Why Injustice Feels Personal: Understanding Corruption Fatigue | Ethan Alexander

There’s a particular kind of exhaustion that doesn’t show on the face but weighs heavily on the spirit. I’ve seen it in the real world during my years in security. I’ve lived it. And I’ve written it into every page of Deadly Extraction because corruption fatigue is real, and injustice hits harder when you’ve spent your life fighting systems designed to outlast you.

I used to believe injustice was something that happened “out there”. Something distant, something political, something reserved for courtrooms and governments. But the more you witness secrets buried, good men silenced, and truth twisted until it resembles the lie, the more you realise injustice stops being abstract the first time it touches you.

It becomes personal.

And once that happens, the fatigue begins.

Why injustice cuts deeper than we admit

People assume anger comes from the event, the unfair dismissal, the ignored complaint, and the corrupt decision-maker who hides behind procedure. But anger actually comes from what these moments mean.

When you're dismissed unfairly, it’s not just about the job; it’s about dignity. When your truth is ignored, it’s not just about a disagreement; it’s about erasure. When the powerful get away with wrongdoing, it’s not just about them winning; it’s about the rules never applying equally.

And humans, regardless of culture, background, or belief, are wired to seek fairness. It’s hard-coded into us from childhood. So when corruption shows up again and again, unchallenged, unpunished, unspoken… It chips away at that internal compass. That’s where the fatigue sets in.

Corruption fatigue: the silent erosion of trust

Corruption fatigue hits when you’ve had too many experiences like these:

• You watch the guilty rise while the honest struggle.

• You speak out and are labelled “difficult” instead of “courageous”.

• You provide evidence, but nobody listens until it’s too late.

• You follow the rules while others rewrite them to suit themselves.

That helplessness becomes a quiet kind of trauma. A slow, grinding erosion of trust.

Over time, you stop expecting fairness. You stop believing change is possible. You stop hoping for accountability.

And when hope dies, fatigue replaces it.

Why it feels personal, even when it isn't directed at us

You don’t have to be the victim to feel injustice. Sometimes simply witnessing wrongdoing is enough to make your blood run hot.

We’re hardwired for connection. The brain processes fairness and unfairness in the same region that handles physical pain. That’s why watching someone else being mistreated can feel like it’s happening to you.

It’s why you root for Daniel Carter in Deadly Extraction. It’s why his fight resonates. Because corruption isn’t just a plotline; it’s a mirror.

Carter’s battles aren’t far from our own:

• Fighting systems stacked against you

• Being punished for integrity

• Facing retaliation for speaking truth

• Surviving because quitting would mean surrendering your soul

He embodies what many feel but cannot say out loud.

Why stories like Deadly Extraction matter now more than ever

Fiction gives us what reality often denies: resolution.

We watch Carter confront the things we can't. We see him expose the secrets we wish the world would acknowledge. We witness what justice could look like even if it’s only on the page.

People don’t read thrillers just for excitement. They read because they’re tired of real-world corruption with no consequences.

Thrillers allow us to imagine the impossible: a world where the truth finally wins.

And for a moment, a chapter, a night, a heartbeat, we feel lighter.

Corruption fatigue is real, but so is resilience

Injustice feels personal because it touches the core of who we are. But fatigue doesn’t mean defeat.

It means you’re paying attention. It means you still care. It means the fire hasn’t gone out; it’s just waiting for a spark.

If you’ve ever felt tired of being silenced, overlooked, underestimated or pushed aside by systems built to protect the few… You’re not alone.

And that’s why I write. Because stories can carry the weight we can't. Because narratives can expose what institutions bury. And because even one reader feeling seen is worth every page.