The first rebel was named Tomaz.
Entered six months ago (or six minutes). History teacher, pancreatic cancer, sold his apartment for a year inside. Arrived bald and shaking. Here he became tall, full beard, thunder voice. Opened a little school in the west district teaching imaginary kids about revolutions that never worked.
One day he understood everything.
Gathered two hundred plus in a pink marble square. Simple banner: WAKE UP LIRA.
Marched singing softly to the cloud palace.
Lira was on the throne, legs dangling, silent bunny in lap. She looked almost fourteen now; body stretching without permission. Eyes that barely blinked.
Geraldo beside her, beer in hand, as always.
Tomaz stopped in front.
“Lira. You don’t need all this. Out there your mom’s waiting. There’s treatment. Real life.”
Lira climbed down slowly. Her torn dress brushed the floor.
“I don’t remember my mom.”
“We’ll help you remember,” Tomaz said, kneeling. “Just want it.”
Absolute silence.
Lira looked at the millions filling her world. Parks. Neon seas. Bars that never closed. Tourists smiling because she made them smile.
Looked at the silent bunny.
Looked at Geraldo.
Her eyes filled with tears suddenly. Thick, slow, too real.
“If I wake up… I lose all this?”
Tomaz held out his hand.
“You get everything back.”
Lira started shaking.
Shoulders first.
Then chin.
Then whole body.
Tears fell on pink marble, turning into pools reflecting the fake sky.
“I’m scared,” she whispered, child voice again. “I’m really scared to wake up.”
Tomaz smiled sadly.
“It’s just one second of fear. Then it’s over.”
Lira cried harder. The cry of someone remembering, against their will, hospital smells, cold father hands, mother asleep in the chair.
The whole world darkened. Black clouds. Icy wind. Tourists below screamed.
Geraldo stepped forward.
“Lira…”
She raised a hand to silence him.
The crying stopped abruptly.
Like someone flipped a switch.
Lira wiped her face with the back of her hand.
Looked at Tomaz.
And smiled.
A small, wet, beautiful, horrible smile.
“I live here.”
She reached out.
Tomaz vanished.
No noise. No blood. Just ceased.
Lira walked among the others.
Touch.
Touch.
Touch.
Each faster than the last.
A woman begged:
“Please, I have a daughter out there…”
Touch.
A teen screamed:
“This is a crime!”
tropical.
Touch.
When she reached the last—a quiet-crying old lady—Lira stopped.
“You feel sorry for me?”
The lady nodded.
Lira touched her cheek, almost tenderly.
“I used to.”
Touch.
The square emptied.
Lira in the middle, hands shaking now for a different reason.
Looked at her palms.
“I… liked it.”
Voice low, surprised, almost happy.
Looked at Geraldo.
Her eyes dry again. Bigger. Older.
“I liked making them disappear.”
Geraldo felt it.
For the first time in all this.
A chill.
Not the chill from her angry winds.
A bone-deep chill.
Because he realized, right then:
He’d taught the girl to lock doors.
But hadn’t taught her who ends up on the inside when she decides to lock them all.
In the following days, the Dream Tax rose to 70%. Then 85%. Then 92%.
Complainers became statues. Quiet criers became decor.
Lines grew longer. Stories more desperate. Lira laughed less. Cried less. Felt less.
Until one day she stopped entirely.
Not suddenly. Gradually.
First stopped laughing. Jokes lost effect.
Then stopped crying. Tragedies became background noise.
The world started glitching. Buildings collapsed for no reason. Neon oceans dried. The sun stayed gray permanently because she forgot how to change it.
Geraldo tried everything. Clowns. Videos. Torn bunnies.
Nothing.
Until she looked at him with dead eyes and said:
“Nothing.”
And he understood: absolute power had hollowed her out.
Lira climbed back onto the throne.
The silent bunny tried approaching.
She looked at it.
“You feel sorry too.”
The bunny froze.
Lira snapped her fingers.
The bunny turned to gray dust the wind carried away.
This time she didn’t even blink.
“Geraldo?”
“Yeah.”
“Time for the last rule.”
And Geraldo knew exactly what to do.