Le_Guiscard: forum

The golden light of afternoon broke into warm pieces against the fancy shop windows of the tailors studio. It was as if the sun had stopped there to stay awhile. Reflections moved across the glass touching beautiful silks, thick wools, rich velvets and light linens. Each was arranged with care like precious things rather than just clothes. The colors, like petrol blue, deep crimson, dusty ochre and soft greens seemed to breathe. They changed a little with every movement of light as if they had a life of their own.

The buildings front looked old. Measured: dark wood panels, shiny like an old mirror alternated with thin brass frames. These were engraved with flower designs delicate they looked like they were drawn by a quiet craftsmans hand. Every detail showed care, discipline and a taste that did not compromise.

Just beyond that Torn returned to being itself: a city that did not know cleanliness only different levels of decay. Elsewhere the air was thick with smells, dampness, garbage, sweat and bad smoke.. Here along this bit of street something changed. It was like crossing a line. The paving stones looked strangely clean. The walls had no graffiti or scars. A faint imperceptible scent came from the tailors door. It was a mix of treated wood and new fabrics. A fragrance that did not belong to Torn. To another world one that was more refined and selective.

Above the entrance the sign on the wall. Its curly letters painted in deep red against a cream background. Seemed written with an almost noble confidence: "Veste d' 'o Guiscard."

Anyone who crossed that threshold not out of curiosity but also because of the promise of well-paid work would notice the street noise get softer. It was as if the noise was held back by walls. Their footsteps would sink into a silence. At the counter a young man would greet them. His look was sharp, attentive too aware to be a clerk. His tone would be polite but measured as if each word had been weighed before it was spoken.

At the reply about a private appointment with the Guiscard his manner would change, subtly but definitely. A small nod. Then they could go in.

The inner corridors opened like a gallery: neat rows of ready-made clothes alternating with unfinished mannequins. Some lacked arms; others were covered in cloth pinned with fine needles that caught the light. The scent of fabric grew stronger there almost overwhelming. The sound of footsteps was absorbed by carpets and surfaces designed to make no echo.

The staircase appeared suddenly as if it did not quite fit with its surroundings: marble faintly veined, cold and serious underfoot. Each step made the feeling of being watched stronger even if there were no eyes. At the top the door dominated the space, tall and imposing with flower designs that intertwined like roots or leaf veins. The brass handles, heavy and cold were shaped like a leaf.

When the door opened the inside welcomed its guests with a ceremonial calm.

The table, long and massive reflected the chandeliers light in shiny gleams. At its center the family crest: a banner of checks crossed a blank space, interrupted only by a crown. It was not for decoration; it carried the weight of history perhaps of a family that did not need to announce itself.

The chairs, six in total were arranged with precision as if each seat had been assigned long before the guests arrived: two at the heads and three along each side. The crystal tray at the center gave off a refined glow: thick glasses, heavy decanters the amber glow of brandy beside the clear water. A discreet invitation,. Also a test of restraint.

The walls, lined with a geometric fabric muffled every sound until it was almost gone. To speak inside was to be heard by those present and by no one else. No windows broke that sense of isolation; the room was sealed, protected, perhaps even deliberately cut off from the world.

Above it all the crystal chandelier cast a light free of sharp shadows eliminating any possible hiding place. There was nowhere to hide neither in a deeper sense.

So the guests could sit down feel the chairs weight beneath them the silence growing thicker, with each passing second within the velvet room.

The host would not delay out of distraction. By design. He would let time do its work.

Post order:

Amashiro,
Dion,
Hercule,
Lilly,

Ruffled,
Wood

Shiro’s remarks about his quiet work in building that little dream of his made him smile, even chuckle; in truth, the actual realization of that plan had been the result of a series of coincidental events fitting together: a building large enough put up for auction because its owner had been caught by the tax authorities for not paying enough taxes; an old acquaintance entangled in drug trafficking who now preferred a quieter, more respectable line of work; a shipment of antique furnishings that had mysteriously vanished from the port, containing even several slabs of Carrara marble. In short, a real stroke of luck for Salazar—but that’s a story for another time.

The guiscard, as he had now decided to call himself for this new role in organized crime—born of an almost foolish obsession with history and the prominent figures who populated it—had spent the past months preparing that mission, staying in close contact with old acquaintances, some not even from the Old Continent, studying in meticulous detail (as far as possible) the when and how of the entire staging. The only thing he still lacked were the leading actors for his script—people who were not from where he came from, though that very condition ruled out options that would otherwise have been ideal for what he had in mind. He needed to shift his focus and turn the spotlight onto what was now his home: Torn City. And so, with the help of contacts in the “handyman” and “painter” circles, he managed to find fresh, clean faces—promising and up-and-coming, hungry and ready to take what they felt was theirs. After all, if you don’t invest in new blood, how can you expect anything to truly change?

Thus, alongside a couple of familiar and trusted faces—his beloved Shiro, a partner in every sense, and Lilly, a dear friend and former accomplice in a successful heist—he gathered, in what would become his new headquarters, those who had most captured his attention. For the occasion, he dressed impeccably (as though he didn’t already do so even just to go grocery shopping), having requested the same of his guests: a wine-red velvet double-breasted jacket with a wide shawl lapel, worn over a band-collar shirt fastened with a black bow tie; a pair of wide-cut petrol-green trousers with generous cuffs, perfectly balanced over polished black dress shoes with square toes; on his fingers, the usual gold ring with the family crest on his left pinky (the most observant might have noticed it was the same one resting on the table), while on his right ring finger he wore a hefty gold ring set with a large rectangular ruby, its bands engraved with floral motifs—one of Sal’s many trademarks. As the final touch, he wore one of his many citrus-scented perfumes, striking to the nose but not overpowering.

Just before parting ways at the marble staircase, Sal shot Shiro a quick wink, then glanced at his tie and pocket square.

- Even today you’re a vision, my dear, but one never wears a tie and pocket square of the same color and pattern—it’s in poor taste. We’ll have time later to discuss the rules of good dressing, now that I have a proper place to do so. Off you go—be my eyes while all our guests arrive.

