“If something can go wrong, it will go wrong,” their mom repeated to the three of them as they huddled together, listening to her stories about the war. Their father, a Third War veteran who had lost his right leg during the fighting, sat in the thirty-year-old leather chair in their tiny apartment with a glass of rakija in his hands. He seldom spoke during these moments, preferring to let his wife do the talking.

“I’ve said all I needed to say,” he’d grumble whenever they pressed him for details about the war. “Nothing more to add.”

Their mother, however, insisted. “I teach you about history,” she’d say, “so you don’t make the same mistakes we did.”

However, she had been wrong, Niko now knew. In many places around the world, things never changed. And if they did, it was usually for the worse.

His older brother, Marko, was the first to rebel against their mother’s lessons. Bull-headed and charismatic, with his neatly trimmed hair and fire in his eyes, Marko had first heard about the resistance when he was sixteen. It started innocently enough—after school, he and his friends would gather at an old warehouse by the river, where they whispered about forbidden things: art, music, films. Anything disapproved of by the government became their lifeblood, their way of pushing back against the regime.

But before long, words alone weren’t enough to satisfy them.

Niko didn’t quite understand it at the time. The government that took over after the Third War didn’t seem much worse than the ones that came before. Or maybe they were, but how could anyone really tell? At twelve years old, Niko had already decided he didn’t care about things that were beyond his reach. Left Wing, Right Wing—what difference did it make? It wasn’t like their lives would suddenly improve, like there would be more food on the table or more money in their pockets, even if they threw their support behind the New Progress Party. Not that they ever would, of course.

Every night at eight, when the news came on and the President delivered yet another address, his father would shout at the television so much that Niko wondered if he knew they couldn’t hear him. His father broke his solemn pledge of silence repeatedly as he cursed every politician. “Those bastards in the Western Bloc don’t care what happens to people like us,” he’d growl. “As long as the puppets at the top keep following orders, we don’t matter.” Meanwhile, their mother would sit quietly, making that familiar clicking sound with her tongue, a sign of her disapproval, until her cooking show came back on.

To Niko, it all felt pointless. Whoever was in charge didn’t matter—nothing ever changed for them.

But for his brothers, it was different. It mattered to them.

In the evenings, at the warehouse, the numbers of their group were slowly swelling up. Brought together by disdain for the elite and their shared love of cheap wine, nearly fifty youths gathered day after day. Even the governor’s children showed up regularly. What did they have to rebel against? Niko thought, having been handed every opportunity this shitty country had to offer? He, on the other hand, had to grind for everything—studying late into the nights and waking up early to continue. While Marko rallied the discontented, Niko found his escape in outdated science books borrowed from the local library.

By the time Marko turned eighteen, he had become the leader of the local organization. He had always been the most passionate about their country’s plight. His fiery speeches and unwavering determination quickly earned him a place as the head of their town’s branch and an invitation to the capital. It wasn’t long before Niko stopped seeing him completely. But word on the street was that he was out there, active, rallying others to the cause.

In the months that followed, Marko married Julija, a strong-willed woman he had met in the resistance, and they soon had a child together. Niko’s parents had hoped this new chapter in Marko’s life might draw him away from the movement, but instead, it only deepened his commitment to The Fist, as the group now called itself.

Sergej, the middle child, once a cheerful, lean boy of seventeen, followed Marko’s lead. Inspired by his older brother’s fervor, Sergej’s youthful interests—his music, his football practice—were replaced by books on world politics and war games with The Fist.

A couple of years later, Marko and Sergej came back to their hometown, attempting to recruit Niko. Twice they visited their parents, but Niko knew their real purpose: to persuade him.

Their mother, who had a sixth sense about these things, overheard the discussion and had a nervous breakdown over it, her sobs echoing through the small apartment as she begged her sons to reconsider. Their father sat in his usual chair, holding his glass of rakija tighter than ever, but saying nothing. Marko and Sergej were unmoved.

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“Please, Niko,” Marko urged, his eyes blazing with intensity. “Join us. This is our chance to make a difference. We’ve made so much progress in the last years, and people are rallying behind us like never before.”

Niko hesitated, his gaze shifting between his brothers and their mother, who now clutched a worn photo of their uncle, a fallen resistance fighter from decades past. The weight of history bore down on him.

“I don’t know, Marko. I’m not sure this is the right way.”

“It’s the only way,” Sergej interjected, his voice steady. “We can’t just sit back and watch our people suffer. Come to our next meeting in the capital. See for yourself.”

