The Labor Movement

Tom's shout was like a bolt of thunder, splitting apart the murky air that had long been shrouded in the roar of machinery and despair.

It was not particularly loud, yet it pierced the eardrums of every worker present with precision, cutting through their numb souls.

We are not slaves—

"You fucking—"

The overseer's fury was completely ignited by that provocation. He raised his foot, ready to bring it down with all his strength and crush this reckless ant beneath it.

Yet in the end, his foot never came down.

A shadow suddenly sprang out from behind a nearby loom, carrying the pent-up fury of half a lifetime as it slammed viciously into the overseer's face.

It was Old Tom.

Bang!

With a dull thud, the overseer staggered from the impact. He stared in disbelief at the old worker who normally did not even dare raise his head.

In that instant, Old Tom clenched his fist, covered in calluses and scars, and drove it into the overseer's nose with all the strength in his body.

Blood spattered.

"They've rebelled! You fucking bastards have all rebelled!"

Clutching his nose, the overseer let out a muffled shriek. His other hand frantically reached for his waist, trying to grab the whistle to summon the guards.

But he failed.

Another hand, a younger and stronger one, seized his wrist from the other side.

Then a third and a fourth worker closed in. Some snatched away his whistle, while others stuffed a greasy rag into his mouth.

As the overseer was pinned firmly to the ground, the last steam-powered loom in the workshop, left unattended, let out a shrill scream before slowly grinding to a halt.

The deafening roar vanished.

Dead silence.

This sudden quiet was more unsettling than any noise.

The workers looked at