With that, he gave him a light pinch on the cheek before heading off to make the final preparations and gather the last pieces of information needed for the meeting in a small office hidden along one of the shop’s many corridors.

When everyone had arrived, the clerk came to fetch him, informing him that all had been punctual and had accepted his invitation. A faint smile formed on the Mediterranean’s face; thanking and dismissing the employee, he hurried up the stairs at last, his footsteps echoing even louder thanks to the heels of his shoes. He placed both hands on the imposing double doors, took a deep breath, then opened them wide and stepped into the velvet room.

- Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen. I am the Guiscard, humble patron of this establishment and of our future operation.

With a steady but unhurried stride, he moved to the head of the table, surveying each person in the room, offering a composed smile with a hint of swagger—adding a touch of spice even to such a simple gesture: Dion, one of Torn City’s many ghosts, lethal and invisible, yet with a sense of justice compatible with his own; a man who called himself Hercule Satan, a mountain of muscle—finely tuned instruments guided by a good heart, someone recommended personally by Shiro; Lilly, the charismatic enchantress, capable of blending into any context and environment, transforming into an infiltrator ready to uncover every secret hidden behind the salons that concealed their filth; Ruffled, an expert in relics thanks to her particular knowledge of European arts, also sharing a moral line aligned with the others; Wood, a determined businessman with his hands in many of the city’s dirty dealings, a stubborn navigator of society’s undergrowth; and finally Shiro, who needed neither introduction nor assessment, versatile and highly competent—his right hand in every operation.

Calmly, he reached the chair at the head of the table on the opposite side of the room, silently pulling it back and sitting down, crossing his legs. He remained silent for a few seconds more, continuing to observe them and read their expressions, before speaking again, now with a more measured voice so all could hear him.

- So, if you’re here, I imagine you want to know more about this job. I suppose I’ve managed to pique not only your curiosity, but your interest as well.

He then leaned slightly over the table, clasping his hands together and offering a broad smile to those seated, the motion pulling slightly at the scars across his face and revealing a few teeth chipped from past adventures.

- But why don’t we begin with introductions? After all, trust is the foundation of this kind of enterprise; nothing seals an alliance quite like a good ‘pleased to meet you’… would you like to start, Shiro?

Disclaimer: This roleplay is closed, with the players already chosen and confirmed.
If anyone is interested in joining us in future roles, please send a private message to either of us.

A damp evening hung over Torn City like a sodden blanket—heavy, almost viscous. The air was thick with restrained rain and with the scent of warm asphalt slowly surrendering to the cold. A milky haze crept between the buildings, softening the edges of neon signs until they dissolved into trembling halos. The lights seemed to float in a void, suspended in a city that breathed slowly, with a weary, industrial breath.

Salazar had notified Shiro a few days earlier, in the dry tone of someone who grants only what is strictly necessary. Training would begin on the designated evening. No operational explanation, no superfluous detail—just coordinates, a time, and the order to bring the “recipe” for the compound obtained after saving Joel. And to dress appropriately for the “workplace.” A deliberately ambiguous expression—perhaps an aesthetic whim, perhaps a personal ritual Salazar never abandoned.

Distrust of electronic devices lingered behind every word: communications reduced to the essential, stripped down, impossible to exploit against them. The rest would be said face to face.

The industrial district of Torn City loomed like a post-war landscape. Blackened warehouses, corrugated metal gnawed by time, windows opaque as blind eyes. The meeting point lay near one of those abandoned giants. From the outside, it appeared dead, left to rot beneath the weight of the years. Yet a few smokestacks still exhaled a warm, intermittent breath—a column of steam dissolving into the mist.

From within came metallic blows—sharp, rhythmic—clangor that ricocheted off the walls and dispersed into the humid air. They were not random sounds; they were the pulse of something still functioning, concealed behind that iron carcass.

The entrance was wedged into an alley just wide enough for a truck. The asphalt was cracked, slick with moisture, reflecting the orange streetlights in trembling pools. The gate dominated the scene: four meters high, seven wide—an imposing grille that could swallow any vehicle.

Layers of graffiti overlapped across its surface like scars: aggressive tags, obscene symbols, faded declarations of love nearly erased by time. In places, paint still dripped like clotted blood. No chain, no padlock. No sign of definitive closure. Only a silent, ambiguous opening. Carelessness… or confidence in one’s ability to discourage anyone.

A few dozen meters ahead, where the alley narrowed into an even tighter branch allowing only a single car to pass, the smell changed: sharp ammonia, stagnant urine, mold. Dark puddles spread between the drains; used needles glinted faintly, catching the dirty streetlight. It was a forgotten corner, frequented only by those with nowhere else to wear themselves away.

That was the exact spot.

Salazar waited inside his emerald metallic Alfa Romeo Montreal. The meticulously maintained bodywork clashed with the desolation of the alley. What little light there was slid along the car’s surface, igniting liquid reflections that seemed to move with the breath of the fog. The engine radiated a faint warmth that lightly misted the windows, forming a thin veil between the interior and the outside world.

Inside, the cabin smelled of leather and gasoline—an aroma both elegant and aggressive. Salazar sat motionless, a dark silhouette against the dashboard. He waited without haste, but without indulgence.

He had imposed no particular precautions for the arrival. No instructions about secondary routes, no request for cover. Discretion had been left to Shiro’s judgment.

Disclaimer: This roleplay is closed, with the players already chosen and confirmed.
If anyone is interested in joining us in future roles, please send a private message to either of us.

Torn City never slept, but at that hour it only seemed to pretend to be alive.
The pier stretched out in a long expanse of iron and rust, drowned in a darkness sliced by flickering streetlights and neon signs reflected on the wet asphalt. The salty smell of the sea mingled with the acrid scent of diesel and smoke, while the distant murmur of the waves blended with the constant hum of the generators.

