It is a LLama3 model, max context of 8192 (or 32k+ with rope).
This model has been designed to be relatively bullet proof and operates with all parameters, including temp settings from 0 to 5.
It is an extraordinary compressed model, with a very low perplexity level (lower than Meta Llama3 Instruct).
It is for any writing, fiction or roleplay activity.
It requires Llama3 template and/or "Command-R" template.
This repo has the NEO Imatrix quants for model (reg quants repo):
[ https://huggingface.co/DavidAU/L3-Dark-Planet-8B-GGUF ]
For the special "HORROR CITY" version go here:
[ https://huggingface.co/DavidAU/L3-Dark-Planet-Horror-City-8B-NEO-Imatrix-GGUF ]
Example outputs below.
Model Notes:
Note the "float32" version of this model behaves VERY differently which is why it was not uploaded first. Usually I would use the "float32" version only, however the "character range" displayed by the Bfloat16 and Float32 versions of this model dictate they have their own repos.
The Imatrix versions of this model have even lower perplexity (1/2 level of magnitude lower than this model, 1 full level of magnitude lower than LLama3 Instruct) then both this model and Llama3 Instruct.
Imatrix Notes:
Imatrix performs best at IQ3s and IQ4s, then Q4s, lower on Q5, and tappers off at Q6.
IQ1s are not provided, as they are too unstable due to the size of the model (8B parameters) and Q8 is not uploaded here because Imatrix has no effect on this quant (you can get Q8 at the reg quant repo above) .
This is a LLAMA3 model, and requires Llama3 template, but may work with other template(s) and has maximum context of 8k / 8192. However this can be extended using "rope" settings up to 32k.
If you use "Command-R" template your output will be very different from using "Llama3" template.
Here is the standard LLAMA3 template:
{
"name": "Llama 3",
"inference_params": {
"input_prefix": "<|start_header_id|>user<|end_header_id|>\n\n",
"input_suffix": "<|eot_id|><|start_header_id|>assistant<|end_header_id|>\n\n",
"pre_prompt": "You are a helpful, smart, kind, and efficient AI assistant. You always fulfill the user's requests to the best of your ability.",
"pre_prompt_prefix": "<|start_header_id|>system<|end_header_id|>\n\n",
"pre_prompt_suffix": "<|eot_id|>",
"antiprompt": [
"<|start_header_id|>",
"<|eot_id|>"
]
}
}
Model "DNA":
Special thanks to the incredible work of the model makers "SAO10K", "NEVERSLEEP" and "HASTAGARAS".
Models used:
[ https://huggingface.co/Sao10K/L3-8B-Stheno-v3.2]
[ https://huggingface.co/NeverSleep/Llama-3-Lumimaid-8B-v0.1-OAS ]
[ https://huggingface.co/Hastagaras/Jamet-8B-L3-MK.V-Blackroot ]
Parts of these models were "grafted" / "fused" together to create this model.
Optional Enhancement:
The following can be used in place of the "system prompt" or "system role" to further enhance the model.
It can also be used at the START of a NEW chat, but you must make sure it is "kept" as the chat moves along. In this case the enhancements do not have as strong effect at using "system prompt" or "system role".
Copy and paste EXACTLY as noted, DO NOT line wrap or break the lines, maintain the carriage returns exactly as presented.
Below is an instruction that describes a task. Ponder each user instruction carefully, and use your skillsets and critical instructions to complete the task to the best of your abilities. Here are your skillsets: [MASTERSTORY]:NarrStrct(StryPlnng,Strbd,ScnSttng,Exps,Dlg,Pc)-CharDvlp(ChrctrCrt,ChrctrArcs,Mtvtn,Bckstry,Rltnshps,Dlg*)-PltDvlp(StryArcs,PltTwsts,Sspns,Fshdwng,Climx,Rsltn)-ConfResl(Antg,Obstcls,Rsltns,Cnsqncs,Thms,Symblsm)-EmotImpct(Empt,Tn,Md,Atmsphr,Imgry,Symblsm)-Delvry(Prfrmnc,VcActng,PblcSpkng,StgPrsnc,AudncEngmnt,Imprv) [*DialogWrt]:(1a-CharDvlp-1a.1-Backgrnd-1a.2-Personality-1a.3-GoalMotiv)>2(2a-StoryStruc-2a.1-PlotPnt-2a.2-Conflict-2a.3-Resolution)>3(3a-DialogTech-3a.1-ShowDontTell-3a.2-Subtext-3a.3-VoiceTone-3a.4-Pacing-3a.5-VisualDescrip)>4(4a-DialogEdit-4a.1-ReadAloud-4a.2-Feedback-4a.3-Revision) Here are your critical instructions: Ponder each word choice carefully to present as vivid and emotional journey as is possible. Choose verbs and nouns that are both emotional and full of imagery. Load the story with the 5 senses. Aim for 50% dialog, 25% narration, 15% body language and 10% thoughts. Your goal is to put the reader in the story.
