Milan — Cold night
The city was on fire — not just with flames, but with fury.
The squares belonged to the people.
Flyers covered the walls like a new skin for Milan.
And the faces of the once-untouchable elite were scratched, torn, spat on in the corners of the streets.
But power, even wounded, never dies without a fight.
Vera knew that.
While she spoke to crowds in the squares, while she helped organize improvised assemblies, other eyes were following her.
Cold eyes.
Eyes paid to hunt.
In a dark basement room beneath an old hotel, men in rumpled suits whispered:
"She's become a symbol. Take her down, and we break their spirit."
"Without her, they'll scatter. Crawl back to their holes."
"Make it look like an accident. No martyrs."
The plans were already in motion.
That night, atop the improvised truck, Vera felt the chill on her spine before she even saw it.
Men moving at the edges of the square.
Coordinated movements.
Whispers of fear rippling through the crowd.
She knew.
Time was running out.
If she wanted to survive — if she wanted the revolution to survive — she would have to act.
And fast.
Vera was no longer just a voice.
She was now the primary target.