Chapter 4: The Girl in Red Shoes part 2

One day, walking home from the market, she saw it happen.

A van pulled up.

A girl — younger than her — dragged inside.

No screams. No fight.

Just the dull sound of fear being swallowed.

And no one moved.

No one even blinked.

Adea dropped her bag.

Started running.

Screamed until her throat tore.

But the van was gone.

The street went quiet again, like it never happened.

That night, she stared at her own reflection and whispered:

"If I stay quiet, I'm no better than them."

And something shifted.

Not a snap. Not a scream.

A spark.

Finally catching flame.

She began to fight.

Not with fists.

But with truth.

She printed flyers in secret — quotes from rebels, names of missing girls, poems that cut like knives.

She taped them to school doors.

Dropped them in grocery carts.

Tucked them into church pews.

Always signed the same:

A.D.

"You cannot kill what you never understood."

It was only a matter of time before they came for her.

Three men. Black jackets. Faces blurred like nightmares.

They smashed through the door.

Dragged her father into the street.

Held a gun to his head.

"Your daughter thinks she's a man."

Her mother sobbed.

Her father said nothing.

And Adea — bare feet slipping on shattered glass — stepped forward.

"Let him go," she said, voice clear. "Take me."

They tied her wrists.

Threw her into the van.

No one stopped them.

No one ever did.

They drove for hours. Into the forests above Vlorë.

No headlights.

No words.

They left her there — bound, bruised, and bleeding — beneath a sky stretched thin with winter.

She waited for the blow.

For the bullet.

But all she heard was wind.

And then — a sound that made her breath catch.