Beneath the dying light of dusk, the market square felt colder than usual. The usual chatter of vendors and foot traffic had dulled, replaced by wary glances and hushed voices. A man sat on an overturned crate near a shuttered stall, shoulders hunched beneath a threadbare cloak. His gaze followed two officers in navy-blue uniforms as they moved quietly along the cobbled path.
"Hey… why are they still out there patrolling?" he muttered, barely above a whisper. "Aren't they afraid they'll end up like… like those five?"
His words hung in the air like a bitter wind. His companion—older, quieter, perhaps more tired—didn't answer immediately. He watched the officers for a moment longer, then let out a long, slow sigh.
"I don't know," he murmured. "But you have to admit… it's been three days since that massacre—and they're still here. Still showing up. No hesitation in their steps. No fear in their eyes. Just… doing their duty."
