Blood and Borders

Shattered City

The basement reeks of mildew and smoke, a choking combination that clings to my throat and burns my lungs. Somewhere above, artillery thunders, shaking loose dust from the ceiling. It’s been hours since the last air raid, but the city hasn’t stopped screaming. Kyiv isn’t dying—it’s being slaughtered. And unlike our father Pavlo Mazovkara — whom, most would agree, deserved his fate—and who we buried in the ruins of the churchyard this morning, the city assuredly does not.

I press my back against the cold concrete wall, my camera bag digging into my ribs. My fingers hover over the laptop’s keyboard as I watch the buffering wheel spin. Another blast echoes from the street outside—closer this time. The table rattles, and I grab the edge to keep it steady.

Dmytro’s boots scrape across the floor, loud in the quiet. He paces like a caged wolf, his uniform stained with grime and blood. The overhead bulb flickers, throwing his shadow across the wall like a phantom.

“You should stop streaming,” he says, his voice low but sharp enough to cut through the tension.

I glance at the screen, my throat dry. The connection is barely holding, the live feed stuttering. But stopping isn’t an option. “Someone has to show them.”