Not only outside —

but inside as well.

The regional committee decided:

the editor had gone too far.

The editor-in-chief was removed.

A “reliable” партийный man was appointed in his place.

The new editor arrived with a cold smile.

And almost immediately, he chose his target —

the feuilletonist.

Not to fire him.

To break him.

To prove he was nobody.

Not a truth-seeker.

Not a voice.

Just an employee.

He summoned him.

— We’ll dedicate a page to trade workers, — he said. —

Go to the city food supply office. Interview the director.

A photographer, заранее instructed,

was already waiting not far from the journalist’s home.

The interview went smoothly.

Too smoothly.

As the journalist stepped outside,

a driver approached him:

— I’ll give you a ride.

He got into the car, suspecting nothing.

On the way, the driver said casually:

— The boss asked the store manager to give you a small gift.

— What kind? — the journalist asked.

— A ram.

— Alive?

— No… already cut.

— I see…

The car stopped near a warehouse.

Two workers brought out a large carcass from a freezer

and placed it in the trunk.

And in that moment,

the journalist understood.

This wasn’t gratitude.

It was a trap.

When they reached his house, he said calmly:

— Let’s give the ram to a poor old woman.

— As you wish, — said the driver.

The journalist took 200 rubles from his pocket and handed it over:

— Give this to the store director. And get a receipt.

— Alright…

— And one more thing, — he added. — What’s your name?

The driver went pale.

Now he understood:

a receipt was unavoidable.

— If it’s not enough, I’ll add more, — the journalist said quietly.

A few minutes later,

the driver — no longer confident —

carried the heavy carcass on his shoulders

and handed it to an old woman.

And in the distance stood the photographer.

He was shooting.

Again.

And again.

He wasn’t capturing a gift.

He was capturing the truth.

The photograph was published.

And it struck hard.

Not the journalist.

The editor.

A call came from the regional committee.

The voice was cold:

— What is going on there?

At the same moment,

a call rang in the city food office.

They understood everything without explanations.

The new editor sat in silence.

The newspaper lay in front of him.

In the photograph —

his failure.

His “lesson.”

His revenge.

Turned against him.

That evening,

the feuilletonist did not feel victory.

He sat by the window.

And thought:

Truth is not a reward.

It is a weapon.

And whoever takes it in their hands

must be ready —

to be shot at in return.