Against the Current

Against the Current

1

The first time Leo defied the rules, it was a small thing—an act so inconsequential that no one even noticed. He held the door open for an old woman outside the municipal building, despite the unspoken but well-known regulation: everyone was to move quickly, efficiently, and without unnecessary interaction.

It wasn’t until he turned sixteen that the defiance started taking root, twisting into something he could no longer ignore. It was then that he realized what he wanted—to paint, to create, to put color in a world that had long since drained itself of vibrancy. But that was not how things worked in the city of Orsova.

Orsova prided itself on order. Everyone had their place. Their roles were assigned, their futures mapped out before they had the chance to make a single decision for themselves. Creativity was an indulgence, a distraction from function, from purpose. Art had no value. The city planners had made that clear centuries ago when they built towering gray structures and established a society that moved in perfect synchrony. Efficiency was law. Expression was a crime.

Leo knew this. He had always known this. And yet, every night, he locked his door, pulled the shades, and painted in secret. His brushes swept over the canvas, his fingers smudged the edges, his heart pounded at the risk of it all. If he were ever caught, the consequences would be severe.

But how could he stop when this was the only time he truly felt like himself?

2

It started with a rumor. A whisper passed from one cautious mouth to another.

Someone had been painting the walls of the city. Small at first—a stroke of red beneath an overpass, a streak of blue on a lamppost. Then, the images grew bolder. A yellow sun blooming over the market district. A green vine winding its way up the administration building.

The authorities called it vandalism. A crime against order.

Leo called it hope.

He worked at night, slipping through empty streets, his heart pounding with every brushstroke. The city’s gray walls were hungry for color, desperate to be more than just background. And as he painted, he imagined a world where people were free to be more than what they were assigned to be.

But he was not careful enough.

3

The moment he saw the red glow of the enforcement drones, Leo knew he had made a mistake. He had lingered too long, lost in the image of a phoenix rising from the ashes—a symbol of rebirth, of change. He had let himself believe, just for a moment, that maybe he wasn’t alone.

Now he was running.

His feet pounded against the pavement, the sound swallowed by the whir of machinery closing in behind him. He turned sharply into an alley, his breath coming in sharp gasps, his hands still stained with paint.

There was nowhere to go.

The voice of the enforcer came through the speaker, cold and unyielding. “Halt, citizen. You are in violation of municipal order 47-B. Remain where you are.”

But Leo did not stop.

He scaled the fence at the end of the alley, his fingers slipping against the metal, his muscles burning. If he could just get away, just make it to the underground tunnels—

A sharp pain shot through his body. A stun pulse. He barely registered the impact before darkness took him.

4

Leo woke up in a sterile white room. The walls were bare, the air thick with the scent of antiseptic. His wrists were bound to the chair, his ankles strapped down.

Across from him sat a man in a gray uniform, his expression unreadable.

“Leonard Vass,” the man said. “Age seventeen. Labor designation: Infrastructure Maintenance. Charged with unauthorized artistic expression and defacement of public property. Do you deny these charges?”

Leo’s mouth was dry. He could still feel the pulse of electricity in his limbs, the residual pain of being taken down. But he forced himself to lift his chin.

“I don’t deny it,” he said.

The man studied him. “You understand that your actions disrupt the balance of this city? That what you call ‘art’ is nothing more than an act of rebellion?”

Leo held his gaze. “Maybe the city needs rebellion.”

Silence stretched between them, taut as a wire.

Finally, the man leaned back, exhaling slowly. “We could send you to rehabilitation. Re-education. Wipe away these… inclinations of yours.”

Leo swallowed hard. “Or?”

“Or,” the man said, “you can be useful.”

5

The assignment was clear: infiltrate the underground movement.

Leo was to find the other dissidents, the ones who spread ideas of change, who painted on walls, who whispered of a world beyond structure and rules. He was to gain their trust, report their activities, and ensure that order remained intact.

He had no choice. Either he complied, or they would erase him—not just from the city, but from himself. He had heard stories of re-education, of people emerging from it as empty shells, their minds scrubbed clean of everything that had made them unique.

So he played his part.

He let them release him. He returned to his routine, his job. He pretended to be the frightened boy who had learned his lesson. And when the right whispers reached him, when the right hands pulled him into the shadows, he let himself be taken.

The underground was smaller than he expected. A handful of people in a forgotten basement, their faces wary, their hope flickering like candlelight in a storm. They welcomed him hesitantly, watching him with eyes that had learned not to trust too easily.

And yet, as the days passed, Leo found himself believing in them. In their vision.

And he realized, with a sick twist in his gut, that he was supposed to betray them.

6

The night of the raid, he was supposed to send the signal. A simple transmission—a pulse sent to the authorities that would mark the underground’s location.

But as he sat among them, listening to their plans, watching the way their eyes lit up when they spoke of a future where people could be more than function and efficiency, he knew he couldn’t do it.

They were fighting for the right to exist as themselves. To be more than what the city allowed. To create, to express, to feel.

How could that be wrong?

So instead of sending the signal, he smashed the transmitter.

And when the authorities came knocking, Leo was the first to stand in their way.

He had done something wrong. He had broken the city’s laws.

But for the first time in his life, he knew it was for the right reason.

7

They called him a traitor. A criminal.

The trial was swift. The sentence was final.

Leo stood before the city, his hands bound, his heart steady. The people watched, silent as ever, their expressions carefully blank. The authorities had called for a public example—to remind the citizens what happened to those who refused to fall in line.

And yet, as he stood there, he saw something in the crowd.

A single brushstroke of color. A red scarf, bright against the sea of gray. A silent message. A spark refusing to be extinguished.

They could erase him.

But they could not erase the fire he had started.

And as they led him away, he smiled.