Milan — Tense dawn
The truck shook beneath Vera's feet as she scanned the square.
The crowds still roared, still raised their fists to the gray sky.
But Vera saw it — saw the dark shapes moving at the edges.
Saw the tense faces of men who hadn't come to listen but to silence.
She knew.
The next shot wouldn't be to scare.
It would be to kill.
Vera stepped down from the makeshift stage without drawing attention.
She slipped into the crowd.
Moved quickly, head low, every sense sharp as a blade.
One of the young resistance fighters spotted her and ran over.
"They're closing in," he gasped. "We have to get you out!"
Vera hesitated.
Every fiber of her body screamed to stay.
To fight.
To roar alongside them.
But the revolution didn't just need martyrs.
It needed survivors.
She gripped the young man's shoulder.
"Do we have a safe place?" she asked.
He nodded quickly.
"This way."
Vera followed, weaving through the crowd, using the bodies as a living shield.
Behind her, shouts erupted.
Chaos.
Gunshots fired into the air.
Milan was burning with fury.
And Vera disappeared into the smoke like a rebellious ghost.
She hadn't fled.
She was choosing to live — to fight another day.