Act I: Dust and Prophecy
The air within the lecture theatre was thick, saturated with the dregs of decades-old dust, the scent of parched parchment, and the exhalations of hundreds of young bodies that, like sponges, soaked up every word from the man at the lectern. Professor Milan Cvijić did not merely lecture on ethics; he pulled its strings, bending and tailoring it to his own whims, standing there as the undisputed architect of morality. His voice, velvety and precisely tuned, resonated through the hall like an instrument in an opera where he was both composer and conductor.
"Freedom, dear colleagues," he began, slightly tilting his chin, "is but a cleverly designed illusion for those who lack the courage to embrace their own necessity."
As he spoke, an intruder forced its way into his nostrils. Through the tall, open windows drifted the scent of an approaching summer storm—heavy, intoxicating, and damp. To the rest of the world, it was the smell of refreshment. To Milan, it was the scent of defeat. The smell of sodden earth from the old estate five years prior began to cling to his palate, suffocating him mid-sentence. He felt the damp loam gathering in his throat—the very same earth he had feverishly shovelled over Ana’s body while Stefan, his most cherished puppet, stood paralysed beside him.
Suddenly, the heavens splintered. CRACK. The thunder struck with such violence that the glass vibrated within its frames. In Milan’s mind, this was no natural phenomenon; it was the echo of that single gunshot that had silenced Ana’s scream.
In the very next breath, a flash of lightning scorched the gloom of the theatre. In that unnatural, white glare, the faces of the students became pale and static, resembling death masks in some forgotten museum. And at the very heart of this nightmare, in the third row, sat Ivona. Her gaze was not that of a student taking notes; it was the gaze of an executioner awaiting her moment. Ivona did not blink. Her eyes were fixed upon Milan, dissecting his every tremor with surgical detachment.
Milan’s hand, which until moments ago he had commanded with absolute sovereignty, tightened around the chalk. Under the pressure of his paranoia, the chalk snapped with a sharp, dry sound—a sound that echoed in his ears like the splintering of the very bones of his authority. White dust coated his fingers, a haunting reminder of ash.
His gaze fell upon her desk. There lay a weathered, battered notebook with a faded floral pattern. Ana’s notebook. An object that should have rotted in the darkness of the estate now glared under the neon lights. Ivona slowly, almost ritually, pressed her fingers to the cover and opened it exactly in the middle. It was a movement that tore through the silence of the hall—a movement with which Ivona began to slowly eviscerate the entrails of Milan’s meticulously constructed house of cards.