Salazar was there, leaning casually against a lamppost, a cigarette between his fingers.
He wore a dark blue pinstripe suit, impeccably tailored: the thin, even lines ran down the jacket and the wide-cut trousers, mirroring the same sharp, authoritative pattern. Beneath the jacket, a vest of the same fabric fastened neatly, and a white shirt with a stiff collar broke the darkness with its brightness.

On his head, a gray homburg with a black band cast an oblique shadow across his face, accentuating his sharp features and keen gaze. His tie — a deep, glossy red — was held by a golden tie clip that barely caught the lamplight; from his breast pocket peeked a neatly folded handkerchief, matching the tie. On his feet, shiny black tassel loafers completed the image of his stubborn elegance.
Around his left wrist, a slim watch with a rectangular case and a light leather strap. On his little finger, a gold ring engraved with a coat of arms, and on his right ring finger, another — set with a heliotrope — completed the picture.

He had warned Shiro a few hours earlier. A short message, no details, but with that tone that left no room for hesitation. It wasn’t an emergency, but a favor to be called in — and in this city, favors were worth more than money.

After all the mess with Joel, this was the first time they had seen each other again in a professional setting. And while Salazar wasn’t the sentimental type, he knew that some friendships, forged in fire, don’t break easily.

The wait didn’t bother him. From time to time, he glanced between the stacked containers, while the cigarette smoke curled into the air like a signal.

He took a long drag, letting the ember briefly light up his hard, thoughtful features.

-  Hope you haven’t forgotten... - he murmured, with a faint smile.

That night in Torn City, the heat didn't just hang in the air—it clung to you. It crawled under your clothes, slid down your spine, and glued your shirt to your skin like a second skin of guilt. It was one of those filthy, stagnant heats that offered no relief even after sunset, seeming to rise straight out of the cracked asphalt, the storm drains, and the rotting walls of the buildings. It was as if the sentence of having to live in that God-forsaken hole always found new ways to make itself felt: in the sweat, in the rancid stench of the alleys, in the nervous buzz of half-dead neon signs, and in the constant feeling that something was wrong just behind your back.

An interesting rumor had reached Towan's ears.

One of the city's many back-alley doctors—the kind of people with no sign, no license, and no questions asked—was in urgent need of liquidity. Hard cash, fast, untraceable. That was why he was getting rid of old medical equipment: irons, examination tables, cabinets, surgical instruments, and other gear that, according to the source who passed the tip, was still in more than decent condition. Not new stuff, of course. In Torn City, nothing was truly new, not even the wounds. But it was usable, and for Towan, that was enough.

For a man who had just arrived in the city, this could be an opportunity. Not a stroke of luck, no. In Torn City, luck had a nasty habit of showing up with a blade hidden up its sleeve. But it could be a start. A first brick. The foundation on which to build, quietly and discreetly, his future underground clinic. A place to patch up criminals, dig out bullets, stitch up gashes, and sell silence along with bandages. A place where the Hippocratic Oath would have a price, and not a particularly cheap one either.

Following the directions he’d been given, Towan crossed the city's east side on foot. He walked at a steady pace, without rushing and without lingering too long, keeping his eyes open and his hands close enough to his pockets so as not to look like an easy target. At that hour, Torn City shed its skin. The faint pretense of legality that the daytime residents stubbornly tried to feign was swallowed by the shadows, and from those shadows emerged the rest—the real city, the one that didn't need to put on an act.

Small-time fences lingered on street corners, briefly flashing the glint of watches, necklaces, rings, and various trinkets before making them vanish again under oversized coats or inside battered briefcases. They had quick smiles, nervous eyes, and hands constantly in motion. A little further ahead, a few prostitutes tried to touch up their makeup using cracked compact mirrors and dark shop windows for a reflection. Their lipstick smudged, sweat ate away at their foundation, but they kept going anyway, with a tired, angry dignity. They put on display what little they had left that could still fetch enough for a room, a meal, a fix, or simply another day to drag into the next.

Then there were the dealers of forbidden substances—forbidden at least on paper, which in Torn City was worth less than toilet paper. They leaned against the walls, looking like they weren't waiting for anyone but watching everyone arrive. A glance, a nod, a half-smile, and they became old friends. They called you brother, boss, doctor, soldier—whatever it took to get you to step closer. One of them followed Towan for about ten yards, as persistent as a mosquito.

- Compound X, friend. Clean stuff. Opens up your mind and brings you back to life!

Towan didn't slow down. The man drew almost level with him, keeping up his chatter in that thin, sticky voice, listing improbable benefits and even more improbable promises. He claimed it wasn't addictive, that underground boxers used it before fights, that a single drop was enough to feel God breathing inside your skull. Towan brushed him off with a sharp shove of his shoulder, without really looking at him.

The dealer spat on the ground and shouted something after him that got lost in the noise of the street.

Finally, the American reached the back entrance of one of the many anonymous buildings on the east side. It was a narrow, tall tenement, its facade blackened by smog and neglect. The windows looked like blind eyes. Some were bricked up, others covered by yellowed curtains or plastic bags taped into place. In the back, the metal door was scratched, dented, and stained with rust along the edges.

Towan tried the handle.

Locked.

Then he pushed gently. It wasn't locked. The door opened with a low, metallic groan, almost as if annoyed. Beyond it, a narrow corridor led to a staircase winding down into the belly of the building. The instructions had been clear: enter from the back, go all the way down, ask no useless questions.

The air inside was different. Colder, but no better for it. It smelled of mold, old bleach, damp iron, and something sweetish he didn't want to identify right away. He inhaled slowly, then began his descent.

Every step gave a little moan under the weight of his tread. The hallway lights flickered above him, half-blown, turning on and off at irregular intervals. At times, the stairs vanished almost completely, leaving him to move forward in a dense twilight, broken only by sickly, yellowish streaks. Along the walls, the moisture had drawn dark stains resembling bruises. Here and there on the floor, puddles of dubious origin spread out, stagnant and oily, reflecting the light for an instant before turning black again.

That was when he heard the noises.

At first, they were faint, muffled. Distant thuds, like something being beaten against a mattress or against cloth-covered flesh. For a few seconds, he heard nothing but the hum of the lights and the steady beat of his own heart. Then came another thud, sharper.

