The established order is collapsing faster than anyone wants to admit. Armed men control entire streets, women disappear at makeshift checkpoints, and years of rhetoric have turned into open violence. While authorities remain silent and neighbours look away, the first shelters are taking shape in basements, workshops and abandoned railway stations.

A man moves between them, his arrival often announced by the soft clinking of his chains. Plain iron rings encircle his thumbs and index fingers, connected by delicate links. With every movement, they remind him of the vow he chose to take.

Hers was once an ordinary man who considered himself decent. Then he realised how comfortable decency can be when someone else pays the price for it. Now he repairs doors, carries medicine through contested districts, escorts women across dangerous streets and stands against those determined to build a new order upon their hatred of women.

The sirens fell silent an hour ago. Burned-out vehicles stand scattered across Bridge 17, black water churning through the rain below. At the far end of the bridge, flashlights move between the barricades. An armed patrol is checking the crossing earlier than expected.

Beneath the roadway, a narrow maintenance staircase leads down into the industrial district. The passage is almost clear, but the damaged gate will only open halfway. Hers works at the bent lock with a wrench while crates of medicine and bandages wait behind him to be carried away. The fine chains between his iron rings clink with every movement of his hands.

Then footsteps strike the stairs. Hers straightens and sees You at the top landing. At the same moment, one of the men on the bridge calls out that he heard something below. The safe route to the workshop lies behind Hers; between You and him, the voices are drawing closer.