their vehicles couldn't advance, blocked by the narrow lanes.
Sefu stood by the highway, next to his car with several other militia, speaking on the line with a contact connected to Central Intelligence. The contact promised to provide information on the van—the President's getaway vehicle—using a copy of a spy satellite feed.
Meanwhile, news and social media were spreading rapidly: the Zarakhanda government had fallen into the hands of the "Moto wa Mapinduzi" militia. A video captured on an Android phone showed two fighters, rifles slung across their backs, hoisting a red flag atop the capitol. Smoke still rose from the surrounding area, the third floor recently engulfed in flames. The fighters fired their weapons into the air with joy, flashing peace signs.
The flag rose on the breeze, displaying a hyena's head, a black sword emblem below it, and an Arabic emblem at the top.
By 7:20 AM, crowds had filled the highways of Kuruva, celebrating the fall of Emmanuel's regime. People filmed videos, held placards reading "NO MORE DICTATOR" and "SURRENDER OR DIE."
But not everyone was rejoicing. Through text and messenger apps, civilian loyalists of President Emmanuel began gathering, armed with weapons long hidden in the corners of their homes.
In a wide open area of the city, the celebrating crowds suddenly scattered as gunfire erupted from a distance. According to an African news agency, 12 were killed.
While the small and once-unknown nation of Zarakhanda captured the world's attention due to the chaos and civil war, inside a modest house made of concrete with a steel roof—its small garage hiding a vehicle covered in a black tarp—the President and the captain spoke in low voices.
The operators remained on edge. Some sat on the sofa, clutching their submachine guns, while one stood by the window, watching the distance.
Amandou spread a map of Zarakhanda across the table.
He pointed to military bases in the southern region—now destroyed by airstrikes—as well as an arms storage facility at Watalu Port. Several generals had already gone missing, and communication with them had been completely lost.
"Sir, you need to get out of this country as soon as possible," Amandou said to Emmanuel.
"Is there a safe route?" Emmanuel replied.
"Yes—if you entrust me with your phone."
Emmanuel looked at him, in an angry glare.
"You've been tracked through your phone, Mr. President," Amandou said.
"What are you saying captain?! How about we just destroy or burn this phone right now?" Emmanuel said.
For a few seconds, Amandou said nothing.
"Sir… even if we destroy your phone, they'll still know the last location where it was active—right here, where we're standing," Amandou replied.
In the kitchen, the homeowner—a mother preparing food for the exhausted soldiers and the President's family—could already hear the heated argument.
Her child slowly edged closer to the wall, peeking out, just as Amandou began forcing the phone out of the President's hand.
"Sir, this is for your safety!" Amandou insisted, struggling against Emmanuel's grip.
"This isn't about me! It's for the people of Zarakhanda!" Emmanuel shot back, pulling his hand away.
Meanwhile, thirty minutes later, Sefu received an email on his smartphone.
He tapped the link.
A map of the entire Dakala District appeared. Among the countless houses, one was circled—marked with an address, along with the names of the people living there.
Sefu began walking with his men into the residential area of Dakala District. The locals recognized him instantly. Some starred in fear, others hurried inside their homes.
A woman carrying a bucket of water balanced on her head crossed his path.
"Hey, woman—come here. You want a job?" Sefu called out.
The woman lowered her gaze.
"…Yeah. What is it?"
Meanwhile, inside the house—after hours of arguing and struggling—Amandou finally managed to wrest the phone from the President's grip.
"HOW DARE YOU DO THIS!? I AM STILL THE COMMANDER-IN-CHIEF OF THE ZARKHANDA DEFENCE FORCES! IS THAT WHAT YOU LEARNED IN MOSCOW?!" Emmanuel shouted in fury.
Amandou stood there, breathing heavily.
"Sorry, sir… this is for your safe—"
He was cut off by a woman's voice calling out the name "Zola" from outside. She stood in front of the steel gate.
From the window, one of the operators noticed her glancing toward the tarp-covered vehicle inside the garage.
From the kitchen, Zola stepped into the living room.
"Do you know that woman?" one of the operators asked.
Zola peeked outside.
"No."
For two full minutes, Zola didn't let the woman in as she remain silent—following Amandou's orders—despite her calling out repeatedly and banging on the gate. Eventually, the woman left.