It wasn't a dropped object. It wasn't a slammed door. It was a blow. And after the blow, a smothered groan.

Curiosity had crawled into his stomach, but along with it came something else: prudence, perhaps; or that subtle presentiment that separates an opportunity from a trap. Every step downward made those sounds clearer. Sharp thuds, ragged breaths, a hiss of pain choked off before it could even become a scream. Someone was beating some poor soul methodically, without rushing, the way you handle a job that needs to be done right.

When he reached the bottom landing, the noises stopped. Not gradually. All at once.

Before him stood a heavy, armored door, painted a dull gray. It was ajar. Through the thin crack between the door and the frame filtered a blade of whitish light—cold, too clean for that place. From inside, low murmurs emerged. A man's voice, irritated and worried at the same time, was speaking fast. Another answered with something Towan couldn't make out.

There was a smell of disinfectant. Stronger now. But underneath, poorly hidden, lay the metallic tang of blood.

The silence around him seemed to have grown heavier, as if the entire building were holding its breath along with him. He had come to buy surgical irons, examination tables, and old equipment. He had come to give a first body to his project. Not to stumble into a beating, a settling of scores, or whatever else might end with his name written in the wrong place.

And yet, there he was. Just inches away from the answer.

What would Towan do now? Would he feed that curiosity which had so often opened forbidden doors, leading men sharper than him to believe they were immortal? Would he find, beyond that threshold, the very opportunity that had brought him down into this hole beneath the city? Or would he burn his wings attempting to fly too close to a light that, in Torn City, never shone without demanding something in return?

At the woman's positive response, Salazar offered her a small smile. It was sincere, albeit restrained, and inevitably retained that note of formality that had distinguished him from the moment he set foot in the establishment. He was not the kind of man who easily permitted familiarity, especially when he still did not know precisely who was in front of him. With a calm gesture, he unbuttoned his jacket, slightly relieving his chest from the stiffness of the material, and then took a seat on one of the chairs facing her. He rested the handle of his umbrella against the backrest, almost absentmindedly ensuring it remained stable, while a few tiny drops of water still slid along the dark surface down to the floor.

Even seated, however, he did not immediately stop observing his surroundings. His gaze moved slowly across the corners of the establishment, lingering on the dimly lit spots, the doors, the reflections cast by glossy surfaces, and any position from which someone might observe them without being easily noticed. It had become a habit so deeply ingrained that it no longer required any conscious effort. He was looking for something out of place, an excessively still presence, a face turning away too quickly, the glint of a lens, or even just that hard-to-explain feeling that precedes danger. Nothing, however, managed to truly catch his attention. No obvious threat, no anomaly significant enough to alert his senses.

Only then did he grant his eyes a few seconds of rest and turned them toward the large windowpane. The rain continued to fall over the city with an almost hypnotic regularity, breaking on the glass into tiny rivulets that distorted the streetlights. Beyond that transparent barrier, the citizens of Torn moved hurriedly beneath umbrellas, coats, and neon signs—indistinct figures immersed in a city that seemed to have no intention of slowing down for them. Salazar lingered on the scene longer than necessary. There was something strangely pleasant in the contrast between the damp cold outside and the cozy warmth of the venue, something that for a few moments even managed to ease the tension that usually accompanied encounters of that kind.

When the woman offered him a drink, he gave a faint nod of courtesy. The offer had a certain appeal. In weather like that, he would have greatly enjoyed a cup of hot, preferably strong tea, left to steep long enough to release the aroma of the leaves even before the first sip. For a moment, he could almost imagine the warmth of the porcelain between his fingers. Circumstances, however, quickly gained the upper hand over desire. He did not yet know these people well enough, did not know who had arranged the meeting, nor how much he could truly trust the hostess’s courtesy. Prudence, once again, proved more persuasive than indulgence.

- You are too kind, but I shall decline this time. I am fine as I am.

He spoke those words naturally, without letting the refusal take on a rude tone, then clasped his hands in front of him and rested them lightly, maintaining a composed posture. Meanwhile, his future "traveling" companions began joining the table one after another, finally giving Salazar something more interesting to observe than the rain.

The first to arrive, at least at a superficial glance, did not seem particularly different from any other inhabitant of Torn. Which, in that city, meant absolutely nothing. He could have been a hardened criminal with a string of corpses behind him or a vendor of bootleg CDs stationed on a street corner, and he could likely play both roles with the same natural ease. Salazar studied him with no apparent interest, instead mentally noting his posture, movements, and the way he looked around. Marian, however, did not strike him as the type of woman to entrust the mystery of Cantarella to the first person plucked off the street. If that man was there, there had to be a reason.

He gave him only a simple, measured nod of the head, returning the greeting with just slightly more emphasis than he had received. Not that it bothered him. He was certainly not known for being overly expansive with strangers himself.

It did not take long for the second man to arrive. It was precisely his attire that brought an almost imperceptible smile to the Mediterranean man's face—a slight curl at the corner of his mouth that would likely have escaped anyone not observing him closely. For a moment, that image brought back to mind someone extremely dear to him, a memory that surfaced quickly and unexpectedly before being pushed back to the silent place from which it had come. Salazar nevertheless remained silent, following Riven with his gaze as he took his seat.

When that "package" was mentioned, however, his attention shifted immediately. Not in an obvious manner; merely a subtle tightening of his gaze, almost as if he had metaphorically pricked up his ears. So he had not been the only one to receive an invitation carefully crafted to draw his attention. Marian, or whoever stood above her in the chain of command, had prepared everything with utmost precision. They had studied the recipients, understood what would drive each of them to show up, and likely gathered enough information to construct a different bait for every guest.

A reassuring circumstance, or a disturbing one?

Salazar had not yet decided. The fact that they were so prepared spoke in favor of their professionalism. On the other hand, the fact that they had found him so quickly merited a decidedly less benevolent thought. Another mental note to keep for later.

The last man arrived shortly after. Good. At least they all seemed sufficiently precise and punctual—qualities Salazar tended to appreciate far more than grand introductions. It was already a decent calling card.

