Three spies sat in three separate prison cells—cold, chained, and silent. The walls were thick, the air thicker still. Each tick of passing time grew heavier, slower, more unbearable.
They had been captured during the raids that bled through Shewa like a righteous storm. The sweep had been brutal, decisive. Now, all the three traitors could do was wait for their fate.
But silence is a cruel thing.
The longer Commander Tesfaye delayed the interrogation, the deeper the panic set in.
One paced in tight, jerky steps, whispering to himself.
Another chewed his fingernails raw, glancing at shadows as if expecting death to pour from the corners.
The last sat perfectly still—but his eyes were wild, darting every time boots echoed in the hallway.
They were separated, isolated, yet united by one thought: they would not leave this place alive.
