A dystopian psychological thriller. The book explores the price of personal responsibility, the mechanism of breaking the will, the consequences of choice, when there is no compromise between morality and survival... About a system that has no pity. https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0H61LH5KX
"In a country where fear has become a language, obedience is no longer demanded — it is engineered."
That's the opening promise of HOOK, a dark new dystopian novel that will stay with you long after you've turned the last page.
It's a gripping, multi-layered story about control, survival, and what's left of a person when a system tries to reduce life to pure obedience. Bleak, atmospheric, and deeply human, it's perfect for readers who love thought-provoking fiction that doesn't offer easy answers.
Following up on my previous post — I wanted to share some real data, a few free resources, and one unexpected lesson about writing.
Starting point:
$0 marketing budget
0 audience
completely empty social media
Where I’m at now:
The Social Media Grind:
TikTok — the only platform showing some life (a few videos hit 800+ views)
YouTube Shorts — ~100 total views
Instagram — completely dead
Result: basically zero downloads from social media.
What actually worked (with $0 budget):
I couldn’t use platforms like Freebooksy, Book Cave, Book Doggy, Fussy Librarian, or BookBub (paid promos).
So I tested free options:
*Awesome Gang
*Pretty-Hot
But the real MVP:
Facebook Groups.
Searching “free kindle books amazon” and posting there brought almost ALL my downloads.
I don’t have precise tracking, but this was the only thing that worked consistently with zero budget.
(For context: I also tried posting this journey on LinkedIn — no traction at all.)
Next step:
Sending physical copies to micro-influencers/book reviewers. If you don’t have a big budget, smaller creators seem like the only realistic option.
The unexpected writing lesson:
When I wrote my book, I carefully engineered every emotional peak. I knew exactly where the reader should feel the strongest impact.
Then 5 beta readers finished it.
And ~80% of their “most emotional moments” were NOT the ones I planned.
Scenes I thought were minor hit them the hardest.
My takeaway:
Don’t underestimate any part of your story.
What feels small to you might be the most powerful moment for someone else.
Right now, my whole process still feels like a fish flopping in a glass trying to find the river.
But every failed attempt is at least a data point.
If you’ve been through this — I’d really appreciate any advice.
I want to share my journey as an independent author and would sincerely appreciate any advice or insights you might have.
I wrote and self-published my first book for free back in 2020. It did pretty well on free platforms, and I even managed to gather some initial feedback. The idea for my second book was born around the same time, but life got in the way, and I had to shelve the manuscript (since writing is a hobby, not my main source of income).
The idea resurfaced in 2025 after I finished my military service (where I served from 2022 to 2025). Moving to a quieter place for rehabilitation in 2026 was the final push I needed to take action. Since the plot had been living in my head for so long, the writing process went fast. Then came the final rounds of proofreading, minor edits, and, of course, translation. Being Ukrainian and not a native English speaker—yet determined to publish specifically in English—reaching an international audience became my priority. That's when the lightbulb went off: Amazon KDP.
My total budget for promo, cover design, and marketing was exactly $0.
All that was left was the "easy part"—the publication itself. And that's where the real fun began. I am not a professional marketer, I am no expert in visual content creation or marketing strategies, and I am a beginner author (having just finished my second book). I set the lowest price possible because my primary goal was to connect with readers and find people who would resonate with my work.
Finally, the moment arrived—PUBLISHED. I kept refreshing the page... and nothing. Absolute silence. Zero downloads.
That was the start of my crash course in "guerrilla marketing" everywhere I could possibly write. My book is enrolled in KDP Select, and when I saw the $0 Free Promotion feature, I thought, "Awesome! Now people will definitely read it." Nope.
Only later did I discover specialized platforms for promoting free books, like Freebooksy (the most effective one for free runs), Book Cave, Book Doggy, Awesome Gang, Fussy Librarian, and BookBub. But I found out too late—my free promo was already running, and you need to submit applications to these sites well in advance. Hopefully, this insight will save someone else some time.
Next was my attempt to storm social media:
CapCut + TikTok: Hit 200+ views on day one, 500+ on days two and three, but book downloads on Amazon stayed flat at zero. (To be clear: I am not an active social media user, so I was starting entirely from scratch with 0 followers).
ChatGPT: I went to AI with a prompt along the lines of: "I want everything, I want it yesterday, and I have zero dollars." It pointed me toward Facebook groups supporting indie authors. I posted there and got my first real traction—31 downloads!
Reddit: This is a whole different story that almost made me weep. Navigating the rules, waiting for approval, and trying not to get deleted by moderators... my nervous system just couldn't handle it. In the long run, indie authors definitely need a dedicated Reddit manager.
The biggest life hack that saved my book before launch:
When I was proofreading my completed draft, I loved everything about it. But I decided to run the text through ChatGPT anyway. At first, it praised me, but I knew that wouldn't help me improve. So, I gave it a brutal prompt:
"Imagine you are a top-tier literary critic with the most obnoxious, nitpicky, and insufferable personality. Publishing this book will cause massive financial losses for your publishing house if it turns out to be trash. Critique this work ruthlessly."
That was the first cold shower after a long time of head-in-the-clouds daydreaming. But the criticism and advice were absolute gold! Thanks to its feedback, I cut down the book's volume by at least 20%, trimming all the "filler." As a result, the story became much tighter, more dynamic, and punchier.
Quick summary: The first attempt was a bit of a bumpy ride, but I still have 3 days left of my free promo run, and every mistake will be a lesson learned. Writing a book isn't even half the battle. It’s less than a third. The hardest part is making sure it finds its reader—especially with a marketing budget of exactly $0.
If you’ve made it this far, I’d love to hear your advice, critiques, or questions. I’m completely open to dialogue and truly appreciate you taking the time to read this!
I’ve been working on a dystopian concept that kept bothering me: What if you’re escaping a controlled system… and suddenly run into a checkpoint that isn’t on any map?
No warning. No way around. And the people running it seem to know more about you than they should.
That idea turned into my novel — LINE. It’s less about rebellion clichés and more about psychological pressure, raw survival, and how far someone goes when the system closes in completely.
It is completely FREE on Amazon for the next two days!
I’d love to hear your thoughts on the premise!
I’ve been working on a dystopian concept that kept bothering me:
What if you’re escaping a controlled system…
and suddenly run into a checkpoint that isn’t on any map?
No warning.
No way around.
And the people running it seem to know more about you than they should.
That idea turned into a novel I just released — LINE.
It’s less about rebellion clichés and more about psychological pressure, survival, and how far someone goes when the system closes in completely.
I’m curious — does this kind of premise hook you, or feel overdone?
Also, if anyone’s interested, I made it free today on Amazon — I can drop the link in the comments.
Robert was already already dressed, sitting in a leather armchair, watching the sprawling metropolis roll out beneath the floor-to-ceiling windows of his penthouse. Without rush, he savored a glass of expensive whiskey, waiting for Brenda, who was supposed to step downstairs any minute now. She threw a shout from the upper floor:
"Five minutes, and I'm ready!" — in her vocabulary, this specific interval indicated that after this exact duration, the entire universe would finally be permitted to gaze upon her beauty. Robert was busy turning over a morning message from his neighbors at their countryside estate. Since the early hours, they had been complaining that his house had radiated deafening music and screaming all through the night, a racket so violent that nearly the entire private village had been robbed of sleep.
They took the private elevator down to the underground parking, where their vehicle was already waiting. The perimeter was choked with a crowd of unremarkable, blending men in sharp suits, anchored near every structural pillar and exit lane of the garage. The second they began to move, several escort vehicles glued themselves to his rear bumper, and the convoy accelerated onto a completely vacant avenue.
The local traffic department had cleared the asphalt well in advance; aligned in a flawless column, they shot out toward the city limits. The main highway checkpoint was already frozen in anticipation; the lane was purged, ready for their transit, and every uniform on duty stood rigidly at attention. His country mansion appeared. The moment the armored vehicle stopped before the grand entrance, Robert stepped out and headed straight toward the outdoor pool.
Brenda, meanwhile, was already sprinting through the marble hallways, wailing over shattered antique vases, rugs drowned in vomit, and other artistic surprises left behind by drunk teenagers. Robert had not miscalculated: his son was sprawled across a lounge chair by the water, wearing exactly one sock, boxers, and a heavily stained designer shirt, locked in a profound, alcohol-induced coma.
