The runway welcomed us with teeth.
Concrete stretched like a scar under a gray, unforgiving sky. Wind howled low and sharp, tugging at my coat and ringing the bells of my mask like an omen. The moment the plane's wheels kissed ground, I felt it—the shift. The silence. The eyes.
The Republic did not like visitors.
It tolerated intrusions the way a snake tolerates footsteps: with patience and poison.
We disembarked into the cold, unblinking eye of a nation pretending not to watch. I stepped off the plane first, violet boots flashing like heresy on the tarmac, and struck a pose so ridiculous I nearly twisted an ankle.
"Ah!" I cried, arms wide to the sky. "Bless this land of iron and frost! May your concrete dreams never thaw!"