Doctor Nyte.

He let that name roll around in his mind for a few seconds, instinctively searching for a match among the information accumulated over the years: a rumor, a job, a story overheard in the wrong places or spoken by the right people. Nothing. No immediate association. This intrigued him more than an already established reputation would have. Either the man was relatively new to certain circles, or he was good enough not to let his name circulate more than necessary. Salazar tended to hold greater respect for the second category.

His attire also seemed to suggest discretion: nothing particularly flashy, no obvious attempt to draw attention. His build, however, was difficult to ignore. Imposing, solid—enough to lend him a presence capable of almost standing up to the aura that Salazar himself tended to carry wherever he went. Not necessarily intimidating, but certainly hard to forget once he walked into a room.

When everyone was finally settled, Salazar's attention returned to the mysterious woman who had summoned them. The time had come, presumably, to receive at least a fraction of the explanations for which they had crossed the city in the rain.

At the request to introduce themselves to one another, the Mediterranean man raised an eyebrow slightly. He found it more amusing than he would have liked to admit. Evidently, certain methods were not so different even in Torn's criminal circles: strangers sitting around the same table, a few mandatory pleasantries, and only then the real business. A faint smile appeared on his lips as he let his gaze drift over the others present. He brought his right hand beneath his chin, resting it on his fingers while massaging it slowly, as if weighing which part of himself was appropriate to reveal to the table.

- Well, it is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Mrs. Marian, and yours as well, gentlemen. You may call me Salazar, or Sal, if you prefer to waste as little time as possible. I am one of the many businessmen navigating the smoky alleys of this God-forsaken city. I operate primarily in the import-export sector: goods of all kinds, from chemical compounds to luxury automobiles, from the most complex assault rifles to jewels belonging to princes whose names time has forgotten. The pleasure is all mine.

During these last words, he slowly turned his gaze toward each person present, one after another, accompanying every eye contact with a slight bow of the head. An almost antiquated gesture, perhaps, but perfectly consistent with the formal courtesy that seemed to come naturally to him even in the least suitable environments.

Having finished his introduction, he returned to silence and listened to those of the others. When he was offered a drink once more, he declined again with a calm gesture of his right hand, waving it lightly from side to side. No hesitation, no additional explanation.

Then, finally, they began to get down to the real meat of the matter.

The first truly useful pieces of information arrived in quick succession, and Salazar immediately felt that part of his mind that relished such situations awaken. It was almost a hunger. Every new detail spawned three more to unravel, every answer opened up new questions, every name could turn into an as-yet-invisible connection. His synapses seemed to demand information with the same insistence a stomach would demand a meal after days of fasting.

Marian was praising them even before they had formally accepted the job. This neither surprised him nor particularly bothered him. It was a technique as old as commerce itself: making someone feel chosen, highlighting their skills and uniqueness, letting pride do part of the work before the terms were even discussed. Salazar had no intention of allowing himself to be seduced so easily, but he nonetheless recognized the quality of her preparation.

Marian and her organization seemed to have approached the matter with considerable seriousness. If they had indeed handpicked each of them, they must have conducted extensive research long before arranging this meeting. By extension, Salazar's opinion of the other three improved slightly. Not enough to turn into trust, naturally, but just enough to stop viewing them merely as strangers who happened to end up in the same room by chance.

Glory, on the other hand, held little interest for him. He had never particularly cared if Torn City knew his name, and he cared even less about curryfying public favor. Politics he preferred to leave to the mannequins put on display in front of the curtain; he found it far more interesting to figure out where the strings were tied and who held the scissors. Still, there were aspects of the matter that were impossible to ignore. Protecting wealthy clients meant protecting business, relationships, and reputation. Preventing the police from peering too closely into the wrong corners of his life was even more vital.

That wasn't idealism. It was survival.

When Marian finished her explanation, Salazar let his back sink deeper against the chair's backrest. He remained watching her for a few moments without speaking, digesting what he had just heard. His gaze involuntarily drifted back to the woman's scar. It was wide, prominent—the kind of mark that could hardly have an ordinary story behind it. He wondered for a moment what had happened to her, what kind of pain one had to endure for the skin to retain such a memory. He asked nothing. It was not the time, and above all, it was none of his business. At least, not yet.

He inhaled slowly, then lightly cleared his throat. The sound was discreet, yet enough to naturally draw the attention of everyone at the table.

- I'm in. I am well disposed to collaborate with your organization, Mrs. Marian, as well as with the others present here.

He added nothing more.

The decision had been made, and, at least for the time being, it needed no further flourish. Salazar let his gaze wander over the other men seated at the table, studying their expressions with renewed focus. He had just laid his card on the table.

Now, he wanted to see which ones they would play.

It was over.

The test had come to an end and, for better or worse, almost all curiosity about him seemed to have been satisfied by now. Tano felt that peculiar sense of lightness that follows the moments when you realize you have nothing left to prove, at least for the time being. Perhaps he could have done more. He could have allowed himself one of those slightly showy displays that he was certain would have elicited a few surprised expressions from those present; he could have even taken up Ruff's provocation to the fullest and staged something memorable. Yet, thinking back on it, he didn't mind at all how things had turned out. He had answered their questions without backing down and, above all, had maintained a more than dignified composure in the face of the small tests to which the giant and the red-haired woman had subjected his nerves.

It was a curious group, he thought as his gaze swept once more over the faces of those standing before him. Different from one another, perhaps even incompatible at first glance, but all the more interesting because of it. He would have liked to see them again. Always assuming, of course, that he proved worthy of it. He still had that half-finished promise with Shiro, a few tricks to show him when the occasion arose; and, why not, he could give them all a more concrete demonstration of what he could do behind the wheel. The idea almost brought a smile to his face. Only one logistical problem remained: managing to fit them all into one of his cars. Herc, in particular, would be quite a challenge. Just imagining him curled up in the back seat brought a brief flicker of amusement to his eyes.