Wrapping his son's stained shirt around his own right knuckles, Robert hoisted him into the air and initiated awakening with a sharp drive into the boy's liver. The sound that tore from the kid's throat resembled the shriek of a terrified pig. A second strike followed instantly, connecting squarely with the jaw, putting his son right back to sleep on the concrete.
The security detail stepped in, dragging the body away to bring it back to consciousness. Later that evening, after wrapping up a few operational matters at the capital's glass business center, Robert and Brenda were dining in one of their favorite high-end restaurants. A security guard cut across the room at a sprint, whispering something directly into Robert's ear.
Robert gave a tight nod. A minute later, his son appeared — freshly washed, hair combed, and sharply dressed, though sporting a highly visible swelling near his lower jaw. First, the boy addressed his father:
"I will not do it again, Pa. We just went a little too far. Come on, it happens to anyone, right?" Receiving nothing but complete silence in return, the boy shifted gears, continuing his rehearsed theatrical performance:
"Pa, come on, Pa, please! Ma, tell him something!" Soon he was down on his knees by his father's chair, and a minute later, he was weeping at his mother's feet. He poured out endless vows to clean up his act in the coming days, swore he deeply appreciated every thing his parents did for him, and promised to return to his university studies immediately.
But the core of his prayer held a single request — do not cut off his allowance. Robert sat back, remembering that he had heard this exact script word-for-word on numerous occasions: when his son beat his girlfriend to within an inch of her life, when he plowed through a pedestrian while driving drunk, and during all those other wrecks that concluded with shattered sports cars …
But Robert loved his boy with such a blind, desperate intensity that his entire educational strategy that morning by the pool had concluded with exactly two punches.
Robert was a product of a family of mid-tier industrial directors, meaning his childhood had been completely free of poverty. He had seen the world early; his parents desperately wanted to hand him an elite education and push him into the upper layers of the bureaucracy. But to Robert, that path looked like an unnecessarily long route to his personal wealth and prosperity.
His character was a concentration of sharp focus, fearlessness, and brutal decisiveness. He chose to build his life independently, and to do it without delay. He left school and dove straight into orchestrating small-scale financial scams. The second he consolidated a minor criminal cushion, he pivoted further, accelerating toward far more serious volumes of cash.
A huge ledger of personal crimes followed, but step by step, Robert withdrew behind the curtain. His leverage multiplied; soon, absolutely nothing could occur in the city without his implicit clearance. With an great capital base locked in his vaults, his tastes shifted toward legal enterprise. Not that he harbored any desire to build businesses from scratch — it was significantly simpler to buy up functioning industrial complexes for pennies.
Anyone who possessed even a minor intention to continue walking the earth signed the transfer papers without a single question. Now, he was firmly anchored in the ranks of the nation's largest tycoons; he was one of them. A short time later, he consolidated a near-total monopoly over practically every manufacturing sector and pure resource the country possessed …
But even that volume felt starved. He wantd power! He possessed pure leverage anyway — the entire state was functionally his property — but he required visible power, the submissive adoration of the crowd. And suddenly, he was the most respected, untouchable member of parliament — in reality, its sole owner, much like the country itself. Robert did not freeze in his personal evolution; he was constantly refining his presentation.
Over the years, his vocabulary became exquisite, his manners mimicked those of old nobility, and he even cultivated a public interest in fine art, despite finding it utterly devoid of substance. In short, gazing upon him today, not a single hint appeared to suggest that this man had once been a common criminal. Brenda had appeared in his life back in their youth, right when he was laying the first bricks of his path, and no bond on earth was tighter than theirs.
That level of complete trust and mutual respect was a rare thing in their circles. They genuinely loved each other. By her nature, Brenda was profoundly naive. Her primary objective in life was to systematically buy up every consumer luxury debut before anyone else — it was a perpetual high-stakes race within her circle of friends. Alongside this, she possessed a deep passion for high-profile philanthropy, though she rarely understood what or who exactly sat behind the official title of her rescue missions.
A few times, she had physically visited greatly impoverished foreign nations. But those trips were rare anomalies; comfort was not even a concept in those places, and subjecting her body to that level of torture was deemed excessive. She kept a specialized leather photo album that held nothing but photographs from her travels, glamorous charity fundraising dinners, and almost every newspaper clipping where her infinite kindness was mentioned.
In short, she was always riding the complete wave of events.
She came charging across the yard like a runaway engine, all brakes gone, the firebox still being fed.
Nothing could have stopped her. Any obstacle in her path would have been smashed aside, because she could hear her son screaming.
A circle of teenagers stood ahead, kicking at something on the ground. The screams were coming from the center of that circle.
Some strange, unseen strength filled her arms. Boys of twelve and thirteen flew apart as if the ordinary laws of physics had been briefly suspended. She dropped to the dirt, lifted the child into her arms, and pressed him hard against her chest, shielding him with her own body.
“Hush, my sweet boy,” she whispered again and again, stroking his hair. “Mama’s here. Nobody is going to hurt you. Nobody.”
Over his small shoulder, a few meters away, she saw the cat.
It had been cut to pieces.
The boy’s name was Tom.
He had been born to a housewife and a low-ranking manager in the local police department. Nature had not given him much physical strength, but Tom was far from stupid. His grades at school were nearly perfect, which could not be said of his relationships with other children.
Tom did not share their interests. He disliked team sports, avoided their games, and preferred the library. Anatomical encyclopedias fascinated him. Books on psychology interested him even more. He wanted to understand how one person could influence another — what tools could be used, which buttons could be pressed, what made people obey.
On weekends, he often visited the Eldorado Zoological Museum, drawn to its glass cases, preserved animals, and heavy silence. His parents supported what they believed was an interest in medicine. They hoped that one day their son might become a doctor.
Financially, Tom’s family stood barely above the minimum, though they worked hard to hide it. They dressed as expensively as they could, presenting themselves with the confidence of people whose income belonged to a better class. Every Sunday, the whole family went to church. Not because they were especially devout. Church was simply the best available stage for displaying new clothes and reminding the neighbors of their supposed status.
Tom actually enjoyed those visits, though not for the sermons. He let the words from the altar slide past him. What impressed him was the architecture: the vast ceilings, the immense stone saints, the way a grown man standing beneath them became small enough to crush under a thumb.
But the strongest attraction was the clergy.
Their robes fed his eyes. Gold thread. Jewels. Heavy fabrics. Wealth made visible. Even more alluring were their manners: the slow, arrogant walk, the lifted chin, the careful refusal to meet the eyes of ordinary people. The crowd parted before them, bowed, offered thanks, handed over money.
To Tom, they looked like gods walking among insects, unable to grow tired of their own power.
His highest dream was to become one of them. Unfortunately, or perhaps fortunately, his father’s wallet could not build that career.
At home, reality was uglier.
Nearly every day, Tom’s father came home drunk and beat his wife according to a schedule so regular it might have been printed on the wall. It happened so often it seemed less like rage than a hobby.
On the rare evenings when he did not touch her, he entertained the family with stories from work: how he had broken another suspect, how long it took, which method finally produced the confession. One might assume such work required great physical strength or special skill, but according to Tom’s father, it required very little. A pinch of authority was enough, and authority he possessed in abundance.
Physically, the man was in his late forties, slightly shorter than average, with a rounded belly, a stooped posture, and thin little hands that looked oddly childish. It was difficult to understand how such hands could hold a police baton, let alone swing one. His face was round as well, with small, widely spaced eyes.
Despite the daily violence, he never struck Tom.
Whether this was because the boy looked so much like him, nobody knew.
But in that household, the father was not the only one who drew satisfaction from the mother’s pain. The moment the beating began, Tom would pull up a chair and sit down to listen.
The violence did not frighten him. It did not quicken his pulse.
He absorbed the sounds with intense focus, as if listening to a piece of music.
School ended, and Tom had to choose a future.
He chose psychology.
During his university years, he began visiting his father’s workplace under the useful excuse that he needed to study human behavior for his coursework. His father did not object. Even without the excuse, he was pleased that his son had taken an interest in the trade. They genuinely enjoyed spending time together.
An interrogation in that department had one purpose: obtain a confession. Whether the suspect had committed the crime was a secondary matter, and often not a matter at all.
Cases had to be solved. Quotas had to be met. Even if the population was too frightened to commit much beyond quiet despair, the plan still required execution. Crime rates were impressively high on paper, and a diligent employee who exceeded the quota could expect a generous bonus.
