The night did not merely witness what followed—it tightened around it, as though the very air understood that something long buried had risen once more, and would not return quietly.
Alessandro's body swayed where he stood, though he forced it still, his breath dragging through his chest in uneven pulls, his strength no longer flowing freely but clawed back through sheer will.
Across from him, Michele remained poised, composed, his weapon angled with quiet certainty, his eyes sharp with the patience of a man who had waited years for this moment to rip open again.
The street lay silent, yet it was not empty; it held memory, echo, the ghost of another night that had once ended differently.
A faint sound broke that stillness—not loud, not hurried, but steady enough to alter the balance before either of them turned.
Footsteps.
