Milan — Resistance Hideout
The air inside the shelter reeked of old oil and burnt paper.
On a battered wooden table, Vera, Enzo, and five other resistance fighters studied the rough sketch of the old railway depot.
It was an improvised fortress:
Abandoned warehouses.
Tracks swallowed by rust.
Armed guards patrolling like rabid dogs.
Vera tapped her fingers on the edge of the table, deep in thought.
"We have two main entrances," Enzo explained, pointing. "Both heavily guarded."
He traced a faint line along the map's edge.
"But there's an old service tunnel. Supposedly deactivated. Maybe we can slip in through there."
Vera nodded.
It was a slim chance — but it was a chance.
"How many fighters do we have?" she asked.
"Twelve reliable ones," Enzo replied. "And two who know the area well."
It wasn't much.
Laughably little.
But time was against them.
Every passing hour increased the risk that Luca would be moved — or worse, executed.
"The rescue will be tomorrow, before dawn," Vera decided. "While the city is focused on the square operations."
She looked into every face around the table.
Young. Old.
Men and women who had already lost so much — yet still dared to fight.
"We're bringing Luca back," she promised.
No one hesitated.
They all knew: this mission could easily be their last.
But they also knew that some battles are won not by numbers, but by faith.
And their faith was anchored in the woman — and the man — who had refused to kneel.