Tom’s father belonged firmly in that category. His photograph could have hung beneath a caption reading Employee of the Year. As long as justice remained in his hands, the country could sleep peacefully.
Tom loved being present for interrogations. He loved watching submission happen in real time. Sometimes his father even allowed him to play partner and ask questions.
Solving cases was easy for the old man. He cracked them like sunflower seeds.
God help anyone strapped to the chair after his father had received a reprimand, lost a bonus, or simply had a bad day. In those cases, an immediate confession might not be enough. More often than not, such interrogations ended with the suspect dead.
If a suspect died, the paperwork was simple. One short form. One stamp. One folder pushed into the archive at the end of the month.
Just another routine visit.
On one gray weekday, the docket held three cases: two thieves and a rapist. They began with the thieves. Since separate paperwork meant extra writing, the two were immediately registered as accomplices. Tom sat nearby with a serious academic expression, filling his notebook with random observations.
Then the rapist was brought in.
Tom’s father did not even look up at first. He began muttering the formal charges under his breath.
Then the suspect spoke.
“I’m innocent.”
Tom and his father both froze.
For a full minute, neither of them seemed able to speak. Then their eyes met. Tom gave a quick tilt of his head toward the door.
They left the suspect chained to the chair and stepped into the hallway.
The moment the iron door shut behind them, they burst into laughter.
They laughed until they were breathless, clutching each other, slapping each other on the back. Tom’s heart was pounding violently. His legs trembled from the rush of adrenaline.
He suggested they get coffee and discuss tactics.
Then he proposed a wager: whoever guessed the exact time it would take to break the man would drink beer at the loser’s expense. His father smiled wide and shook his hand.
Tom bet on no less than two hours.
His father chose under one.
It was a picture of family warmth.
Later that evening, father and son sat on the living room couch, animated and cheerful, retelling the story with laughter, interruptions, gestures, and theatrical grimaces.
That night, another official stamp landed on a short paper form.
Tom, of course, drank for free.
The Factory Parasite.
Olivia was a girl of average height with light brown hair. If you looked at her from the outside, you’d think she suffered from hyperactivity; she radiated nothing but the pure, raw energy of youth. A spark burned in her eyes, constantly screaming: “I can do anything, nothing is impossible!” Originally, Olivia came from a small village famous for its agricultural achievements, so heavy physical labor had been her shadow since early childhood. Yet, despite spending her entire youth working the endless fields of her village, her figure didn’t give a single hint of that harsh past. Standing before you was a young, vibrant girl, gifted with a delicate beauty—so fragile that it felt as though a rough touch or a strong gust of wind could shatter her. Olivia had just finished school when she caught a rare break: admission to a professional trade school, and in the capital itself. It was a garment school organized directly under a major capital factory. Upon successful completion, a graduate received a diploma, which came with a guaranteed spot at a sewing machine on the factory floor. In her wildest dreams, she didn’t see herself as a seamstress, but her parents had stripped away her rose-colored glasses back in childhood. Still, the mere thought of trading her tiny farming village—where bread was delivered only once a week—for the capital of the "GREAT COUNTRY" filled her with satisfaction. After securing a room in the dormitory, her studies began. It all ran on a well-greased track: each day looked identical to the last. From the side, it looked more like forced labor than education, because the entire curriculum took place on the factory floor, fulfilling "minor" production quotas. On weekends, all the students "voluntarily" agreed to do maintenance work around the factory grounds. Yet, joy rarely left their faces; after all, they were now in the city of opportunities... the capital. In the evenings, they could escape the industrial zone and head downtown. Back then, the industrial zone itself felt like a massive metropolis to them. But hitting the city center for the first time, her awe knew no bounds. Majestic buildings, fountains, squares—at night, the whole center lit up, and the view was mesmerizing. It was hard to put those emotions and that beauty into words. Walking through the center, being able to afford a single ice cream cone—that was the absolute peak of her dreams. Her student stipend was just enough to indulge in that ice cream, but that wasn't the point. Just being there, right then and there, with that delicious ice cream, with music drifting from luxury restaurants, under the glow of those streetlights, made her forget every drop of negativity and worry. Those were truly happy days, and the joy was real. Everyone lived for the chance to plunge into those emotions again and again. But over the following weeks of study, the scenery began to sour. The distance from the dorm to the floor was less than a kilometer, and the slogan crowning the industrial arch—“YOU ARE THE PILLAR OF THE COUNTRY, DON’T BE LAZY!”—was already causing her eye to twitch. 2. The Scent of Wood and TobaccoOn one beautiful Sunday evening, while walking down a central alley, she saw him... He was a tall, incredibly well-built young man. His athletic frame looked like the long, painstaking labor of a team of professional lumberjacks. His posture, his stride—he practically bled masculinity. His haircut was short and sharp, a style that also looked like it had been carved with an axe, framing coal-black hair. The sleeves of his shirt were rolled up, exposing powerful arms. They looked as though they were forged from steel; you could easily study the anatomy of a forearm just by looking at them. He was heading fast, straight toward Olivia... Her entire inside froze. It felt as though she had been poured full of molten lead, anchoring her to the pavement. She was terrified, ashamed to meet his eyes. In that moment, she looked like a helpless little lamb realizing the absolute hopelessness of its situation at the sight of a starved wolf. But a second later, all she felt was a heavy rush of air that nearly knocked her off her feet. He walked right past, but his trail—a heavy scent of fresh wood and tobacco—completely intoxicated her. A war broke out in her mind: on one hand, she desperately wanted to turn around and see him again; on the other, she was paralyzed by fear. Desire won. Forcing herself to wait a couple of seconds, she turned. He was already much further away than when she first noticed him. Now she saw the whole picture from behind, and he seemed even more massive, even more striking. The scent refused to leave her mind; her head became a breeding ground for new thoughts. She was physically there, but mentally gone. Olivia became a permanent ghost of that alley, haunting the spot in hopes of crossing paths with him again, rewriting a thousand scenarios of their introduction in her head. Settling on a few variations that she deemed maximally romantic, she waited. Scripting their future dialogues, she convinced herself of how much they had in common, how perfectly they fit together in her mind... But he never showed. With slow but incredibly steady steps, the monotony of factory life began to erode her. Her studies were behind her, and raw working days were consuming her life. Time was slipping through her fingers like sand, and the only confirmation that days were passing was the changing dates on the shipping invoices. Day chased day, bleeding into completely indistinguishable months. She finally buried the hope of ever seeing him again; trips to the city center became incredibly rare and no longer brought any joy. Instead, they began to fuel a quiet rage, a growing hatred for her surroundings. Any walk downtown felt like watching someone eat a juicy, expensive steak in front of a starving dog. There was so much of everything, but her wages allowed for nothing. The reality of her life hit her like a bucket of ice water, completely snuffing out the spark in her eyes. With time, ice cream was replaced by cheap cigarettes, and the thoughts of “I can do anything” evaporated into a stark realization of her purpose and reality. She understood that she was working purely for the sake of working. If the labor in the fields had spared her looks, the factory was merciless. It fed on her like a ravenous parasite... her beauty and youth were being systematically drained by the production machine. Commercial cigarettes were heavily overpriced, a luxury she could only rarely afford, but fortunately, the kiosk by the gates sold loose tobacco. Yet, despite working with her hands all day, even after months of smoking, she could never master the science of rolling a cigarette. She would pour immense effort into it, but the results were tragic, inspiring nothing but laughter. Because of this, she never went out for a smoke break without her friend. It wasn't that she only hung out with her because the girl knew how to twist paper, but you couldn't deny that major plus. 3. The Perfect CigaretteBack during her trade school days, Olivia used to sprint into the workshop in the final seconds before the whistle. She had too many things to sort out in the morning, and beauty doesn’t just paint itself. She tried waking up even earlier, but it never worked, forcing her to fly toward the factory gates every morning. Now, she cared significantly less about her appearance, but her punctuality remained intact. One evening, sleep refused to visit her, even though her body was completely broken by a brutal shift, and she had already tried every imaginable position on her thin mattress. She knew the morning held another grueling workday, but sleep ignored her pleas. Olivia just lay there, staring at the ceiling, her limbs aching just from remaining horizontal, until finally—the screech of the alarm. She actually felt a surge of relief that she finally had permission to stand up. She had plenty of time before the whistle, so she decided to head straight to the kiosk; the walls of her room had become utterly repulsive over that sleepless night. Today she didn’t fly toward the factory; she walked at a casual pace, picking out tiny details she had never noticed before. Not that those details were worth anyone's attention—what kind of scenery can you find squeezed between gray, crumbling dormitories? Navigating the concrete blocks, the kiosk materialized on the horizon. The morning crowd hadn't formed yet. Stepping up, she received her cup of coffee, a portion of tobacco, and a scrap of newspaper. The vendor didn't miss her chance to inject some of her signature "positivity," but a heavy exhaustion inside Olivia didn't even give her the energy to process or take offense at the woman's hostility. She walked a few paces away and sat down on a chunk of a broken concrete pillar that had been rotting in the dirt since her student days. Olivia was already anticipating her quiet moment, but suddenly, a wave of pure frustration boiled over inside her. The cigarette refused to take shape. If the vendor had barked at her right then, the outcome would have been ugly. Then, a quiet, deep voice cut through her frustration:
