Milan — Industrial outskirts
The group zigzagged through the ruins.
Each step was a battle.
Each breath, a temporary victory.
Luca limped but refused to be carried.
Vera never let go of his hand, as if his very life depended on it.
Behind them, the gunfire had lessened — but not stopped.
They knew: they were still being hunted.
When they reached an old service road, Enzo stopped abruptly.
— There! — he pointed.
At the end of the street, hidden among piles of scrap metal, was an old cargo truck — part of the escape plan set up hours earlier.
It was their last hope.
Vera and Luca sprinted the final meters as if the ground could collapse at any moment.
Gunfire erupted again — guards emerging at the mouth of the street.
Enzo and two other fighters turned and fired back, providing cover as Vera pushed Luca into the truck's cargo bay.
— GO! — Enzo shouted at the driver, already in position.
The engine roared to life, coughing black smoke.
The truck lurched forward, tires screaming against the cracked asphalt.
A bullet slammed into the side panel, another shattered a side window — but they were already moving.
Vera held onto Luca tightly, both of them gasping, filthy, wounded — but alive.
For the first time in weeks, a tear slid down her cheek.
Not from pain.
Not from fear.
From hope.
Behind them, Milan still burned.
But inside that truck, the flame of the revolution burned stronger than ever.