The street of Via Nero lay stretched beneath a dim, watchful sky, its silence uneasy, its stones still warm with the memory of footsteps long gone.
The lamps flickered faintly, casting narrow pools of amber light that failed to reach the edges, where shadows gathered thick and patient, as though waiting.
A cold wind slipped between the narrow walls, brushing against skin and fabric alike, carrying with it a faint metallic scent that did not belong to the night.
It was not peace that lived here—it was anticipation, sharp and breathless, like the moment before a blade is drawn.
Even the distant hum of the city felt muffled, as though something unseen had pressed a hand over its mouth.
And in the midst of that waiting stillness, Alessandro stood.
His posture was rigid, though not stiff, every line of his body drawn with deliberate control that barely contained the storm beneath.