"Need some help?" She froze... She knew that voice, but she was terrified to lift her eyes. Without waiting for her consent, he gently took the paper and tobacco from her hands, twisting a flawless, perfect cigarette in a matter of seconds. As he struck a match and brought the flame to her face, their eyes met. Yes. It was exactly him, she thought to herself. He lit his own cigarette next, and the minute of timid silence shattered. A second later, the conversation was pouring out of them. From the outside, you’d think these two had known each other for an eternity. They understood each other from half-spoken words; it felt as though they weren’t two separate people, but a single, unbroken whole. The spark returned to her eyes—not just a spark, her entire being was set ablaze. She had never experienced anything like this in her life; every sensation inside was entirely new, and the gray world suddenly bled into a thousand vibrant colors and shades. The romance accelerated at a breakneck speed, as if they had been handed a lifetime ticket to the rollercoaster of love. Olivia couldn’t comprehend how this was happening to her, or what she had done to deserve such a gift from life. The hours they spent apart felt like agonizing years; the separation was physically painful. But the second they were back together, the universe became flawless again. A single thought haunted them both: how had they ever existed without each other? That past life, before their meeting, seemed like nothing but a long, agonizing torture. Now, nothing terrified them. As long as they stood together, nothing terrible could touch their world. 4. The Double WageOne evening, Frank looked completely hollowed out. Olivia couldn’t pierce the reason. But after putting immense effort and manipulation into it, she managed to pry it out of him. He told her that when he arrived at work, he was handed a notice to report immediately to the conscription office. The paper blared: “Report immediately. Your country needs you!” When he visited the office, they explained to him in brutal detail just how badly he was needed, and that for an indefinite period, his new profession was to deliver "freedom" to poor, unfortunate people on the other side of the planet. They told him it was a badge of honor. In his time, Frank’s father had also carried "freedoms" to a couple of foreign countries. Granted, they never carried that freedom just anywhere; those poor, unfortunate people always happened to possess something highly necessary to the state. Frank and Olivia had only a couple of days left. They couldn't even process how they would survive the separation, when a few hours apart had already felt like a labor camp. Those few days flew by like a couple of hours, and suddenly they were standing on the train platform, saying goodbye. She refused to unlock her arms from his neck, desperately wishing she possessed the divine gift to halt time, to keep this moment of closeness from ever ending. As the train groaned and began to roll, she walked alongside his window, fighting with everything she had to choke back her tears, but it was useless—they just carved wet tracks down her face. The train gathered speed, forcing her into a sprint, but soon she couldn’t keep up... She collapsed onto her knees right there on the concrete platform, weeping hysterically, watching his train dissolve into the distance. It was the blackest chapter of her life. The days became endless; joy and peace abandoned her completely. Waiting—there is nothing more destructive. Whenever the mailman materialized in the courtyard, her entire body would begin to twitch, her chest tightening. That man could plaster a smile on your face, or he could force you into a lifetime of screaming. Olivia noticed she wasn’t the only one driven mad by the sight of the uniform; plenty of women and girls in the dormitory reacted exactly the same way. Those who actually received their envelopes didn’t rush to tear them open; they stared at the paper, terrified of the ink inside. A few hours after the mailman's visit, the entire building would be drowned in someone's howling and sobbing—another husband or son was never coming home. Imagination could be a shield, but more often it was an executioner, and no good thoughts came... Suddenly, Olivia struck a realization—he was definitely alive. If it were otherwise, they would have already sent the official letter. Quieting her mind with that logic, burying herself deeper and deeper into her factory shifts, she waited. Surprisingly, work turned out to be an exceptional anesthetic; she started taking massive overtime, and for a few hours a day, she managed to go numb... Then, Olivia was called into the accounting office. They handed her a double wage packet and a specialized state voucher... for the collection of a corpse. A few months later, she gave birth to a boy.
***
A child born to a ghost. A debt paid in blood. This is HOOK.
Follow the journey of those who dared to look behind the curtain of the Great Country.
The Factory Parasite.
Olivia was a girl of average height with light brown hair. If you looked at her from the outside, you’d think she suffered from hyperactivity; she radiated nothing but the pure, raw energy of youth. A spark burned in her eyes, constantly screaming: “I can do anything, nothing is impossible!” Originally, Olivia came from a small village famous for its agricultural achievements, so heavy physical labor had been her shadow since early childhood. Yet, despite spending her entire youth working the endless fields of her village, her figure didn’t give a single hint of that harsh past. Standing before you was a young, vibrant girl, gifted with a delicate beauty—so fragile that it felt as though a rough touch or a strong gust of wind could shatter her. Olivia had just finished school when she caught a rare break: admission to a professional trade school, and in the capital itself. It was a garment school organized directly under a major capital factory. Upon successful completion, a graduate received a diploma, which came with a guaranteed spot at a sewing machine on the factory floor. In her wildest dreams, she didn’t see herself as a seamstress, but her parents had stripped away her rose-colored glasses back in childhood. Still, the mere thought of trading her tiny farming village—where bread was delivered only once a week—for the capital of the "GREAT COUNTRY" filled her with satisfaction. After securing a room in the dormitory, her studies began. It all ran on a well-greased track: each day looked identical to the last. From the side, it looked more like forced labor than education, because the entire curriculum took place on the factory floor, fulfilling "minor" production quotas. On weekends, all the students "voluntarily" agreed to do maintenance work around the factory grounds. Yet, joy rarely left their faces; after all, they were now in the city of opportunities... the capital. In the evenings, they could escape the industrial zone and head downtown. Back then, the industrial zone itself felt like a massive metropolis to them. But hitting the city center for the first time, her awe knew no bounds. Majestic buildings, fountains, squares—at night, the whole center lit up, and the view was mesmerizing. It was hard to put those emotions and that beauty into words. Walking through the center, being able to afford a single ice cream cone—that was the absolute peak of her dreams. Her student stipend was just enough to indulge in that ice cream, but that wasn't the point. Just being there, right then and there, with that delicious ice cream, with music drifting from luxury restaurants, under the glow of those streetlights, made her forget every drop of negativity and worry. Those were truly happy days, and the joy was real. Everyone lived for the chance to plunge into those emotions again and again. But over the following weeks of study, the scenery began to sour. The distance from the dorm to the floor was less than a kilometer, and the slogan crowning the industrial arch—“YOU ARE THE PILLAR OF THE COUNTRY, DON’T BE LAZY!”—was already causing her eye to twitch. 