Roads between Milan and Como — Cold, early morning
The car sped like a black arrow along the empty road. The only light was the reflection of the headlights on the puddled asphalt.
Luca gripped the steering wheel tightly. Beside him, Vera clutched the folder of documents against her chest, as if sheer will could shield them.
Neither spoke.
The sound of the engine and the hiss of rain filled the space between them — a silence heavy with fear and resolve.
The print shop they sought was a hidden operation, tucked behind an antique store in Como. An old friend of Luca's — Marcello — ran it. A man who owed favors. And more importantly: someone who still believed in truth printed in ink.
When they reached the stone entrance, Luca flashed the headlights twice. A side door creaked open.
Marcello appeared, wrapped in a threadbare coat, holding a lantern.
"Ferretti..." he murmured, glancing both ways down the street before waving them inside. "You bring trouble?"
"No more than necessary," Luca replied, trying to smile.
Inside, the air reeked of wet paper and fresh ink. The old printing presses hummed softly, ready to roll out the truth that others wanted buried.
Vera handed over the typewritten article. Luca passed the folder with the evidence.
Marcello read the first lines and let out a low whistle.
"This... is going to set the city on fire."
"We need a hundred copies," Vera said. "And a few brave eyes willing to spread them."
Marcello nodded.
"Leave it to me. But listen... after this, you won't be able to walk the streets like before."
Luca looked at Vera.
She lifted her chin, defiant.
"We haven't walked like before in a long time," she said.
The machines roared to life.
The sound of the rollers pressing ink into paper was like a drumbeat of war.
There, in the darkness of a forgotten print shop, a revolution was born.
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If you believe Luca and Vera's fight deserves to reach the world, drop a Power Stone to help their revolution roar louder.
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