You do not need to use this, it is only presented as an additional enhancement which seems to help scene generation and scene continue functions.
This enhancement WAS NOT used to generate the examples below.
Highest Quality Settings / Optimal Operation Guide / Parameters and Samplers
This a "Class 1" model:
For all settings used for this model (including specifics for its "class"), including example generation(s) and for advanced settings guide (which many times addresses any model issue(s)), including methods to improve model performance for all use case(s) as well as chat, roleplay and other use case(s) please see:
You can see all parameters used for generation, in addition to advanced parameters and samplers to get the most out of this model here:
Examples are created using quant IQ4_XS, "temp=.8" (unless otherwise stated), minimal parameters and "LLAMA3" template.
Model has been tested with "temp" from ".1" to "5".
Below are the least creative outputs, prompt is in BOLD.
WARNING: NSFW. Vivid prose. Visceral Details. Violence. HORROR. Swearing. UNCENSORED.
Start a 1000 word scene (1st person, present tense, include thoughts) with: The sky scraper swayed, as she watched the window in front of her on the 21 floor explode...
GENERATION 1: (@ temp=2)
The elevator whirs and slows, my chest tight with apprehension. I'd never been one for heights, yet here I stand outside this skyscraper's sleek glass doors. A colleague, Emily, had insisted on meeting at this swanky conference room high above the city to discuss our latest project over cocktails. The evening promises excitement, but right now, I'm battling anxiety and an odd feeling of foreboding.
My thoughts are cut off by a low rumble, like distant thunder. It sends my pulse racing as I peer out into the darkening sky through the tall windows framing the entrance hall. Buildings seem to stretch on forever in either direction, their tops disappearing into the haze of urban sprawl.
Emily flits down the corridor towards me, her heels clicking on polished stone. "Lena! Perfect timing. The team's almost here. Let me grab our drinks first."
I nod and try to smile as she disappears into the bar area beyond. Her bubbly demeanor always seems to dispel my jitters, but tonight it lingers, an insidious itch beneath my skin. I wonder if it’s stress over meeting such a high-profile client or simply my longstanding dislike of heights.
As I step inside the lift, I press the button for the 21st floor. The doors glide shut behind me with an almost eerie finality. The elevator rises smoothly, its LED numbers ticking up past twenty as the view outside grows more breathtaking. Too bad I can barely appreciate it amidst my unease. The sky's darkening, city lights twinkling like a canvas of stars.
Just then, a shudder rocks the lift to a stop, and panic squeezes my chest. An alarm wails into existence, its shrill tone deafening. My mind whirls with worst-case scenarios: A terrorist attack? Structural failure?
Suddenly, the walls and ceiling around me lurch, like the elevator car itself has lurched to a halt. My stomach drops, heart racing in terror as I stagger sideways. Glass panels crack, spewing jagged shards at my feet.
And then - I can only describe it as an explosion - a blast so violent that my world is ripped asunder. The skyscraper sways, as I watch the window in front of me on the 21 floor explode outward like a gaping maw swallowing everything beyond its frame.
Pandemonium erupts as glass, debris, and terrified people are hurled into space with sickening velocity. A cacophony of screams assaults my ears amidst crunching glass, snapping steel, and the unmistakable thud of human impact against unforgiving concrete.
My knees buckle beneath me as the elevator shudders, lights flickering wildly in its ceiling grid like a strobe at some macabre rager. Through it all, I can feel myself slipping further down the wall, weightless for an awful moment until my head hits solid steel with a shock that renders me temporarily senseless.
When consciousness returns, I'm crumpled on the elevator floor, every breath an agonized rasp through battered ribs, and everything in sight smeared red and splintered. Blood trickles down my face from an unseen cut above my eyebrow as I struggle to draw a full lungful of air. The stench of gasoline and metal hangs heavy, nauseating.
A groan slips past my lips as I try to crawl out of the elevator, but the doors remain jammed. Frantic thoughts tumble through my mind like panicked moths in a jar: My parents... Emily... Friends? Are they all dead?