2. The Scent of Wood and TobaccoOn one beautiful Sunday evening, while walking down a central alley, she saw him... He was a tall, incredibly well-built young man. His athletic frame looked like the long, painstaking labor of a team of professional lumberjacks. His posture, his stride—he practically bled masculinity. His haircut was short and sharp, a style that also looked like it had been carved with an axe, framing coal-black hair. The sleeves of his shirt were rolled up, exposing powerful arms. They looked as though they were forged from steel; you could easily study the anatomy of a forearm just by looking at them. He was heading fast, straight toward Olivia... Her entire inside froze. It felt as though she had been poured full of molten lead, anchoring her to the pavement. She was terrified, ashamed to meet his eyes. In that moment, she looked like a helpless little lamb realizing the absolute hopelessness of its situation at the sight of a starved wolf. But a second later, all she felt was a heavy rush of air that nearly knocked her off her feet. He walked right past, but his trail—a heavy scent of fresh wood and tobacco—completely intoxicated her. A war broke out in her mind: on one hand, she desperately wanted to turn around and see him again; on the other, she was paralyzed by fear. Desire won. Forcing herself to wait a couple of seconds, she turned. He was already much further away than when she first noticed him. Now she saw the whole picture from behind, and he seemed even more massive, even more striking. The scent refused to leave her mind; her head became a breeding ground for new thoughts. She was physically there, but mentally gone. Olivia became a permanent ghost of that alley, haunting the spot in hopes of crossing paths with him again, rewriting a thousand scenarios of their introduction in her head. Settling on a few variations that she deemed maximally romantic, she waited. Scripting their future dialogues, she convinced herself of how much they had in common, how perfectly they fit together in her mind... But he never showed. With slow but incredibly steady steps, the monotony of factory life began to erode her. Her studies were behind her, and raw working days were consuming her life. Time was slipping through her fingers like sand, and the only confirmation that days were passing was the changing dates on the shipping invoices. Day chased day, bleeding into completely indistinguishable months. She finally buried the hope of ever seeing him again; trips to the city center became incredibly rare and no longer brought any joy. Instead, they began to fuel a quiet rage, a growing hatred for her surroundings. Any walk downtown felt like watching someone eat a juicy, expensive steak in front of a starving dog. There was so much of everything, but her wages allowed for nothing. The reality of her life hit her like a bucket of ice water, completely snuffing out the spark in her eyes. With time, ice cream was replaced by cheap cigarettes, and the thoughts of “I can do anything” evaporated into a stark realization of her purpose and reality. She understood that she was working purely for the sake of working. If the labor in the fields had spared her looks, the factory was merciless. It fed on her like a ravenous parasite... her beauty and youth were being systematically drained by the production machine. Commercial cigarettes were heavily overpriced, a luxury she could only rarely afford, but fortunately, the kiosk by the gates sold loose tobacco. Yet, despite working with her hands all day, even after months of smoking, she could never master the science of rolling a cigarette. She would pour immense effort into it, but the results were tragic, inspiring nothing but laughter. Because of this, she never went out for a smoke break without her friend. It wasn't that she only hung out with her because the girl knew how to twist paper, but you couldn't deny that major plus. 3. The Perfect CigaretteBack during her trade school days, Olivia used to sprint into the workshop in the final seconds before the whistle. She had too many things to sort out in the morning, and beauty doesn’t just paint itself. She tried waking up even earlier, but it never worked, forcing her to fly toward the factory gates every morning. Now, she cared significantly less about her appearance, but her punctuality remained intact. One evening, sleep refused to visit her, even though her body was completely broken by a brutal shift, and she had already tried every imaginable position on her thin mattress. She knew the morning held another grueling workday, but sleep ignored her pleas. Olivia just lay there, staring at the ceiling, her limbs aching just from remaining horizontal, until finally—the screech of the alarm. She actually felt a surge of relief that she finally had permission to stand up. She had plenty of time before the whistle, so she decided to head straight to the kiosk; the walls of her room had become utterly repulsive over that sleepless night. Today she didn’t fly toward the factory; she walked at a casual pace, picking out tiny details she had never noticed before. Not that those details were worth anyone's attention—what kind of scenery can you find squeezed between gray, crumbling dormitories? Navigating the concrete blocks, the kiosk materialized on the horizon. The morning crowd hadn't formed yet. Stepping up, she received her cup of coffee, a portion of tobacco, and a scrap of newspaper. The vendor didn't miss her chance to inject some of her signature "positivity," but a heavy exhaustion inside Olivia didn't even give her the energy to process or take offense at the woman's hostility. She walked a few paces away and sat down on a chunk of a broken concrete pillar that had been rotting in the dirt since her student days. Olivia was already anticipating her quiet moment, but suddenly, a wave of pure frustration boiled over inside her. The cigarette refused to take shape. If the vendor had barked at her right then, the outcome would have been ugly. Then, a quiet, deep voice cut through her frustration:
"Need some help?" She froze... She knew that voice, but she was terrified to lift her eyes. Without waiting for her consent, he gently took the paper and tobacco from her hands, twisting a flawless, perfect cigarette in a matter of seconds. As he struck a match and brought the flame to her face, their eyes met. Yes. It was exactly him, she thought to herself. He lit his own cigarette next, and the minute of timid silence shattered. A second later, the conversation was pouring out of them. From the outside, you’d think these two had known each other for an eternity. They understood each other from half-spoken words; it felt as though they weren’t two separate people, but a single, unbroken whole. The spark returned to her eyes—not just a spark, her entire being was set ablaze. She had never experienced anything like this in her life; every sensation inside was entirely new, and the gray world suddenly bled into a thousand vibrant colors and shades. The romance accelerated at a breakneck speed, as if they had been handed a lifetime ticket to the rollercoaster of love. Olivia couldn’t comprehend how this was happening to her, or what she had done to deserve such a gift from life. The hours they spent apart felt like agonizing years; the separation was physically painful. But the second they were back together, the universe became flawless again. A single thought haunted them both: how had they ever existed without each other? That past life, before their meeting, seemed like nothing but a long, agonizing torture. Now, nothing terrified them. As long as they stood together, nothing terrible could touch their world. 4. The Double WageOne evening, Frank looked completely hollowed out. Olivia couldn’t pierce the reason. But after putting immense effort and manipulation into it, she managed to pry it out of him. He told her that when he arrived at work, he was handed a notice to report immediately to the conscription office. The paper blared: “Report immediately. Your country needs you!” When he visited the office, they explained to him in brutal detail just how badly he was needed, and that for an indefinite period, his new profession was to deliver "freedom" to poor, unfortunate people on the other side of the planet. They told him it was a badge of honor. In his time, Frank’s father had also carried "freedoms" to a couple of foreign countries. Granted, they never carried that freedom just anywhere; those poor, unfortunate people always happened to possess something highly necessary to the state. Frank and Olivia had only a couple of days left. They couldn't even process how they would survive the separation, when a few hours apart had already felt like a labor camp. Those few days flew by like a couple of hours, and suddenly they were standing on the train platform, saying goodbye. She refused to unlock her arms from his neck, desperately wishing she possessed the divine gift to halt time, to keep this moment of closeness from ever ending. As the train groaned and began to roll, she walked alongside his window, fighting with everything she had to choke back her tears, but it was useless—they just carved wet tracks down her face. The train gathered speed, forcing her into a sprint, but soon she couldn’t keep up... She collapsed onto her knees right there on the concrete platform, weeping hysterically, watching his train dissolve into the distance. It was the blackest chapter of her life. The days became endless; joy and peace abandoned her completely. Waiting—there is nothing more destructive. Whenever the mailman materialized in the courtyard, her entire body would begin to twitch, her chest tightening. That man could plaster a smile on your face, or he could force you into a lifetime of screaming. Olivia noticed she wasn’t the only one driven mad by the sight of the uniform; plenty of women and girls in the dormitory reacted exactly the same way. Those who actually received their envelopes didn’t rush to tear them open; they stared at the paper, terrified of the ink inside. A few hours after the mailman's visit, the entire building would be drowned in someone's howling and sobbing—another husband or son was never coming home. Imagination could be a shield, but more often it was an executioner, and no good thoughts came... Suddenly, Olivia struck a realization—he was definitely alive. If it were otherwise, they would have already sent the official letter. Quieting her mind with that logic, burying herself deeper and deeper into her factory shifts, she waited. Surprisingly, work turned out to be an exceptional anesthetic; she started taking massive overtime, and for a few hours a day, she managed to go numb... Then, Olivia was called into the accounting office. They handed her a double wage packet and a specialized state voucher... for the collection of a corpse. A few months later, she gave birth to a boy.
***
A child born to a ghost. A debt paid in blood. This is HOOK.
Follow the journey of those who dared to look behind the curtain of the Great Country.
And there it was—his single minute of joy before the shift. He moved toward a dilapidated, peeling kiosk. The shack was a relic from the old days, and time hadn't spared it either. The inventory was "immense": coffee with milk, black coffee, loose tobacco, and a scrap newspaper for the tobacco buyers. If his memory served him right, the woman behind the counter had been working here since his mother slaved away in the zone. Her elegance was off the charts. You could tell she was a pro—her sarcasm and hostility had been sharpened over decades, and you'd have to search hard to find a face more sour.
