Whispers in the Republic

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!"