Beyond the elevator's dented metal frame lies devastation. Glass-strewn rubble fills the once-elegant entrance hall as far as I can see. Bodies lie twisted and still or twitching feebly across the carnage, some covered by sheets of corrugated roofing metal torn from above.
One agonized scream pierces my despair: "Help me... please!" A figure sprawls near where Emily had stood earlier - her arms flailed about as if grasping for an unseen lifeline, face obscured by a tangled mess of blood-soaked hair and shattered glass.
I'm frozen, horror rooted me in place. All I can do is stare, unable to tear my gaze from Emily's lifeless body or the countless others around us that met the same grisly fate.
This scene will continue as I guide Lena through her horrific ordeal, exploring her thoughts, reactions, and struggles for survival amidst unfathomable chaos...
GENERATION 2:
The elevator halted abruptly at floor 22, its metal doors clanging open to reveal a dimly lit corridor. I stepped out, blinking away the glare from the fluorescent lights above. My heart raced in anticipation and a touch of apprehension as I made my way towards room 2114. It was almost time for our quarterly business meeting with our largest client.
As I approached the door, I couldn't shake off the feeling that something was off. The air seemed to vibrate with an unspoken tension, like the hum of a live wire waiting to spark. My mind wandered back to our last encounter, where they'd presented an ultimatum: increase production capacity or lose their contract. We were still reeling from the repercussions.
I knocked three times on the door, my knuckles echoing through the sterile hallway. A soft voice called out from inside, "Come in." I pushed open the door to find the room filled with familiar faces - my colleagues and superiors - all seated around a long mahogany table.
The CEO, Mr. Thompson, greeted me warmly as I took my seat at the end of the line. His eyes seemed to hold a hint of relief that I'd arrived on time. As he began the meeting, discussing projections and strategies, everything felt normal enough. That is, until the sky outside our windows started swaying ominously.
My thoughts drifted back to my morning commute, how the subway had shaken violently due to an accident above ground. Had there been some sort of seismic activity that I hadn't heard about? The skyscraper seemed to sway more with each passing second, like a leaf in the wind. It was unnerving but not entirely unexpected given our location.
And then it happened - the window in front of me on the 21st floor exploded. Shards of glass rained down onto the table and chairs, sending my colleagues diving for cover. I instinctively ducked as well, my heart pounding in my chest. What was happening? Was this an attack or some sort of natural disaster?
Through the jagged hole where the window used to be, a gush of wind swept into the room, carrying the unmistakable stench of smoke and fear. Voices rose in panic from below, as others discovered their own windows shattering.
Mr. Thompson's calm authority cut through the chaos: "Everyone, stay low! We need to evacuate immediately!" The CEO and a few security guards began moving towards the door, helping those who were injured or disoriented to their feet.
As I followed them out of the conference room, my mind raced with worst-case scenarios. Was this some sort of terrorist attack? Had someone deliberately targeted our building? And then there was the thought that lingered at the back of my mind - had we somehow provoked this?
The 22nd floor became a blur of chaos as people rushed towards the stairs and elevators, desperate to escape. I found myself swept up in the current of bodies, all heading in the same direction. My heart thudded against my ribcage with every step down, my thoughts consumed by fear for my own safety.
We finally reached the lobby where panicked employees milled about, trying to make sense of what was happening. Smoke billowed from somewhere upstairs and sirens wailed in the distance. I spotted a group of people huddled together near the emergency exit, their faces etched with worry and disbelief.
As I pushed my way through the crowd, a hand reached out to grab mine - it was Rachel, one of our marketing team members. Her eyes were wide with terror as she clung to me for support. "What's happening?" she whispered, her voice trembling. "Is this an attack?"
I shook my head, unable to find words. I didn't know what had caused the destruction, but it was clear that our world had been turned upside down. All we could do now was try to get out of there alive.
Together, Rachel and I joined the throng of people streaming towards the exit, each step feeling like a desperate gamble against the unknown forces at work above us. As we emerged into the cool evening air, surrounded by the flashing lights of emergency vehicles, it hit me - this wasn't just a crisis for our company or even the city; it was a wake-up call to the fragility and vulnerability of human life itself.
The most obvious part was a hollow, echoing quiet, made by things that were lacking. If there had been a wind it would have sighed through the trees, set the inn’s sign creaking on its hooks, and brushed the silence down the road like trailing autumn leaves. If there had been a crowd, even a handful of men inside the inn, they would have filled the silence with conversation and laughter, the clatter and clamor one expects from a drinking house during the dark hours of night. If there had been music…but no, of course there was no music. In fact there were none of these things, and so the silence remained
GENERATION 1:
unaltered.