Receiving his wash-water coffee, a portion of tobacco, and a piece of newspaper, he headed to "his" spot just a few paces away. A few seconds of practiced finger work, and the roll-up was ready. Match, fire, drag... This was the core joy of the morning. The coffee was top-tier garbage, but this quiet pocket of time filled him with calm, giving him the consciousness of controlling his own time. And controlling time, in turn, gave him the illusion of freedom.
The flash of philosophy faded. Coffee finished. Time for the shift. He walked toward the turnstiles with a slow, deliberate pace.
And once again, his eyes were cut by a ten-year-old billboard. He couldn't remember how many decades it had been rotting there, but the image never changed: a large group of smiling politicians standing together, and beneath them, a simple, blunt text:
“From People to People.”
The country was vast. Resources were abundant, even overflowing, but that never stopped the leadership from casting greedy eyes on their neighbors' "treasures." Permanently tangled in military conflicts—mostly of its own initiation—the state kept dragging more foreign loot into its vaults.
Of course, nobody said this openly. It was always packaged as "aid" to other nations. They were helping them achieve unprecedented levels of freedom, tearing them from the claws of oppression so they could live the fulfilled, happy lives they deserved.
Nobody cared about the long-term perspective; everyone just wanted to rip away a piece here and now. The entire export economy was built on raw materials. Once, there had been factories processing finished goods, but with small, confident steps, they were all shut down. Specialized professionals were left stranded. But there was no smell of unemployment—strong hands were always in demand here. Granted, the pay was dirt. As long as there was strength in your arms, starving to death wasn't a threat.
Did immigrants flood the country looking for a better life? No. There were worse places on earth, but this country was firmly stamped with the label "worse." The smarter ones, those with even a minor financial cushion, had crossed the borders long ago, packing their bags the moment the rats in the hold started whispering.
Nowadays, leaving the country was a bureaucratic nightmare. The state held onto labor with everything it had—not by improving conditions, but by multiplying obstacles. Passing through the circles of bureaucratic hell was brutal, and every single circle had to be heavily greased with cash. It took months. Even if you had every document signed and every small official's pockets stuffed, the probability of getting a rejection at the border without a single word of explanation remained incredibly high.
As for the availability of goods and services in the country:
You want a car? Take it.
Luxury items? Here.
A high position? Not a problem.
Imported food? Done.
Committed a crime? Hey, it happens to the best of us.
There was only one tiny catch for all of the above: you needed cash.
And then there was freedom of speech. It existed in full measure. You could say whatever you wanted, to whomever you wanted—as long as you were inside your own apartment, whispering into a pillow. The freedom was purely nominal; you could speak freely right up until the moment you gained an audience.
The second an audience materialized that actually absorbed your words, the author usually turned out to be an "incompetent driver" who suffered a fatal car crash. If they didn't own a car, some hidden, years-old disease would suddenly flare up, and the person would burn out in days.
The surveillance was everywhere, but it wasn't tight. Why look closely at a terrified herd? The control methods were shallow, but they were more than enough to keep the labor camps supplied with fresh, tight muscles.
If you looked at the country as a whole, none of this was a sudden blizzard. It was fed to the population gradually, measuring how much they would swallow. Even a dog doesn't fetch slippers on day one.
Since the country was packed with "freedoms," those freedoms naturally included electing candidates to parliament. A circus of hypocrisy like that was hard to find anywhere else. The war for the electorate utilized every dirty trick available, deep past the boundaries of morality. For a while, there were options—different parties. Then, some merged over shared interests; others swallowed their rivals.
But there was a choice, however starved, however filled with the same old faces. Sometimes it even felt like here he is—the candidate from the people. But it was all a show. Even if it wasn't, a spoonful of honey in a barrel of sewage changed nothing.
With time, the Monoparty emerged. Those who wanted to play ball joined on lucrative terms. Those who didn't want to bend joined too—but they joined the afterlife.
If elections had little meaning before, the creation of the Monoparty sucked the remaining point right out of the room. Voting became a pure formality, but the people still looked forward to election day because it offered a minor, tangible joy. First, it was a day off. Second, after dropping the ballot, every voter received a small present: a loaf of bread and a tin of canned fish.
As the years rolled on, the elites grew too lazy to even spread the circus. This illusion of choice was costing a pretty penny, even if it was small change to them. They looked down and thought: Who are we performing for? Who are these people that we owe them an account?
A law was passed. Unanimously. It stated:
“A Member of Parliament is a position for life. A new member can only be elected by a college consisting of currently active members of parliament.”
So they began electing themselves. Nobody even knew their total number anymore, but they kept the public informed, printing notices in the newspapers about who was elected, what chair they would occupy, and that the decision was—naturally—unanimous.
With time, even that vanished. A final law sealed the vault:
“The results of parliamentary votes are a state secret. Any disclosure or attempt to access this information shall be punished by the supreme measure of execution.”
The only thing left reminding the herd of their past "freedom" of choice was the rotting billboards with that uninspired phrase: “From People to People.”
***
Note: This is the continuation of John's story from Act I . If you want to dive deeper into the world of "HOOK" and follow the other character lines, the next parts are already up on my personal blog (link is in my Reddit profile bio).
I'd love to hear your thoughts on the worldbuilding and this political system in the comments!
And there it was—his single minute of joy before the shift. He moved toward a dilapidated, peeling kiosk. The shack was a relic from the old days, and time hadn't spared it either. The inventory was "immense": coffee with milk, black coffee, loose tobacco, and a scrap newspaper for the tobacco buyers. If his memory served him right, the woman behind the counter had been working here since his mother slaved away in the zone. Her elegance was off the charts. You could tell she was a pro—her sarcasm and hostility had been sharpened over decades, and you'd have to search hard to find a face more sour.
Receiving his wash-water coffee, a portion of tobacco, and a piece of newspaper, he headed to "his" spot just a few paces away. A few seconds of practiced finger work, and the roll-up was ready. Match, fire, drag... This was the core joy of the morning. The coffee was top-tier garbage, but this quiet pocket of time filled him with calm, giving him the consciousness of controlling his own time. And controlling time, in turn, gave him the illusion of freedom.
The flash of philosophy faded. Coffee finished. Time for the shift. He walked toward the turnstiles with a slow, deliberate pace.
And once again, his eyes were cut by a ten-year-old billboard. He couldn't remember how many decades it had been rotting there, but the image never changed: a large group of smiling politicians standing together, and beneath them, a simple, blunt text:
“From People to People.”
The country was vast. Resources were abundant, even overflowing, but that never stopped the leadership from casting greedy eyes on their neighbors' "treasures." Permanently tangled in military conflicts—mostly of its own initiation—the state kept dragging more foreign loot into its vaults.
Of course, nobody said this openly. It was always packaged as "aid" to other nations. They were helping them achieve unprecedented levels of freedom, tearing them from the claws of oppression so they could live the fulfilled, happy lives they deserved.
Nobody cared about the long-term perspective; everyone just wanted to rip away a piece here and now. The entire export economy was built on raw materials. Once, there had been factories processing finished goods, but with small, confident steps, they were all shut down. Specialized professionals were left stranded. But there was no smell of unemployment—strong hands were always in demand here. Granted, the pay was dirt. As long as there was strength in your arms, starving to death wasn't a threat.
Did immigrants flood the country looking for a better life? No. There were worse places on earth, but this country was firmly stamped with the label "worse." The smarter ones, those with even a minor financial cushion, had crossed the borders long ago, packing their bags the moment the rats in the hold started whispering.
Nowadays, leaving the country was a bureaucratic nightmare. The state held onto labor with everything it had—not by improving conditions, but by multiplying obstacles. Passing through the circles of bureaucratic hell was brutal, and every single circle had to be heavily greased with cash. It took months. Even if you had every document signed and every small official's pockets stuffed, the probability of getting a rejection at the border without a single word of explanation remained incredibly high.
As for the availability of goods and services in the country:
You want a car? Take it.
Luxury items? Here.
A high position? Not a problem.
Imported food? Done.
Committed a crime? Hey, it happens to the best of us.
There was only one tiny catch for all of the above: you needed cash.
And then there was freedom of speech. It existed in full measure. You could say whatever you wanted, to whomever you wanted—as long as you were inside your own apartment, whispering into a pillow. The freedom was purely nominal; you could speak freely right up until the moment you gained an audience.
The second an audience materialized that actually absorbed your words, the author usually turned out to be an "incompetent driver" who suffered a fatal car crash. If they didn't own a car, some hidden, years-old disease would suddenly flare up, and the person would burn out in days.