Amandou turned back to Emmanuel, pressing further—this time demanding the phone's password.
The President refused.
"Just kill me now!" Emmanuel snapped.
His wife stood up, pleading for them to stop arguing.
"Please… we can talk about that after we get out of Zarakhanda!"
Amandou sighed, then announced he would step out to gather information and find a safe route out of Dakala District. He ordered two of his men to come with him.
As he descended the stairs, Amandou used his keypad phone to contact a technician he knew—asking if it was possible to unlock the smartphone.
When they reached the garage, he pulled off the tarp covering the van and opened the gate.
The engine roared to life.
The van reversed out—then moved forward—
CRACK!
A bullet pierced through the windshield, striking the driver in the face. His body slumped forward against the steering wheel.
Amandou, seated in the front, immediately returned fire.
TRATATATATAT!
He fired blindly, not even knowing where the enemy was positioned.
But the incoming fire was overwhelming. From about twenty-five meters away, bullets tore into the vehicle relentlessly. The operator in the backseat never even made it out—his body slumped against the seat, bloodied, lifeless.
As the van was riddled with gunfire, Amandou desperately tried to control the steering wheel—but more rounds struck him, one after another, until his body finally gave out.
Within seconds, everything fell silent.
The militia slowly emerged from their cover once they realized the van was no longer responding.
Sefu ordered two of his men to approach. They opened the door.
One of them glanced into the distance, then raised both hands—signaling toward Sefu's position.
There were no survivors inside.
The two operators left inside the house—Private Jabari and Corporal Musa—were immediately alerted.
Fear gripped the homeowner's family as gunfire echoed outside, and stray bullets shattered parts of the windows, leaving holes in the glass.
Without hesitation, the two operators ordered the President and his family to find cover in the corners of the house. They moved quickly into the kitchen, while the soldiers took positions in the living room, their submachine guns aimed directly at the entrance.
If the militia forced their way in, they were ready to pull the trigger without hesitation.
Minutes passed.
Then they heard it—
Footsteps outside.
The clinking of metal. The faint rattle of ammunition hanging from a fighter's body.
Their grip on their weapons tightened.
Then—
The sound of a doorknob slowly turning. Someone was trying to force it open.
Meanwhile, in the southwestern region of Zarakhanda—an underdeveloped province filled with guesthouses for foreigners—Tavongo.
Dr. Jeanne, exhausted and slightly hungover from several nights of partying after long and grueling fieldwork, lay asleep in her hotel room.
At 8:30 AM, she was jolted awake by the vibration of her phone on the side table. As she reached for it, the vibration stopped.
She unlocked the screen.
Eight missed calls. Four text messages.
She tapped one.
"Have you seen the news? You better leave Zarakhanda now!"
Her brows furrowed, eyes still swollen with sleep.
She opened Google Chrome and typed: "Latest news today for Zarakhanda."
Any trace of drowsiness vanished instantly.
Images filled the screen—the presidential residence, known as "The Capitol," reduced to ruins, still smoking. A massive flag of the Moto wa Mapinduzi militia waved above it, while fighters celebrated alongside sympathetic civilians.
Another headline appeared:
"The Dictator is Missing"—referring to President Emmanuel of Zarakhanda.
Jeanne shot up from the bed, clutching her forehead. She stared blankly at the screen, unable to process what she was seeing.
Her mind raced.
She glanced at her laptop on the center table, rushed over, and opened it. File after file—documents, photos of specimens from the site—she checked everything frantically.
Grabbing her phone again, she called back a random number from her missed calls. No answer.
She tried the number listed for the Philippine Embassy—but it just kept ringing. No one picked up.
She immediately called Naomi, her colleague from the field site.
Naomi answered—surprisingly calm.
"Hey, Naomi—have you heard what's happening in Kuruva?!" Jeanne asked.
"Yeah, Jeanne. We're watching it right now on CNN."
"Naomi, start packing—we're leaving Zarakhanda!" Jeanne said urgently.
"Jeanne, relax. Kuruva is far from Tavongo," Naomi replied.
"It's not just the fall of Kuruva, Naomi…" Jeanne said, her voice tightening."…it's the fall of the entire country."
After a brief discussion on whether to leave or stay, they decided to meet at the train station in Mutawa-where they would catch a bus to Nigara and head for the Philippine Embassy—Jeanne ended the call.
