The first six months of occupation felt like Hell on earth. Confiscation of property, enforced curfews, grueling labor, brutal punishments, and the constant suffocating weight of surveillance. Control was everywhere, oppressive and unyielding, as though even the simple act of breathing was under scrutiny.

The sharp toll of a bell echoed through the streets, signaling the start of the curfew. In winter, darkness crept in early, and most residents hurried home long before the appointed hour, save for the laborers who struggled to return in time. The patrolling soldiers were rarely lenient, showing no mercy unless by some rare chance they crossed paths with a kinder recruit.

Through the biting wind and swirling snow, a person trudged forward, their scarf pulled tight against their face. They moved quickly, driven by the hope of reaching home before the dreaded eight o'clock. But the snowstorm was relentless. Their hands and feet were numb, their body heavy and sluggish after a grueling day of work. Each step through the deep snow felt like wading through quicksand.

Finally, the familiar outline of their home appeared through the haze of frost. Relief was short-lived. From around the corner, a patrol emerged—a group of three soldiers, two armed with machine guns, their heavy boots crunching through the snow. They spotted him instantly.

"Documents," one of them demanded coldly, his voice cutting through the storm.

With trembling hands, a person produced their papers. One soldier squinted at the certificate, struggling to read the name in the harsh blizzard light. Time dragged painfully until the third man. His uniform was sharper, his presence commanding. The officer. Clearly losing patience, the man stepped forward and barked:

"Enough. Who cares who them is?" His icy gaze shifted to the hunched figure, lips curling in disdain. "Punishment. Let’s not waste time."