The surveillance was everywhere, but it wasn't tight. Why look closely at a terrified herd? The control methods were shallow, but they were more than enough to keep the labor camps supplied with fresh, tight muscles.
If you looked at the country as a whole, none of this was a sudden blizzard. It was fed to the population gradually, measuring how much they would swallow. Even a dog doesn't fetch slippers on day one.
Since the country was packed with "freedoms," those freedoms naturally included electing candidates to parliament. A circus of hypocrisy like that was hard to find anywhere else. The war for the electorate utilized every dirty trick available, deep past the boundaries of morality. For a while, there were options—different parties. Then, some merged over shared interests; others swallowed their rivals.
But there was a choice, however starved, however filled with the same old faces. Sometimes it even felt like here he is—the candidate from the people. But it was all a show. Even if it wasn't, a spoonful of honey in a barrel of sewage changed nothing.
With time, the Monoparty emerged. Those who wanted to play ball joined on lucrative terms. Those who didn't want to bend joined too—but they joined the afterlife.
If elections had little meaning before, the creation of the Monoparty sucked the remaining point right out of the room. Voting became a pure formality, but the people still looked forward to election day because it offered a minor, tangible joy. First, it was a day off. Second, after dropping the ballot, every voter received a small present: a loaf of bread and a tin of canned fish.
As the years rolled on, the elites grew too lazy to even spread the circus. This illusion of choice was costing a pretty penny, even if it was small change to them. They looked down and thought: Who are we performing for? Who are these people that we owe them an account?
A law was passed. Unanimously. It stated:
“A Member of Parliament is a position for life. A new member can only be elected by a college consisting of currently active members of parliament.”
So they began electing themselves. Nobody even knew their total number anymore, but they kept the public informed, printing notices in the newspapers about who was elected, what chair they would occupy, and that the decision was—naturally—unanimous.
With time, even that vanished. A final law sealed the vault:
“The results of parliamentary votes are a state secret. Any disclosure or attempt to access this information shall be punished by the supreme measure of execution.”
The only thing left reminding the herd of their past "freedom" of choice was the rotting billboards with that uninspired phrase: “From People to People.”
***
Note: This is the continuation of John's story from Act I . If you want to dive deeper into the world of "HOOK" and follow the other character lines, the next parts are already up on my personal blog (link is in my Reddit profile bio).
I'd love to hear your thoughts on the worldbuilding and this political system in the comments!
Act I: The Engine of the Great Country
The Clockwork Pain
A sickening echo began to pierce through the wall of dead silence. It sounded like a broken mechanism, something desperate for a master’s hand. Yet, there was no mistaking its synthetic spine — it was purely electronic.
Yeah. It was him again. The alarm clock.
The sweet, weightless drift of sleep hadn’t fully faded, but a sharp, heavy ache had already claimed his skull. It wasn’t a purely physical throbbing; it felt more like the raw gnawing of consciousness. The sheer awareness that a new day had arrived only made the ache worse. But ready or not, the day was here.
After a grueling internal debate, his brain finally convinced his eyes to snap open. Peering through the slit of his eyelids, they found absolutely nothing new. The same battered, depressing apartment. The bedroom walls were drowned in a pale, sickly gray paint. Cracked and peeling, the surface looked like the scales of a dying reptile. The place hadn’t seen a paintbrush or a repairman since it was built, easily some forty or fifty years ago.
Like it or not, you gotta get up, flashed through his mind.
He dragged his body into the bathroom. A splash of freezing water brought him somewhat back to reality. He had a little over an hour before he had to head out for work. Time for the morning ritual. A run was out of the question today — not only was the weather a miserable, drizzling mess, but the very thought of its necessity felt like a joke.
Breakfast followed the non-existent run, delivering about the same amount of joy: dried-out, day-old pasta and a processed “meat” patty. For years, he’d wondered what exactly was hidden behind the label “Morning Meat Breakfast.” Was it supposed to mimic a steak, or maybe a cutlet, or something even more twisted? He never found the answer. But he knew one thing for certain — there was no actual meat in it.
Next up was the shower, accompanied by the fleeting, desperate hope for hot water. The tap sputtered, spitting out thick cakes of rust before settling into a thin, icy stream. He forced a faint, grim smile and thought: “Another bright and beautiful morning.”
He hadn’t seen hot water in six or seven months, not since some main pipe burst down the street. Yet, on the courtyard notice board, the same faded paper still proudly declared:
“Dear residents of the Trudovik microdistrict! We apologize for the temporary inconvenience. We are doing everything in our power to restore the water supply in the shortest time possible. Respectfully, the Cooperative Administration.”
He grabbed a dull, rusted razor. After hacking away his black stubble, the clock reminded him it was time to move. The commute took an hour. Throwing on his clothes, he stepped out. The drizzle kept coming, the sky bruising into a darker gray, making the street look even “better.”
It was a monstrous commuter hell, crammed with identical ten-story concrete blocks. The distance between the buildings barely allowed a truck to squeeze through. His building was the envy of many because it had a tiny patch of dirt disguised as a flowerbed, a playground, and a few wide-crowned trees. The playground, of course, had long since been stripped and sold for scrap metal, but once upon a time, it existed.
A few blocks later, he reached the transit stop. To his utter shock, the crowd was smaller than usual. A beautiful thought slid through his mind: I actually have a shot at a seat today. It was enough to brighten the whole morning.
A silhouette materialized on the horizon — his bus. The hunk of junk was easily twice his age. He always wondered how this pile of scrap kept moving; the sounds it made during transit inspired a mix of raw terror and morbid curiosity: Will it break down now, or later? Soon, a wave of warmth washed over him. Yes, today he was riding sitting down. And not just sitting, but right by the window.
The bus lurched forward, and the landscape began to roll.
The window offered a view of thick, powerful trees. Only their crowns were visible, though; their trunks were hidden behind a high fence topped with razor wire. The fence was painted green, and unlike the peeling paint in his apartment, it was clearly refreshed at least once a year. Thanks to its shade, it blended “perfectly” into the scenery.
Then came the billboards.
The first one showcased a luxury watch from a famous brand. Why famous? Because its price, even with a thirty-percent discount, equaled a worker’s salary for ten years of life — assuming they didn’t spend a single dime on anything else. John thought that buying such a watch would literally cost him his life, considering his food expenses and utility bills. A tiny accessory worth a lifetime. But what he loved most was the slogan designed to push men to buy it: “Only allowed on the wrist of a Real Man.”
The bus flew at full throttle. The driver was a pure professional — only someone who truly knew his craft could fly like that without letting the machine rattle into pieces. More billboards flashed by: home appliances, imported delicacies, jewelry, designer clothes. There was no shortage of anything; the world had whatever your soul desired.
The bus began to slow. A checkpoint was ahead.
Pulled up to the curb alongside other buses, they waited their turn for document inspection. Fifteen minutes later, a control officer stepped inside. The man carried a massive amount of excess weight; squeezing his bulk between the narrow seats was a struggle.
Everyone held out their ID cards. With an immensely corporate, serious expression, the officer stared at the cards, then into their eyes. It felt like he had the ability to look right inside a person’s soul.
The inspection cleared, and the bus groaned back up to speed. Past the main post, several exit ramps branched off, each guarded by checkpoints that were far more serious. More guards, heavier weapons, and massive steel barricades. Behind them lay a vast park zone… or what used to be one. Now, it was a private country club for those same “Real Men.” John had heard rumors from acquaintances who worked there about the massive mansions built inside, but having never seen anything like it, his imagination couldn’t even map the picture.
Another exit led straight into the city center, where the parliament and the business district sat — the brain and heart of the country. From random childhood memories, he remembered a massive, beautiful park near the government building, but the business center was relatively new; he had never seen it.
The country’s financial core was built on the ruins of an old residential neighborhood — a sprawling complex of glass skyscrapers. Word was there were thousands of offices, just as many corporations, with the ground floors choked with high-end restaurants and boutiques.
But the crown jewel of the center was a massive artificial island. It used to be a place for amusement parks, ice cream stands, and simple fun. John had been there exactly once as a kid, and the impression stayed with him for life. Now, according to others, it was an arena for luxury car debuts and premier boutiques. Even a simple worker could walk those streets daily — if they worked there, or on a Sunday, provided they brought their ID card and were absolutely clean and presentable.
John thought that even if today were Sunday, the path was closed to him. Nobody wanted to look at his grease-stained factory overalls.
