Chapter 2: The Code

THE CODE
is not a rulebook.

It’s what’s left when everything else burned.
The oath that stuck to the ribs.
The thing that mutters in the dark when nobody’s listening.

–

Still Broken.
Still Here.

We’re not better.
We’re just paid.

Don’t trust the ones who smile too much.
Don’t trust the ones who pray, either.

Kill the guy giving orders if he calls you “son.”
Spare the drunk who puked on your boots if he took a bullet that wasn’t his.
That’s the closest thing to loyalty you’ll find.

If you see a man with polished hands, talking about peace… he’s the enemy.
If you see a man in chains, foaming at the mouth… he’s family.

When it all goes to ash, memory’s the last thing that burns.
If one of us is still crawling, that’s enough.
Even if we’re worthless.
Especially if we’re worthless.

Your name died the day you signed.
Forget the past.
It’s a luxury for people who still celebrate birthdays.
We don’t.

No rest until the last chain breaks.
Sleep if you can.
But know this:
right across that wall, someone’s chewing a tied-up rat and calling it dinner.

The Code doesn’t scream anymore.
It mutters. Rattles around in your ribs when the world goes quiet.

You’ll drink.
You’ll lie.
You’ll betray.

But when you aim… there it is again.
That silence.
Right before the shot.
That’s the Code,
reminding you: you’re still in it.

The world will throw you in a ditch.
No name.
No story.

But if you remember who you bled for…
maybe the dirt bites a little softer.

So says the Code.