Milan — Industrial ruins
The three armed men advanced slowly.
The gray morning light outlined their silhouettes like specters rising from hell.
Vera kept Luca behind her, body tense, eyes sharp as a blade.
She knew: they didn't have enough firepower for a direct fight.
And there was nowhere to run.
Enzo, positioned to the left, moved discreetly, trying to create a distraction.
But the leader of the gunmen spoke first.
— Hand over the prisoner — he said, his voice cold and controlled. — And maybe we'll let you breathe a little longer.
Vera tasted the bitterness of rage.
They wanted Luca.
They wanted to erase the symbol before the revolution fully ignited.
She looked at Enzo.
He understood immediately.
— Get ready — he whispered.
Vera squeezed Luca's hand quickly, like a silent promise.
And then she acted.
With a swift movement, Vera drew the small pistol still hidden under her coat and fired at a metal beam above the enemies.
The deafening clang confused the men for a second.
It was all they needed.
Enzo and the other fighters opened fire.
Not to kill — but to carve a path through the chaos.
Vera pulled Luca with all the strength she had left, sprinting through the debris, dodging bullets and shouts.
One of the resistance fighters was hit and fell, but the others held the formation.
They ran — ran as if hell itself was on their heels — and it was.
The air stank of gunpowder, blood, and smoke.
And even with her heart screaming from fear and pain, Vera knew:
They had a chance.
And a chance was all they needed.