The destination was close. The barracks-like dormitories appeared, and on the opposite side, the private sector where small-time managers were gifted plots of land. Then, the “Youth” stadium — the pride of the industrial zone. Pity that nowadays the stadium had become the city’s largest scrap metal collection point.
Yeah, childhood died here.
The bus hissed, jerked, and died at the final stop. Time had no power over this place; it looked exactly the same as it did decades ago. John stepped out without rushing, glanced at his watch, and realized his luck was holding out — he had time to spare.
Before him stood the gates of the Industrial Zone: a three-meter-high red-brick wall with a massive arch cut into it. The archway was gargantuan; any truck could roll through it sideways, or two at once. The arch was crowned with massive, volumetric letters. Time had battered them, fading the bright red of his youth, and a few letters leaned heavily to the side, but they still blared:
“YOU ARE THE PILLAR OF THE COUNTRY! DON’T BE LAZY!”
This is the beginning of The Engine of the Great Country — a mosaic dystopian novel. If you want to read this story with original cinematic artwork, you can check out my official launch on Medium: https://medium.com/@deweb4you
I’ll be posting new chapters and new stories from this universe regularly. Let me know what you think of John's journey in the comments!
Act I: The Engine of the Great Country
The Clockwork Pain
A sickening echo began to pierce through the wall of dead silence. It sounded like a broken mechanism, something desperate for a master’s hand. Yet, there was no mistaking its synthetic spine — it was purely electronic.
Yeah. It was him again. The alarm clock.
The sweet, weightless drift of sleep hadn’t fully faded, but a sharp, heavy ache had already claimed his skull. It wasn’t a purely physical throbbing; it felt more like the raw gnawing of consciousness. The sheer awareness that a new day had arrived only made the ache worse. But ready or not, the day was here.
After a grueling internal debate, his brain finally convinced his eyes to snap open. Peering through the slit of his eyelids, they found absolutely nothing new. The same battered, depressing apartment. The bedroom walls were drowned in a pale, sickly gray paint. Cracked and peeling, the surface looked like the scales of a dying reptile. The place hadn’t seen a paintbrush or a repairman since it was built, easily some forty or fifty years ago.
Like it or not, you gotta get up, flashed through his mind.
He dragged his body into the bathroom. A splash of freezing water brought him somewhat back to reality. He had a little over an hour before he had to head out for work. Time for the morning ritual. A run was out of the question today — not only was the weather a miserable, drizzling mess, but the very thought of its necessity felt like a joke.
Breakfast followed the non-existent run, delivering about the same amount of joy: dried-out, day-old pasta and a processed “meat” patty. For years, he’d wondered what exactly was hidden behind the label “Morning Meat Breakfast.” Was it supposed to mimic a steak, or maybe a cutlet, or something even more twisted? He never found the answer. But he knew one thing for certain — there was no actual meat in it.
Next up was the shower, accompanied by the fleeting, desperate hope for hot water. The tap sputtered, spitting out thick cakes of rust before settling into a thin, icy stream. He forced a faint, grim smile and thought: “Another bright and beautiful morning.”
He hadn’t seen hot water in six or seven months, not since some main pipe burst down the street. Yet, on the courtyard notice board, the same faded paper still proudly declared:
“Dear residents of the Trudovik microdistrict! We apologize for the temporary inconvenience. We are doing everything in our power to restore the water supply in the shortest time possible. Respectfully, the Cooperative Administration.”
He grabbed a dull, rusted razor. After hacking away his black stubble, the clock reminded him it was time to move. The commute took an hour. Throwing on his clothes, he stepped out. The drizzle kept coming, the sky bruising into a darker gray, making the street look even “better.”
It was a monstrous commuter hell, crammed with identical ten-story concrete blocks. The distance between the buildings barely allowed a truck to squeeze through. His building was the envy of many because it had a tiny patch of dirt disguised as a flowerbed, a playground, and a few wide-crowned trees. The playground, of course, had long since been stripped and sold for scrap metal, but once upon a time, it existed.
A few blocks later, he reached the transit stop. To his utter shock, the crowd was smaller than usual. A beautiful thought slid through his mind: I actually have a shot at a seat today. It was enough to brighten the whole morning.
A silhouette materialized on the horizon — his bus. The hunk of junk was easily twice his age. He always wondered how this pile of scrap kept moving; the sounds it made during transit inspired a mix of raw terror and morbid curiosity: Will it break down now, or later? Soon, a wave of warmth washed over him. Yes, today he was riding sitting down. And not just sitting, but right by the window.
The bus lurched forward, and the landscape began to roll.
The window offered a view of thick, powerful trees. Only their crowns were visible, though; their trunks were hidden behind a high fence topped with razor wire. The fence was painted green, and unlike the peeling paint in his apartment, it was clearly refreshed at least once a year. Thanks to its shade, it blended “perfectly” into the scenery.
Then came the billboards.
The first one showcased a luxury watch from a famous brand. Why famous? Because its price, even with a thirty-percent discount, equaled a worker’s salary for ten years of life — assuming they didn’t spend a single dime on anything else. John thought that buying such a watch would literally cost him his life, considering his food expenses and utility bills. A tiny accessory worth a lifetime. But what he loved most was the slogan designed to push men to buy it: “Only allowed on the wrist of a Real Man.”
The bus flew at full throttle. The driver was a pure professional — only someone who truly knew his craft could fly like that without letting the machine rattle into pieces. More billboards flashed by: home appliances, imported delicacies, jewelry, designer clothes. There was no shortage of anything; the world had whatever your soul desired.
The bus began to slow. A checkpoint was ahead.
Pulled up to the curb alongside other buses, they waited their turn for document inspection. Fifteen minutes later, a control officer stepped inside. The man carried a massive amount of excess weight; squeezing his bulk between the narrow seats was a struggle.
Everyone held out their ID cards. With an immensely corporate, serious expression, the officer stared at the cards, then into their eyes. It felt like he had the ability to look right inside a person’s soul.
The inspection cleared, and the bus groaned back up to speed. Past the main post, several exit ramps branched off, each guarded by checkpoints that were far more serious. More guards, heavier weapons, and massive steel barricades. Behind them lay a vast park zone… or what used to be one. Now, it was a private country club for those same “Real Men.” John had heard rumors from acquaintances who worked there about the massive mansions built inside, but having never seen anything like it, his imagination couldn’t even map the picture.
Another exit led straight into the city center, where the parliament and the business district sat — the brain and heart of the country. From random childhood memories, he remembered a massive, beautiful park near the government building, but the business center was relatively new; he had never seen it.
The country’s financial core was built on the ruins of an old residential neighborhood — a sprawling complex of glass skyscrapers. Word was there were thousands of offices, just as many corporations, with the ground floors choked with high-end restaurants and boutiques.
But the crown jewel of the center was a massive artificial island. It used to be a place for amusement parks, ice cream stands, and simple fun. John had been there exactly once as a kid, and the impression stayed with him for life. Now, according to others, it was an arena for luxury car debuts and premier boutiques. Even a simple worker could walk those streets daily — if they worked there, or on a Sunday, provided they brought their ID card and were absolutely clean and presentable.
John thought that even if today were Sunday, the path was closed to him. Nobody wanted to look at his grease-stained factory overalls.
The destination was close. The barracks-like dormitories appeared, and on the opposite side, the private sector where small-time managers were gifted plots of land. Then, the “Youth” stadium — the pride of the industrial zone. Pity that nowadays the stadium had become the city’s largest scrap metal collection point.
Yeah, childhood died here.
The bus hissed, jerked, and died at the final stop. Time had no power over this place; it looked exactly the same as it did decades ago. John stepped out without rushing, glanced at his watch, and realized his luck was holding out — he had time to spare.
Before him stood the gates of the Industrial Zone: a three-meter-high red-brick wall with a massive arch cut into it. The archway was gargantuan; any truck could roll through it sideways, or two at once. The arch was crowned with massive, volumetric letters. Time had battered them, fading the bright red of his youth, and a few letters leaned heavily to the side, but they still blared:
“YOU ARE THE PILLAR OF THE COUNTRY! DON’T BE LAZY!”
This is the beginning of The Engine of the Great Country — a mosaic dystopian novel. If you want to read this story with original cinematic artwork, you can check out my official launch on Medium: https://medium.com/@deweb4you
I’ll be posting new chapters and new stories from this universe regularly. Let me know what you think of John's journey in the comments!