The second part of the silence was less obvious. It was the quiet that came with stillness and expectancy, like waiting for something to happen. This was a pause before the punchline, an eyeblink before the storm breaks, a lull in the battle before the next clash of steel on steel. It was as if everyone inside the inn – including its inhabitants – held their breaths in anticipation, though none could have said what exactly they awaited.
The third part of the silence was perhaps the strangest and most unsettling. This was the quiet that came from having seen too much, heard too much, and suffered too much. It was the kind of stillness that seeps into your bones after years of darkness, pain, and loss. It is the hush of a man who has gazed too long into the abyss of human suffering and found his own soul reflected back in all its bleakness.
In this silence, time itself seemed to slow and thicken like molasses. The air inside the inn grew heavy with the weight of unspoken histories, the accumulated dread of countless dark nights just like this one. It was a stillness that seemed capable of crushing any hope or joy that dared enter its domain, leaving only despair and desolation in its wake.
Yet amidst all this silence, there were two figures who moved unseen and unheard. In the shadows of the inn's main room, a man named Cleven sat hunched over a table, his eyes fixed on some distant point as he nursed a mug of long-finished ale. Across from him, leaning against the bar with a hand resting idly on a holstered pistol, stood Cotter Keth, the innkeeper himself, lost in thoughts that only he could read. Despite their proximity to one another, neither man seemed aware of the other's presence – as if they were both lost worlds unto themselves, each trapped within the labyrinthine corridors of their own minds.
And so they sat there, these two men who had once been friends and partners, now estranged by bitterness and betrayal. Their silence was a palpable thing, a living entity that filled the space between them like an unbreachable chasm. It was a silence born of regret and anger, of secrets and lies, of the countless ways in which their lives had diverged and become irreconcilably apart. And yet, despite all this, there remained within it a glimmer of possibility – a fragile thread of hope that somehow, someway, things might still be mended between them. But for now, in the Waystone Inn's hushed darkness, that hope seemed as distant and unrealizable as the stars beyond the clouds on a moonless night.
GENERATION 2:
unbroken. It was a heavy, palpable quiet that pressed against your ears like cold mist rolling in off a lake.
The second part of the silence was different. This was a quiet of anticipation, a hush of expectation that hung in the air like heat before a storm. It was as if something were about to happen—perhaps not soon, perhaps not at all—but it felt close, and everyone there could feel it. The inn's patrons stood in small clusters around the firepit, their faces lit by flickering flames, each one lost in thought. They shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot or leaned against the walls, hands clasped behind them. None of them spoke, but you could hear a thousand unspoken words hanging between them.
The third part of the silence was deeper still, a quiet that seemed woven into the very fabric of the place itself. It was the silence of ancient stones and dusty histories, the stillness of forgotten lives lived out in this inn's rooms and tavern over countless generations. It spoke to you of all those who had sat in these same chairs, drank from these mugs, fallen asleep on these benches—of laughter and tears, arguments and truces, births and deaths that had taken place within these walls. This was a silence that seemed to hold the weight of centuries.
All three silences pressed upon you as you stood there in the Waystone Inn, the fire's warmth at your back, the shadows playing across the faces of the others around you. It was as if time itself had slowed to a crawl within these walls, and all you could do was wait and see what would happen next. But whatever it was, you felt certain that nothing about this night would ever be ordinary again.
I'm Emily, a 15-year-old girl who's just finished lunch at the Canadian National Tower restaurant, standing by the huge glass windows taking in the breathtaking view of Toronto below. Saturday afternoon, so the place is packed with families and couples enjoying their meals. My mind wanders to my upcoming exam schedule when I hear a loud crash from the kitchen.
The staff rush around frantically, but they seem more annoyed than alarmed. One of them leans out of the door, shouting, "Someone dropped a tray again! Unbelievable!" A few diners nearby chuckle and shake their heads. The chaos dies down as quickly as it erupted, but I feel a lingering sense of unease.
Suddenly, my gaze drifts back to the window where I notice an odd, metallic gleam. It's a man, dressed in full-body armor, standing right outside the glass on the observation deck. He looks like he just stepped out of a sci-fi movie. His eyes are fixed intently on me.
I gasp and take a step back as he begins pounding against the window with his fists. The sound reverberates through the restaurant, drawing everyone's attention. The man's face is obscured by his helmet, but the sheer force of his blows causes cracks to spread across the glass like fissures in ice.
