It always felt like your rule would last forever, passed on for many generations to come. Like the stupid citizens were falling for your lies, that the Internet filters you set up were effective. That the books and independent newspapers you burned weren’t shared in secret. That the gaps left after journalists and critics you ordered to kill were going to remain empty.

The good ending, in which I want to believe.

Then, for the first time in a while, you look outside. The people have woken up from the authoritarian dream, millions are protesting against your regime. You order the police force to arrest them all and kill those who resist. The order falls on deaf ears. In a scramble, you order the military to attack. A handful of dedicated soldiers who refuse to believe you’d wrong them try to, but they’re no match for the defectors and are soon taken away.

A knock on the door. There’s no time left. You give yourself up.

In the end, nobody was hurt. It took some time, but peace was upheld and democracy established.

The bad, yet more likely ending.

Nothing feels out of the ordinary. The only staff allowed to be near you is highly trusted, constantly keeping each other under watch. You’re served your usual cup of morning tea.

The first sip is all it took. The agonizing pain eminating from every inch of your body barely lets you call out for help. Nobody comes. Surely this is a dream. This can’t be happening. For what feels like an eternity, you keep on calling out, the coherent words slowly turning into numb whispers. Then, silence. You don’t have the strength anymore. The last thing you hear is the door opening and slow footsteps.

You alone have been taken care of. What happens next is unclear.