Every so often, something strange happens when you write. A scene imagined months earlier suddenly collides with reality. It doesn’t make the work prophetic—it reveals how predictable certain patterns really are.
In my forthcoming book, You Should Burn This Book, there’s a passage I keep returning to in light of recent events:
Conrad Turner, a former media figure turned president, returned to the national stage in a blaze of flags and fury. During what was branded The Great Return Rally, an assassin's bullet tore through his side—and into his only son, who stood behind him on the stage. The son died instantly. Turner survived, paralyzed from the waist down.
That moment became the movement's origin myth.
Turner's base didn't see tragedy—they saw sacrifice. The son's death became sanctified, and Turner's every word carried the weight of a divine mandate. He no longer had to run—all he needed to do was speak. His loyalists believed the price had been paid in blood—and now the restoration had to be completed, no matter what the cost.
This scene was written months before the killing of Charlie Kirk. But when the news broke, the resonance was hard to ignore.
The Father and the Son
Turner in the book is a former media figure turned president. His survival—bloodied, broken, but alive—is what sanctifies him. His son’s death becomes the offering that transforms politics into faith.
In reality, the parallels are unsettling. Donald Trump, now in his final term, is a patriarch whose formal power may wane but whose symbolic hold remains strong. Charlie Kirk was not his literal son, but in many ways his political offspring—an acolyte who brought Trump’s message to campuses, youth groups, and a new generation of conservatives.
And Kirk was not just a political operator. He was a devout Christian, someone who frequently framed political struggle as spiritual warfare. In that light, his death carries the possibility of being read as a form of martyrdom—a sacrifice that strengthens the father-figure’s mandate.
The point is not prediction. It is pattern. Authoritarian movements often rely on sacrifice—on blood, whether spilled by violence or offered through devotion—to solidify themselves. Fiction can reveal these patterns before reality supplies the actors.
When I wrote this passage, I wasn’t imagining Charlie Kirk. But the fact that his death can be read through the same lens shows how tightly political movements are bound to narrative. They don’t just react to events. They mythologize them.
And when faith enters the equation—when the figure is already framed in Christian terms—death can be cast as holy, purposeful, even necessary. That’s when tragedy becomes fuel.
You Should Burn This Book is not about predicting single events. It’s about exposing the coordinated dismantling of democratic life in America — how science is silenced, universities defunded, civil servants replaced, and billionaires quietly assume the powers of government. It traces how dysfunction is weaponized, how collapse disguises itself as delay, and how loyalty replaces law.
This is not prophecy. It’s documentation, arranged to show how fragile our systems are — and how deliberate their erosion has become.
The book will be released in the coming months, and I’ll be sharing more glimpses here on the Aithorship site.
Because sometimes fiction doesn’t predict reality.
It reveals how reality is already being rewritten.
-Ronin Volf
The killing of Charlie Kirk—like all political violence—is a tragedy. To be clear: I do not condone violence. What this moment should remind us of is the urgent need for peace—for ways of settling our deepest conflicts without turning people into symbols through their deaths.