The Silence Before the Storm
Chapter 1: The Silence Before the Storm
Ameena had once taught little girls how to read. Now, they weren’t even allowed to write their own names.
She sat in her small, government-assigned housing unit, fingers curled around a chipped mug of boiled water. Coffee was a luxury saved for men. Real coffee, anyway. What she drank was a bitter herbal substitute, like everything else in her life: survival without flavor.
The Ministry speakers crackled to life outside her window, the daily broadcast slicing through the morning stillness like a blade.
“Obedience is freedom. Modesty is purity. A woman’s place is beneath the rule of man—protected, preserved, and possessed.”
Ameena didn’t flinch. Not anymore. She’d learned to keep her expression blank, to nod when expected, to lower her eyes.
Inside, however, a silent scream brewed.
Today marked ten years since the vote that changed everything. Ten years since the country fell under the “Restorative Patriarchy Act.” Ten years since her mother slit her own wrists in a bathtub rather than become a second wife to a man three decades older.
Ameena had buried her that day. And buried her own heart with her.
She kept her head down. Survived. She’d refused all “matchings” so far by pretending to be sick, infertile, broken. But the system was growing smarter. The rumors said the Ministry was tired of delays. Unmatched women were disappearing.
And last night, she’d found the mark on her door.
A red X.
Assigned. Selected.
Her number was up.
She hadn’t opened the door at first. Just stared through the cracked blinds at the faded red paint—thick, dripping, like blood smeared by a careless hand.
The X meant she’d been assigned a husband. The state would come within seventy-two hours. Sometimes sooner.
She’d tried not to panic.
Instead, she sat in the darkness for hours, barely breathing, the mug cooling in her hands. Her body felt numb, but her thoughts raced, clawing for a way out. Escape was impossible. The city gates were guarded, monitored by drones. Unmarried women caught outside their homes without papers were branded runaway property—punishable by public use and execution.
Ameena wasn’t afraid of death.
She was afraid of what they would do to her before they killed her.
She had one chance—maybe.
She reached into the floorboard beneath her mattress, pulling up a loose tile. Hidden beneath it was a tiny silver device, no larger than her palm. Forbidden technology. A smuggled transmitter. It only had one button. One shot.
It had been given to her by a woman whose name she never knew—someone she met once at a Ministry clinic, who had leaned close and whispered:
“When the mark comes, press this. If you want to live… or burn it all down.”
Now, the smooth metal trembled in her hand. Her thumb hovered over the button.
Then she heard the knock.
Three sharp bangs. Cold. Official.
They didn’t wait.
Her door exploded open, the lock shattered. Two black-clad Ministry Enforcers stormed in, guns raised, visors reflecting her terrified face. Behind them stood a man in a high-ranking officer’s coat—maroon and gold. Tall. Clean-shaven. A silver badge pinned to his chest: Property Reassignment Division.
He looked at her like she was a dress on a rack.
“This one?” he asked the enforcers, already turning away. “Sedate and package her. Commander Voss doesn’t like bruised merchandise.”
Ameena ran.
She didn’t make it three steps.
An electric rod hit her back, lightning flooding her spine. Her legs collapsed. Her last breath was a scream, cut off as darkness swallowed her whole.