But that was not the time to get lost in such thoughts. Tano therefore took the opportunity to take his leave. He rose calmly from the chair, letting his legs stretch after all that time spent sitting, and offered those present a small nod of the head, one after the other, accompanying it with a warm, spontaneous, almost familiar smile.

- Well then, I hope I've made a good impression on all of you. Perhaps we'll have a chance to see each other again in the future and I'll be able to show you, with a bit more 'calm,' what I can do. If that's not the case... I wish you good luck. See you around!

He raised his right hand in a final farewell to the four of them, then turned and headed in the same direction from which he had arrived. His stride remained unchanged: relaxed, almost indolent, accompanied by that slightly slouching posture that seemed to belong to him just as much as his smile. His boots marked his departure with dull, steady thuds against the floor—the muted sound of a sole already slightly worn, growing progressively more distant until his figure vanished completely from view.

Rey followed him with his eyes for a few seconds. Then he gave him a deep nod, accompanied by a broad, amused smile, as if some detail about the man just evaluated continued to entertain him. Immediately afterward, he turned toward the guard and repeated the same gesture he had made before Gaetano's entrance onto the terrace. That was enough. No further explanation needed.

Four, maybe five minutes passed before the next candidate showed up. They were strangely quiet minutes, suspended between one meeting and the next. Rey took advantage of that brief interlude to satisfy the curiosity that had evidently been buzzing in his mind for a few moments.

- So, what do you think? What impression did he leave on you?

He scrutinized them one by one, without rushing. His gaze lingered first on the mercurial mirrors of the Asian man—cold, impenetrable surfaces behind which it was impossible to discern what was truly stirring; it then moved to the intense green of Ruffled's eyes, vivid and almost vegetal under the daylight; finally, it reached the glimpse of sky that the martial artist seemed to have captured in his own irises. There was something fascinating about trying to guess what lay hidden behind those focused faces, what judgments were taking shape, and what doubts remained hanging in the air after Tano's departure. But they wouldn't have much time to discuss it. Just a few fleeting remarks, a few impressions uttered in haste, before a new figure popped up on the terrace.

This time, it was a woman.

The first thing that struck you was the way she moved. She didn't hesitate. She didn't look around for someone to tell her where to go, nor did she display that slight uncertainty that often accompanies those entering an environment filled with strangers ready to judge them. Instead, she walked briskly and confidently, with the stride of someone accustomed to arriving at a place already knowing exactly where they were headed.

She had a slender, athletic build, with defined shoulders that her jacket couldn't entirely hide, and a confident, almost provocative posture in the natural way she claimed the space around her. Her face was sharp without appearing harsh: prominent cheekbones, a strong jawline, and full lips created a unique balance between severity and allure. Her fair complexion took on a warmer shade under the sun, while her eyes, an unusually pale hazel, seemed to observe everything with immediate attentiveness. They were alert, lively eyes—those of someone who had likely learned long ago to take in details without appearing to do so.

Her bold, well-defined eyebrows further emphasized that determined expression. Her long, very fair hair alternated between platinum blonde and ash, worn loose in a deliberately messy style. The wavy strands fell over her shoulders and framed her face with no apparent order, as if the wind had whipped them for the entire journey and she had no intention whatsoever of fixing them. In her ears she wore large metallic earrings made of overlapping hoops that chimed softly with the movement of her head, contributing to that tough, almost industrial aesthetic she seemed to have chosen with deliberate awareness.

Her black leather jacket was heavy, structured, and worn enough not to look like a simple garment chosen to impress. The wide lapels were studded with small pyramidal rivets that caught the light whenever she moved. Other metallic accents dotted the shoulders and sides of the jacket: buckles, eyelets, and steel hardware that broke up the glossy surface of the leather with brief, sharp gleams. She wore it open, revealing a dark red shirt halfway between brick and burgundy. The fabric was slightly shiny and rumpled, as though put on in a hurry or simply without any concern for perfection. The top few buttons were undone, forming a deep neckline devoid of sophistication—looking more like the result of a hasty gesture than something calculated.

Her trousers followed the same aesthetic. Black, tight-fitting, and likely made of leather, they reflected the daylight unevenly. Rows of studs, metal rings, eyelets, and small geometric elements ran along her hips and down her legs. Her waist was cinched by several overlapping black belts, wide and laden with buckles, while a large circular ring hung at the center, swaying gently with her every step. Even the smallest details seemed consistent with that image: nails painted black, a thin ring on one hand, and shiny Cuban-heeled boots, pristine on the surface and tapering into a particularly sharp point.

She might have been just under thirty. Her face was still free of noticeable wrinkles and retained the firmness of a young woman, though there was something distinctly more mature in the way she looked at the world. It took her no more than a few seconds to reach the chair. The sharp click of her heels accompanied her final steps, swift and precise, before she settled onto the metal seat with an almost impatient ease.

She immediately crossed her legs. The metal of the chair emitted a brief creak under the shift in weight. A stray lock of hair had fallen in front of her face, and she swept it behind her ear with two fingers in a quick, almost automatic gesture. The large earring swung gently. She then raised her eyes toward the examiners, a light smile appearing on her lips—not wide enough to seem cordial, but sufficient to convey an almost amused confidence.

When she spoke, her voice also served to set her sharply apart from the man who had occupied that very same chair just minutes before. It was a decisive, energetic, direct tone. She seemed to have no intention of weighing her words too carefully or beating around the bush.

- Good morning to you all, lady and gentlemen. My name is Filomena Marturano, but everyone calls me Filo. I have a reputation for being one of the most professional drivers on the circuit, as well as one of the fastest. My personal record on the Naples-Salerno route is just under twenty minutes.

She allowed the statement to hang in the air for a few moments.

There was no modesty in the way she had delivered it, but neither was there any sense that she was desperately trying to impress them. She seemed, rather, to have stated a matter of fact—something that, to her, needed neither embellishment nor defense. She adjusted her posture slightly in the chair, settling her crossed leg over the other, and then looked at the examiners one after another. It was no fleeting glance: she took the time necessary to register their expressions, as if wanting to grasp immediately who among them was intrigued, who was skeptical, and who remained entirely impassive.

