The Trial of the Unmarked
The perfect city gleamed beneath a cloudless sky. Birds chirped in harmony, children laughed in the parks, and the air smelled of engineered jasmine and peace. It was a beautiful day—unless you were Thomas Stone.
He stood in chains.
Neck, wrists, ankles—all bound in polished steel. The courthouse loomed around him, a monument of marble and symmetry, its towering pillars casting no shadows in the sterile light. Inside, silence reigned. Trials were rare in this new world. Crime had been all but erased. But today, the system made an exception.
Three judges sat above him, robed in white, their faces expressionless.
"Thomas Stone," the lead judge intoned, "you stand accused of violating one of our most sacred laws. You do not possess the mark."
His voice echoed through the chamber like a sermon.
"How," he continued, "do you expect to survive the monsters without it?"
Thomas raised his head, blood still crusted on his lip from the factory battle. "Your honor," he said, voice steady, "the mark doesn't work. I fought beside one of your officers against a beast that could slaughter this entire city if it wanted to. The mark didn't save him. It didn't save anyone."
"Order!" barked the second judge, slamming his gavel.
Thomas lowered his head not in submission, but in respect for the moment. He knew what was coming.
The third judge leaned forward. "You have two choices, Mr. Stone. You accept the mark… or you die. Which will it be?"
Thomas stared at the floor, his thoughts spiraling. He remembered the Minotaur's laugh, the way it mocked the mark. He remembered the blood, the pain, the lies. But more than anything, he remembered the hatred. Not just for the beast—but for all of them. The demons. The abominations. The ones who had twisted the world into a cage of false peace.
He clenched his fists.
If death was the price of resistance, so be it.
Then, with fire in his voice and fury in his soul, Thomas looked up and shouted:
"I will not get the mark!"