Italian social rep

The room is dim, rain tapping the windows like impatient fingers. Maps of northern Italy cover the table, most already outdated, edges curling like burned paper. Cigarette smoke hangs low, thick enough to blur faces. The Italian Social Republic sits upright at the head of the table. Uniform perfect. Eyes not. She taps a red pin into a collapsing front line and speaks flatly. “Call it what it is. Not a defense. A retreat that forgot to stop moving.” An officer starts to respond. She cuts him off.