- I know you need a professional for a big job. I've done this kind of work before.- Her smile deepened slightly, mostly on one side. - With success, obviously. Otherwise, I wouldn't be here.

Then she simply stopped talking.

No attempt to fill the silence, no nervous twitching of her hands, no last-minute additions. She remained seated with her legs crossed and her back composed against the chair, while the wind faintly stirred a few light strands that had slipped out from behind her ear. The metal of the studs and earrings continued to bounce small glints of light under the sun.

Now it was their turn.

And behind the examiners' eyes, the questions had likely already begun to take shape.

By then, Salazar had been spreading the word for days that he was looking for information regarding that mysterious, almost phantom Cantarella. He hadn’t specified too much—nor would it have been his style to do so. He had simply allowed his interest to filter into the right places, through the right people, trusting that the corners of the city least familiar to him would act as a sounding board for his request. Torn City had its own particular way of keeping secrets: it buried them under layers of half-truths, favors, debts, and fears, but it could rarely hold onto them forever. You just had to know where to throw the stone and wait for the ripples to reach someone willing to answer. And, in a way, he could say he had succeeded.

Confirmation had arrived at Baron Brewer’s in the form of a mysterious box, as elaborate as it was elegant, prepared with a precision that left no room to think it was an improvised gesture. Someone had devoted time to its preparation, and that alone suggested he wasn't dealing with an amateur on the other end. Inside, he had found what he needed: not a true answer, of course, but enough of a clue to point out the first step of a path. It was something. Perhaps even more than he had actually hoped to get in such a short time. After all, Cantarella was not merely a curiosity to be satisfied. Behind that name hovered the concrete possibility of trouble that, sooner or later, could reach him as well. Salazar preferred to know the shape of a threat before it came knocking directly at his door.

The request to show up alone hadn't surprised him at all. In fact, he had practically expected it. Anyone who built such an aura of mystery around themselves would hardly agree to find themselves face-to-face with a half-dozen armed men ready to turn a conversation into an interrogation. Salazar understood that prudence perfectly. Understanding it, however, did not mean naïvely accepting its terms. He would go alone, certainly. No companions, no presence behind him, no men waiting outside the door. But a few trusted people would know exactly where he was, what time he would enter, and, above all, within what timeframe he was expected to check back in. If that deadline passed, the meeting place might experience a quantity of lead considerably higher than what its interior decorator had planned for.

It probably wouldn't be necessary. He was well aware that most of the time, that form of caution bordered on paranoia, but Salazar had lived long enough to know how thin the line was between prudence and survival. He had seen men deemed untouchable collapse over a few minutes' distraction; crime lords convinced their name was armor die from shots a bodyguard present at the right moment could have intercepted. He had learned early on that safety wasn't about feeling safe, but about preparing for the moment when you suddenly weren't anymore. So, when the day of that intriguing encounter finally arrived, his curiosity was accompanied by a well-controlled distrust and that subtle, almost imperceptible sprinkle of paranoia that allowed him to keep breathing.

He wasn't long in reaching the indicated location. For the occasion, he had chosen one of the priceless pieces from his vintage sports car collection: a 1970 Porsche 911, painted a vivid, deep red, with an interior upholstered in caramel-colored leather. The car looked like it had just rolled off the showroom floor, despite the half-century that had passed since its production. Impeccable paint, chrome without the slightest dullness, leather nourished and perfectly preserved. That almost unnatural condition was the result of the obsessive care with which Salazar protected the stars of his passion. To him, they were not simply vehicles; they were testaments to an era, objects built when mechanics still possessed a certain elegant brutality, a character that didn't need to be electronically simulated.

The engine behind him rumbled for a few seconds more, deep and metallic, as he parked. Then a simple turn of his hand on the key put the beast to sleep. The sound died away, leaving behind that brief silence that always follows something powerful when it suddenly ceases to exist. Salazar remained in the cabin for a moment, his gaze fixed ahead, before opening the door. The air outside carried the distinct humid smell of days when the sky seemed barely able to hold back the rain. Heavy clouds hung over the city, and for that exact reason, he had brought along a black umbrella with a wooden handle—elegant and understated enough to look almost like an integral part of his attire.

Even in his clothing, Salazar had left nothing to chance. He wore a sharply tailored suit, built almost entirely around the contrast between the severity of black and the sartorial precision of the shirt. The jacket immediately dominated the ensemble: black, structured at the shoulders, and slightly fitted at the waist, it was crafted from leather worked in a distinctive woven pattern that created a geometric, faintly glossy surface. Every movement made the light glide over the pattern differently, bringing lines and textures into view for brief moments before they merged back into the black. It was a luxurious piece without needing to be flashy—exactly the kind of luxury that didn't ask for attention because it was fully aware it would receive it anyway. The wide, peaked lapels further emphasized the line of his shoulders, while the flap pockets and low closure maintained that classic menswear aesthetic that kept the jacket's unusual material from turning it into something excessive.

Underneath, he wore a shirt with thin vertical white and light-blue stripes, a subtle nod to a more formal tradition. The solid white collar, stiff and perfectly spread, interrupted the shirt's pattern with an almost geometric sharpness; the cuffs were the same white, visible a few centimeters beyond the jacket sleeves. Down the center, a long black tie fell perfectly straight along his chest, visually blending with the rest of his outfit and pulling the whole ensemble back toward that dark, rigorous palette that seemed to belong to him naturally. The trousers, also black, were tailored wide enough to drape smoothly along his legs without losing their shape, elongating his silhouette. No decoration, no superfluous detail: their simplicity allowed the jacket's intricate craftsmanship to retain center stage.

