Eleanor tried to shut the door, but Victor jammed a heavy boot into the opening. The three men pushed their way into the narrow hallway, crowding her back against the wall and making it clear what would happen if she resisted. Victor slapped a thick stack of forged documents onto the kitchen table and smiled as if the outcome were already settled.
Tears streamed down Eleanor’s hollow cheeks while the crooked notary hurriedly spread out his papers and stamps. Alex stood off to the side, muttering weak excuses under his breath about how this was “for the best.” In that moment Eleanor understood just how completely trapped she was—boxed in by greed, betrayal, and brute force.
She picked up the pen they handed her, moving as if in a bad dream. Every small motion took effort. The blue tip of the pen was just about to touch the paper when the sharp buzz of the doorbell cut through the room and made everyone freeze.
Victor swore under his breath and stomped toward the front door, ready to get rid of whoever had shown up at the worst possible time. Eleanor held her breath, not quite daring to hope. He yanked the door open, prepared to unload on the visitor, but the words died in his throat.
Standing there was a young man from the building in a bright volunteer jacket, carrying a heavy box of donated groceries for residents in need. Victor snatched the box out of his hands and slammed the door in his face, cursing the whole time. The interruption bought Eleanor a few seconds, nothing more, but even that felt like a crack in the wall closing around her.
Meanwhile, in occupied territory, Michael began his silent climb up the broken stairwell of the ruined factory. Pale moonlight spilled through gaps in the brickwork, turning every movement into a risk. He moved with the careful economy of a trained soldier, blending into the shadows and listening for the smallest sound.
Then voices—enemy patrol, close by, laughing as they talked about sweeping the basements at dawn. Michael froze behind a twisted heap of metal, knowing time had nearly run out for the men bleeding below. He was facing the impossible: neutralize the guards, find transport, and get his people out from under the enemy’s nose.
Back in Eleanor’s kitchen, Victor stepped up to the table again and slammed his fist down, demanding her signature. She flinched at the sound. But then, unexpectedly, something hardened inside her. She thought of her son, likely bleeding somewhere in the cold, fighting to protect people from men exactly like this…