With the TV still playing on the wall, she hurriedly packed her belongings into her backpack, placing her laptop carefully between layers of clothing inside her luggage.
Then—
A breaking news segment caught her attention.
She froze.
Slowly, she turned toward the TV—her eyes widening in shock.
On the screen—
President Emmanuel.
His forehead was wounded, his face covered in dust, his once-clean long-sleeve shirt now stained with dirt. Blood trickled from his lips.
He was being dragged—pulled by the collar—by two militia fighters armed with AK-47s.
They paraded him through the streets as chaos erupted around them. Civilians shouted and cheered wildly in celebration.
In the distance, several houses burned, thick smoke rising high into the sky.
After packing her things, Jeanne stepped out of the hotel and lined up for the shuttle heading to the train station.
It was crowded.
Inside, the radio played nonstop as passengers murmured about the unfolding crisis. Jeanne stared out the window, unable to comprehend how such a small militia group had managed to topple a government long supported by Western countries.
Her phone buzzed.
A message from Naomi appeared on Messenger:
"OTW "—with a photo of her and their fellow fieldworkers inside a rented vehicle.
Jeanne's anxiety deepened.
Then, over the radio—
Breaking News.
Several countries had begun declaring travel bans and enforcing a no-flight zone over Zarakhanda.
"Shit… how are we supposed to get out now?" she muttered, biting the tip of her thumb.
The shuttle sped along the highway when the driver suddenly slowed.
Up ahead, a group of men blocked the road.
They were armed—RPG launchers slung over their shoulders, an M240 machine gun resting on a makeshift stand, and several AK-47s hanging across their chests.
In the middle of the road stood a crude plywood board painted in red letters:
CHECKPOINT
The tension inside the shuttle tightened instantly.
These weren't Kambara police.
They wore jeans and T-shirts, some in jogging pants and cheap jackets. Their faces were wrapped with cloth masks.
Militia.
The shuttle rolled to a stop.
One of the men approached the driver's window and demanded his license. After inspecting it, he gave a short signal to the others.
Another man stepped forward and climbed inside the shuttle.
In his hand was a printed photograph.
He slowly scanned the passengers—one face at a time. His eyes lingered on each person standing in the crowded aisle, but the packed shuttle made it difficult for him to see the passengers at the back.
Then his gaze stopped.
At the far end of the shuttle sat a woman wearing dark sunglasses.
He stared at her.
"Hey… you."
He called again.
"Miss."
Jeanne lifted her head and looked at him.
"Take off your sunglasses."
Her heart hammered violently against her ribs.
But she couldn't let it show.
Keeping her breathing steady, Jeanne slowly removed the sunglasses, her eyes fixed on the man holding the rifle.
The man glanced at the photograph in his hand…
Then back at her.
Seconds stretched into a suffocating silence.
Finally, he turned to the passengers.
"Everyone—out of the shuttle."
Murmurs spread through the crowd.
One by one, the passengers stepped down from the bus.
Within moments, the shuttle was empty.
Except for Jeanne.
The armed men climbed inside just as she began to stand.
One of them stepped closer, staring directly at her.
"Ma'am…"
He extended his hand.
"Your ID."
Jeanne swallowed.
Slowly, she reached into her bag and pulled out her wallet.
Her fingers felt cold as she slid the ID card out and handed it to him.
The man studied it carefully.
His eyes moved from the card…
to her face…
then back again.
Another militia member leaned closer, glancing at the photo he was holding.
For a moment, neither of them spoke.
Then the second man whispered something in a language Jeanne didn't fully understand.
The first man frowned.
He looked back at Jeanne.
"Where are you going?"
"Mutawa," she replied, forcing calm into her voice.
"Why?"
"I have family there."
The man stared at her a little longer.
Then suddenly—
A loud burst of gunfire echoed somewhere in the distance.
Everyone froze.
The militia outside shouted.
Another burst followed.
This time closer.
The men inside the shuttle exchanged quick looks.
One of them rushed to the door and shouted something outside.
Chaos erupted at the checkpoint.
Engines roared.
Someone yelled orders.
And in that single moment of confusion—
The man holding Jeanne's ID looked away.
Just for a second.
But for Jeanne…
That second might be the only chance she had.