At his worn desk in a tiny, slightly musty, barely one-room apartment, a young man was hunching over a wad of paper. He gripped his pencil so tightly that tiny splinters stuck in his fingers. He ran his fingers through his long, wavy black hair, scratched his long, stubbly chin, and then sighed heavily, crumpling up the paper and throwing it against the wall, which then fell into the pile of wads. Then he took out another one.

“Come on, Gabi, it’ll work! This one’ll be good!” Silence. He sat alone. No one heard him, no one bothered him, so he could think out loud. “So, that’s what we should start with…yes…this one can go after that.” He was busy nailing down his thoughts. “Well, well… hm… we can’t let them… we can’t let them to pressure… we can’t let them to pressure… Ah, this ain’t gonna work, and tomorrow hundreds will be watching!” He ruffled his hair again, then leaned back in his creaky chair. “Think, Gábor Laki, think!” Gábor leaned back on the table. “We won’t bend under the pressure; we won’t let them occupy us for another forty years… Yes, that’s it! Great… Hey, is anyone there?” Gabi stopped writing, as he heard a sharp noise from the laundry room, as if someone had broken a window.

He got up from her chair and slowly approached the room, wiping his forehead as he reached for the doorknob. He knew he was alone in the apartment, yet felt uneasy. Gabi opened the door, squeezing the handle while holding onto the doorframe with his other hand.

He needed support, because the sight almost made him collapse.