Niko remained unconvinced, but out of a sense of duty to his brothers, he agreed to go.

They took the local bus to the capital, sitting next to each other, chatting about their hopes and dreams. When they arrived at Marko’s small flat, they were welcomed warmly by Julija and Leo, now two years old. For the first time in a long while, Niko felt a sense of family. It was as though his brothers were themselves again, and for a brief moment, things felt normal. But the peace was short-lived.

On their second night in the capital, a squad of armed men stormed the flat. The authorities had clearly caught wind of The Fist’s activities. The brothers barely had time to react before they were dragged away. Julija’s screams pierced the night, while Leo cried helplessly in his crib.

Niko found himself alone in a dim interrogation room, tied to a chair. The air was thick with the scent of smoke and his own sweat. The lead detective had been grilling him for hours, his words punctuated by the steady thud of blows to Niko’s ribs and face. Two other officers watched in silence, waiting for something in him to break. If not his spirit, then his bones would do.

Every time Niko would answer, “I don’t know,” the interrogators showed no mercy, the questions followed by brutal blows to the ribs or face. Panicking, Niko repeated that he wasn’t involved with the organization, but after seeing it was no use, he changed tactics and refused to say anything. They told him that his brothers were in the other room and were trying to pin everything on him. Niko remained silent. They told him that they would go after his parents next, then Julija and Leo. He remained silent. They would reward him, only if he testified. Nothing.

Hours later, bruised and battered, Niko was thrown into a cold, dark cell. He lay there, feeling the weight of hopelessness pressing down on him. The days blurred together in a haze of pain and confusion until, one week later, he was unexpectedly pulled from his cell and led to the warden’s office.

There, to his shock, sat his father, drinking his home-brewed rakija with the warden.

“Niko,” his father said quietly, worry etched deep into his face, “You’re coming home with me.” With the help of his crutches, his father stood up and led Niko out of the prison without another word.

Niko never found out what exactly had happened. They spent the drive back home in silence, Niko’s questions about his brothers falling on deaf ears. He assumed his father had pulled some strings, maybe called in a favor from a high-ranking official or a former war buddy. Or perhaps he had bribed them. Or both.

Even though Niko had been freed, the nightmare wasn’t over. His brothers, Marko and Sergej, weren’t as fortunate. They were sentenced to ten years in prison without trial. Sergej, the more fragile of the two, didn’t survive long. The guards beat him so badly that he succumbed to his injuries within weeks.

Sergej’s death was a devastating blow to all of them. Months of mourning passed, and Marko only occasionally sent word from his cell. Eventually, Julija and Leo moved in with Niko’s parents, offering some small comfort amid their grief.

Two years later, on Niko’s eighteenth birthday, Marko showed up at their doorstep. The joy was immense, as no one had heard any news from him in recent months. Not only was he out of prison, but he looked to be in excellent health. He wore an expensive suit and carried gifts.

“Happy birthday, little brother!” he said and hugged Niko while slipping a pile of cash into his pocket. “You were always the smartest one of us. Don’t waste this.”

Marko’s coming home might have been a happy occasion, but it soon became clear how he had managed to survive. News about the obliteration of The Fist was on all the news channels. The state media reported that several of their leaders had been apprehended and were to be put on public trial, Marko not being one of them. They were accused of treason, money laundering, and drug trafficking. It was clear what that meant—they wouldn’t ever get out.

Marko’s subsequent collaboration with the government felt like a betrayal of everything they had fought for. The man who had been greatly respected stood on the opposite side of everything they had fought for. Sergej’s death suddenly felt even more senseless.

The pain and anger became unbearable for Niko. Unable to reconcile with Marko’s actions, he made a decision. He couldn’t stay in a country that had destroyed his family.

With a heavy heart and without telling anyone, he booked a plane ticket to the United States, seeking a fresh start. Despite arriving as a refugee, he managed to finish high school in record time, earning top grades and securing a scholarship that would allow him to attend any university he wanted. He chose Harvard.

In his new home, Niko immersed himself in his studies with relentless determination. The bustling campus and the promise of a future far removed from the chaos of his homeland provided a temporary escape. But every night, as he lay in bed, the memories haunted him—the echoes of Sergej’s cries, the image of Marko’s cold, hollow eyes.

Yet, it was these memories that fueled his resolve—Niko promised himself that he would build a new life. One day, he vowed, he would find a way to honor the cause Sergej had fought for and the brothers he had lost along the way.