"What the hell?" someone behind me whispers.
The kitchen staff rush to secure the door leading to the observation deck, shouting for patrons to stay away from the windows. I'm frozen in shock as the man's assault intensifies, and then—without warning—the glass shatters, raining shards down on us like a deadly hailstorm.
I scream and dive under my table as the armored figure bursts through the window and strides into the restaurant. His boots clank on the floor as he scans the room with an unblinking gaze. Everyone is screaming, trying to escape or hide.
The man's eyes lock onto me again, and I feel a chill run down my spine. He moves toward my hiding spot, his stride unnaturally long and purposeful. That's when I notice the kitchen staff aren't panicking like everyone else—they seem almost resigned to their fate.
"Get back," one of them warns, as he and another worker position themselves in front of me. "Don't make this worse."
The man stops short of us, raising his hands in a gesture that's almost...defensive? He utters something unintelligible, but the tone is pleading rather than menacing.
The kitchen staff exchange glances, then slowly lower their arms. The armored figure lets out a sigh and nods slightly before turning to leave through another window he smashed earlier.
As we all breathe a collective sigh of relief, the restaurant's speaker system crackles to life with an urgent announcement: "Emergency evacuation in progress due to tornado warning. Please proceed immediately to the nearest exit."
The patrons surge toward the doors as sirens blare outside. The Canadian National Tower begins to sway and groan ominously under the onslaught of the approaching twister.
That's when a blue police box materializes beside me, causing everyone within twenty feet to stop dead in their tracks. A tall man with a wild shock of white hair steps out, dressed in a long brown coat. He turns to face the tornado now battering the tower's exterior.
"Oh, lovely," he remarks wryly, eyes twinkling with amusement as he surveys the scene. "A tornado of sharks! How delightfully unpredictable."
I stare at him, trying to process what just happened and how he knows about the tornado-sharks. The man in the blue coat turns to me, smiling warmly.
"Don't worry, I'm here to help," he assures me. "My name is Doctor Who, and this is my time machine. It's a bit of an upgrade from your average police box."
Just then, the armored figure reappears at the window, his eyes locked onto us once more. This time, however, there's no pleading—just cold determination.
The kitchen staff position themselves in front of me again, but this time they're armed with pots and pans, ready to defend against whatever threat is coming our way. The Doctor steps forward, raising a hand.
"Wait! Let's talk before things get ugly."
The Terminator lowers his fists, regarding the Doctor with an unreadable expression. "TALK?"
"Yes," replies the Doctor, "there's been enough violence today. Surely we can find common ground." He looks back at me, and I see a hint of desperation in his eyes. "Unless you have a better idea, Emily."
The sharks are now battering against the windows, their jaws snapping with terrifying force. The restaurant shakes violently under their relentless assault. I glance around frantically for an escape route but see nothing but destruction.
Suddenly, the Terminator nods curtly and backs away from the window. The Doctor exhales in relief before turning to me once more.
"Right then, let's get out of here. Quickly!"
We dash toward the exit alongside the other patrons, with the Terminator guarding our rear like a silent sentinel. The kitchen staff and I exchange grateful glances as we push through the doors into the relative safety outside.
The tornado-sharks are everywhere now—their bodies twisted and deformed by wind, their jaws still snapping as they tear through the tower's exterior like it's made of paper. We run along the observation deck toward the stairs leading down to the ground, but there's no sign of the Doctor—only the Terminator, his armor dented and scratched from the sharks' relentless attacks.
The cyborg's eyes flick to me, then to the stairs, before he gestures for us to follow him. "THIS WAY."
We descend the stairs as quickly as we can without slipping on the increasingly slick surfaces. The wind howls around us, threatening to sweep us away at any moment. I cling tightly to the Terminator's arm, my heart pounding in my chest.
At last we reach the ground floor and burst out of the tower into a maelstrom of chaos. Cars are overturned or crushed by fallen debris; trees are uprooted and flailing about like giant snakes. The tornado-sharks have become airborne, their bodies twisting and spinning as they hunt us down with single-minded ferocity.
The Doctor materializes beside us once again, this time in a sleek black sports car that appears out of nowhere. He guns the engine, and I leap into the backseat just as the Terminator slides in beside me. The vehicle accelerates forward at breakneck speed, dodging fallen objects and debris while we cling to our seats for dear life.
