The Last Voice In Zundaria

Subtitle: A Man With Blood on His Hands, and Doubt in His Heart

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General Raymond Clarke had ordered many deaths in his lifetime.

Some quietly. Some loudly. Some without even knowing their names.

But Miles Wilson — he remembered that name.

He remembered the speech. The eyes. The unwavering calm before the blast. Clarke had watched it from the operations room, a cigar burning down to ash in his hand.

Now, weeks later, the name refused to leave him.

---

It started with a dream.

Miles standing in front of a mirror, asking only one question:

> "If you had to silence the truth to protect peace… did you ever have either?"

Clarke had woken drenched in sweat, the cold weight of his medals digging into his chest from where he'd fallen asleep with them on.

He hated dreams. They had no chain of command.

---

The headquarters of Zundaria's Internal Defense Force was quiet that morning. Quiet in the way that meant surveillance was watching everything.

Clarke's boots echoed across the hallway as he approached the Archive Wing — a place sealed from the public, even from most government officials.

He used his personal clearance to enter.

> Category: Civil Threat

Name: Wilson, Miles

Status: Terminated

Risk Level: Persistent

Notes: "Ideological echo detected in civilian youth."

He paused.

"Ideological echo."

They couldn't even say "inspiration." It was spreading, and they knew it.

---

He clicked open the last-known surveillance files.

Footage of schools, churches, even graveyards — where people whispered Miles' name. Where teachers quoted him indirectly. Where flash drives were hidden behind altar stones.

One clip stood out.

A child standing on a wooden box, reading aloud to a crowd of silent adults in a farming village:

> "We are not poor because we are weak.

We are poor because they are afraid of what we'd do if we weren't."

Clarke blinked. Rewound. Watched it again.

He remembered approving those exact words for deletion.

But here they were — back again.

---

Back in his office, he poured himself a drink. No celebration, no toast. Just silence.

He looked at the wall. It was lined with medals, maps, and a framed oath.

But suddenly, it all felt… hollow.

> "The traitor has been silenced. Zundaria remains peaceful."

That was the line he'd helped write. He remembered editing it, word for word.

Now he whispered it again — and it felt like a lie carved in gold.

---

His phone vibrated.

A coded message from an anonymous source:

> You were wrong about him.

So were we all.

Check the east radio tower.

11:00 PM. Tonight.

Clarke stared.

No sender ID.

No traceable origin.

But something deep inside him stirred — not fear, not duty…

Remorse.

---

He slid the drawer open and stared at the old notebook inside — the one he hadn't touched in years. Not since before the military. Before the war. Before he traded truth for survival.

He flipped it open and wrote one line:

> "I killed the man. But I couldn't kill the voice."