LOGINHi Everyone.I hope you are enjoying the second volume of the Who's The Loser Series.I will be taking the rest of the year off to celebrate the holiday season.Rest assured, I will be back at the new year to continue writing this book, among others.There will be more twists and turns along the way.And as always, your support, comments and feedback are always appreciated. Please leave a comment to let me know how I am doing with the story and how I can improve in the future.So until then, I wish you one and all a very blessed Christmas and a Happy New Year.Love,JDHWS
Morning did not bring calm. It brought reckoning.The plaza outside the council hall filled before sunrise, not because of announcements or posters, but because something deeper had shifted. Word of the northern refugees had spread through the night—how the gates had opened, how children had been carried inside instead of left to freeze, how Reiss had walked away with a smile sharp enough to cut.By the time Lena arrived, the square was already packed. Workers with soot-stained hands stood shoulder to shoulder with merchants in pressed coats. Mothers held children close. Guards lined the edges, not to intimidate, but to keep the mass from folding in on itself.No banners today. No slogans.Just waiting.Lena paused at the edge of the steps, taking in the crowd. This was not the angry noise of yesterday. This was something heavier—anticipation mixed with fear, the kind that came when people sensed a truth was coming whether they wanted it or not.Vincent stood beside her. Damien ling
The northern gate loomed like a wounded giant when Lena arrived—massive stone pillars casting long shadows across a scene on the verge of tearing itself apart.Shouts collided in the cold morning air. Torches blazed where there should have been lanterns. The smell of sweat and fear clung to everything.Hundreds—no, nearly a thousand—people crowded the road outside the gate. Families with carts stacked with blankets. Children clinging to parents’ sleeves. Elderly men leaning on cracked canes. Their faces were gaunt, hollowed by hunger and loss. They had marched for days, maybe weeks.Banners made of tattered cloth fluttered weakly above the crowd. Not political banners—signs of desperation.“HELP US.” “WE LOST OUR HOME.” “NO WATER, NO FOOD.”At the front of the line, Civic Guard officers formed a barricade—not with weapons drawn, but with shields locked together in a line meant to contain panic.Lena pushed her way through the growing tension, Vincent and Damien at her side.“Report,
The storm did not arrive all at once. It crept slowly—quiet like mold, patient like rust—slipping into the cracks of Garden Metro while the city pretended to debate futures it didn’t fully understand.A week. They had one week before the vote that would decide whether Lena Quinn remained Speaker.A week was an eternity for anger. A week was a heartbeat for disaster.By dawn of the second day, the city’s fractures became visible.The market square, which usually smelled of bread and smoke, now smelled of ink and damp paper. Merchants pasted Stability Bloc posters on their stalls between customers. Children tugged them down and tore them into confetti only for new ones to appear an hour later.At the tram junction, two men nearly came to blows—one shouting that Lena had saved them from invisible chains, the other insisting she’d doomed them all by destroying “the only damn thing that knew what was coming.”Meanwhile, at the river docks, fishermen argued over the rumors spreading like
The first posters went up overnight.They appeared on brick walls and lamp posts, pasted in corners where rain couldn’t reach, layered over old slogans from the war years. Lena saw one on her way to the council hall the next morning, the glue still damp, the ink sharp and dark.A stylized tower. A circle around it. Beneath, three words in bold, block letters:BRING BACK ORDERDamien ripped it down before she could touch it. “They’re everywhere,” he muttered, crumpling it in his fist. “Markets, tram stops, dock warehouses. Reiss has been busy.”“Or someone working for him,” Lena said, but the distinction felt thin. The message was the same.As they walked, she saw more. Variants. Some with slogans beneath the main line.NO MORE GAMBLING WITH OUR FUTURE WE CAN’T EAT PRINCIPLES QUINN BROKE THE MACHINE – WHO FIXES IT?A few had her face roughly sketched beneath the text. In some, the eyes were scratched out.Vincent met them at the council entrance, a folded leaflet in his hand.“New
The sun rose unevenly over Garden Metro—soft in some districts, harsh in others, as if the city itself couldn’t decide what kind of day it was supposed to be. The blackout had ended, but its shadow remained. Power lines buzzed with an unfamiliar hesitation, gutters dripped with condensation from overloaded pipes, and the morning air carried a strange metallic bite that made the city feel brittle.Lena Quinn stood on the balcony outside the council chamber, hands braced on the cold stone, watching citizens gather below. Overnight, word had spread faster than she expected. Someone—perhaps several someones—had leaked the truth about the Horizon shutdown. Or enough of it, anyway.“…Speaker Quinn dismantled a system that could have saved us!”“…Cassidy Vale built that machine to enslave the city!”“…Jonas Vale says the world is collapsing—why did she silence the only warning we had?”“…We followed her blindly! Now what?”“…If another famine comes, this will be on her hands.”“…She did the
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