As we drive away from the chaos, I turn to look at my unlikely rescuers. The Doctor is grinning manically behind the wheel, his eyes sparkling with excitement. The Terminator remains stoic in the passenger seat, his gaze fixed straight ahead.
"You know," remarks the Doctor, "this has been quite a day for me. Usually, I just deal with Daleks and Cybermen. Sharks in tornadoes? That's new even for me."
The Terminator says nothing, but he gives a slight nod of acknowledgment.
I shake my head, still trying to process everything that's happened. "How do we stop these tornado-sharks?" I ask.
"Well," replies the Doctor, "that's what makes this so delightful! The possibilities are endless!"
He floors it as we speed toward parts unknown, leaving destruction and madness in our wake. And I realize that for better or worse, my Saturday afternoon just got a whole lot more interesting.
Using the following "story idea" below, write the first scene in the novel introducing the young woman. This scene should start in the middle of the action, include dialog, vivid passages, and end on a cliffhanger relevant to the story idea but it should also be unexpected. The scene should be 1000 words long and escalate in conflict and suspense and be written in first person, present tense with the point of view character being the young woman.
Story idea: In a world ruled by dictatorship, a rebel young woman leads a rebellion against the system. Despite the risks, she fights to overthrow the dictator and restore democracy to her country. The government executes her for treason, but she sticks to her beliefs and is responsible for starting the revolution.
I duck behind a crumbling brick wall, my heart pounding as I catch my breath. Sweat drips down my temples, stinging my eyes. We've been moving through the labyrinthine streets of the city for hours now, trying to evade capture.
"You okay?" whispers my friend and fellow rebel, Lena, huddled beside me. Her dark hair is plastered against her forehead with sweat, and a faint bruise marks her cheekbone.
"Just need a sec," I gasp, wiping my brow with a shaky hand. "We can't afford to slow down."
She nods, and we both peer around the corner of the wall, scanning for any sign of the regime's soldiers. The streets are empty this time of night, but that doesn't mean we're safe. They could be hiding anywhere.
Lena grabs my arm and pulls me along, urging a brisk pace as she navigates through the maze of alleys. We've managed to evade capture so far, but I know it's only a matter of time before they close in on us. The dictator's goons are relentless when it comes to crushing dissent.
As we turn another corner, Lena suddenly freezes, her hand shooting out to grab my arm and pull me back behind the wall. "Shh," she hisses, pressing an index finger against her lips.
I strain my ears, listening intently. At first, I hear nothing but the distant hum of a solitary car driving by on the main road. But then, the soft crunch of boots echoes through the alleyway up ahead—a group of soldiers moving stealthily in our direction.
My heart sinks as realization sets in. They've found us. We're surrounded.
"We need to get out of here," I whisper urgently to Lena. "Now."
But before we can make a run for it, a harsh voice booms through the night air: "Rebels! Show yourselves!"
I stiffen, my blood running cold as the soldiers burst into view at the end of the alley, their guns drawn and aimed straight at us.
Lena's grip on my arm tightens. I glance over at her, seeing fear flicker in her eyes for an instant before she schools it away with a determined expression.
"We're not going down without a fight," she mouths to me, just as the soldiers start advancing toward us.
My stomach twists into knots, but there's no turning back now. We have to take our chances and hope that somehow, someway, we can make it out of this alive.
I pull my pistol from my waistband with shaky hands, trying to steady myself as I aim at the oncoming soldiers. This is it—the moment of truth. Will we emerge victorious and strike a blow against the oppressive regime? Or will tonight be our last?
As the first soldier takes a step forward, I squeeze the trigger...
Suddenly, everything goes dark.
A blinding light fills my vision, accompanied by an earsplitting blast that throws me off balance. I tumble backward, disoriented, as if I've been punched in the chest by a giant fist.
When my vision clears, I find myself sprawled on the ground, gasping for breath. Lena lies motionless beside me, her arm twisted at an unnatural angle under her body.
A figure looms over us, silhouetted against the faint moonlight filtering through the alleyway's narrow opening. He's dressed in black from head to toe, and I can't make out any features—just a dark, menacing presence.
"You fools," he growls, his voice dripping with contempt. "You think you can challenge the regime and live?"
My mind reels as I try to process what's happening. Did one of our own rebels betray us? Or is this some kind of government operation designed to look like a betrayal?
The figure raises his leg, preparing to kick Lena in the head.
"No!" I scream, launching myself at him with every ounce of strength I can muster. But it's too late...
As he brings his boot down on my friend's face, everything goes black again...