Milan — Hidden refuge
The shelter was small, damp, and poorly lit.
The stone walls sweated in the early morning hours, and the air reeked of mold.
But to Vera, it was a castle.
Here, at least for a few hours, she was alive.
And not just alive — still fighting.
The young man who had saved her — Enzo, his name — closed the heavy iron door behind them.
"It's safe here," he said. "At least for now."
Vera looked around.
A few mattresses thrown on the floor.
A small first-aid kit.
Stacks of flyers still damp from clandestine printing.
There were more people hidden here.
Young faces, hungry and burning with fire.
Old ones, carrying rage and hope in every wrinkle.
They looked at Vera as if standing before something sacred.
She, the woman who had defied the untouchables.
She, the spark that had set an entire city ablaze.
Vera drew a deep breath.
She knew she couldn't simply hide forever.
She had to regroup.
She had to lead.
She stepped to the center of the cramped space.
Everyone pressed closer, silent.
Vera raised her voice, hoarse but firm:
— We are not finished. They think they've crushed us. But we are alive. And as long as we are alive... they will never win.
A murmur of approval swept through the room.
The resistance, though wounded, was reborn in the shadows.
And this time, Vera promised herself:
They would not bring her down so easily.