Milan — Old City Center
The abandoned building where Vera hid trembled with the echoes of the clashes outside.
The city roared.
Smoke from burning barricades darkened the sky.
Sirens wailed from every direction.
The air stank of gunpowder and fear.
Vera held a torn sheet of newspaper between her fingers — on it, a photo: her own face, accompanied by a single bold word:
"TRAITOR."
She knew what it meant.
She knew she was a target now.
"If they find you, they'll kill you," one of the young resistance fighters had warned earlier.
Sitting on the rotten wooden floor, Vera thought.
She could try to flee Milan.
Change her name.
Disappear.
Many did.
But something inside her screamed to stay.
To fight.
The dossier was already in the right hands.
The truth had been planted.
But the revolution was young — fragile as a flower blooming among stones.
And Vera knew: if everyone ran now, corruption would return stronger than ever, crushing everything.
She stood, slowly.
Her knees ached.
Her back burned.
But her eyes blazed with a determination that even fear could not extinguish.
She took one last look at the burning city.
And then, as if choosing her destiny, she descended the stairs toward the streets — where the people shouted, fought, and bled.
She chose to stay.
Even knowing she might never return.