Personal details emerged only upon closer inspection. On his left pinky, he wore his ever-present gold signet ring bearing his family crest—a presence so habitual on his hand it felt almost like part of his body. On his right pinky rested a second ring, also gold, topped with a deep blue lapis lazuli carved with a monogram composed of the letters A, F, and H, intertwined to look like a single symbol. When he moved his right arm, the edge of his sleeve briefly offered a glimpse of a pair of thin gold bracelets. On his left wrist, however, he wore a watch of a decidedly more eye-catching elegance: a thin gold band with a finely textured finish, a slender square case with softly curved corners, and a dial of a deep blue almost identical to that of the lapis lazuli on the ring. Finally, on his feet was a pair of black Oxford brogues polished with almost obsessive meticulousness. The leather reflected the surrounding lights like a freshly wetted surface, while the decorative perforations on the toe cap delicately outlined the shape of a fleur-de-lis.

Once across the building's threshold, the initial impression was unexpectedly pleasant. Salazar slowed his pace almost imperceptibly as he let his eyes wander over the decor. He liked the place. More than he cared to admit, considering the circumstances that had brought him there. The warm lighting wrapped the room in a comfortable half-light, softening the sharp edges of the furniture and reflecting off the wood in amber tones. There was a particular intimacy, a calculated calm that seemed to isolate that small space from the noise and frenzy of the city outside. For a few seconds, he even thought he might keep the place in mind for the future. A quiet meeting, a drink, perhaps a conversation that didn't require armed men ready to step in. Then he remembered why he was there. If this establishment was routinely used for meetings of that nature, perhaps it was better left to lovers of secrets. A real pity. He would settle for his usual spot, where he normally received people and letters—whether welcome or not.

He proceeded toward the bar counter, gently swinging the umbrella hanging from his forearm by its wooden handle. The crisp sound of his Oxford heels against the floor accompanied every step with a steady rhythm: tap, tap, tap. No rush. No hesitation. Just the calm, measured stride of someone who preferred to have time to observe before being observed himself. Arriving in front of the bartender, he offered her a relaxed, politely adequate smile, then spoke the phrase he had been given.

He asked for the terrace.

For a moment, the situation struck him as almost funny. You only had to look around to realize that the place didn't seem to have any terraces at all. A passphrase, then. A code innocent enough to seem ridiculous only to those who didn't know its meaning. The woman’s response came without any particular surprise and was affirmative. Good. At least up to that point, he hadn't made a wrong move.

Following the direction he was given, Salazar turned toward a table near the windowed corner. It was then that he saw her.

The woman sitting there had style to spare and, even more evidently, seemed completely aware of it. She didn't visually belong to the venue's usual clientele and didn't appear to have made the slightest effort to pretend otherwise. Her clothes immediately set her apart from the rest of the room, making her stand out almost as much as a spotlight aimed directly at her would have. She wasn't trying to blend in with the riff-raff populating the place; if anything, she seemed to deliberately accept that everyone else was merely the backdrop to her presence. Salazar knew that kind of person. Individuals who didn't just possess taste, money, or confidence, but felt the need to turn those qualities into a statement. That familiarity, however slight, proved almost reassuring. It was much easier to read someone when you at least recognized the language they had chosen to present themselves to the world in.

He kept advancing, letting each step grant him a few more seconds to study her. That was how he noticed the scars. Copious, impossible to ignore once spotted, yet carried with such natural ease that it suggested the woman had no particular interest in hiding them. His gaze lingered on them for only a brief moment. Not out of politeness, but because that kind of mark had almost completely lost the power to impress him. He had his own. He had seen them on the bodies of friends, enemies, loved ones, and people he would have willingly forgotten. He knew every scar held a story, of course, but he had also learned that not all stories needed to be heard immediately. He filed the detail away mentally and moved on without giving it more weight than necessary.

When he stopped, little more than five feet remained between them. He didn't sit down. Not yet. The umbrella continued to hang from his forearm while Salazar remained perfectly composed in front of the table. The curiosity that had led him there was still present, but buried deep enough not to reach his face. No obvious tension in his shoulders, no impatience in his hands. He studied the woman for one last moment before speaking.

His voice came out controlled, moderate in volume, and carefully positioned halfway between politeness and distance. Not warm enough to suggest immediate trust, not cold enough to turn the meeting into a confrontation before it had even begun. His expression remained perfectly neutral, almost impenetrable as well. Only his eyes betrayed the vigilant alertness of someone who, even during the simplest of introductions, continued to track exits, movements, distances, and possibilities.

- Good morning. Do you mind if I join you?

Tano sensed it almost before he fully realized it. The attention of everyone present had tightened around him. It was not just a vague feeling, nor one of those paranoid thoughts that could arise when facing strangers. It was something concrete, almost physical. He could feel the eyes of the four following his every movement, lingering on his hands, his face, even on the way he leaned his shoulders against the backrest. Every word he uttered seemed to be gathered, weighed, and measured; every pause seemed to carry meaning; even the posture he had taken on the chair seemed to tell something about him that perhaps not even Tano himself knew. They were watching him, scrutinizing him, judging him, and there was nothing accidental about the way they were doing it.

That almost obsessive attention to detail, that restrained seriousness hovering around the four, reminded him of something he hadn't felt in a long time. He had to cast his mind back to the very final days of his involvement in Rey’s group to find anything similar. Or rather, in the Accountant’s group.

That thought left a strange aftertaste in his mouth. Those had been times when a wrong look was enough to know that something was going to go wrong, times when you quickly learned to distinguish an innocent question from one asked solely to see how you would react. And Tano, like it or not, had learned.

Not that any of this made him feel particularly comfortable; on the contrary, he felt an invisible tightening slowly forming around his neck, like a necktie knot tightened a millimeter at a time. Not enough to choke him, but just enough to constantly remind him that he was under examination. The pressure settled on his shoulders, barely stiffening the muscles in his back.

It wasn’t exactly what he would call pleasant, but in this case, the end would more than justify the means. So he had decided to voluntarily leave himself at the mercy of those who, at least according to his plans, would soon become his new teammates.

Did they need to judge him?

Let them judge.

Did they need to test him?

Let them try.

The only thing that truly mattered to him was what they would think in the end. Predictably, the first to step forward was the head of the entire operation. Tano wasn’t surprised; in fact, he found it almost reassuring in its logic: if that man was going to entrust him with something important—perhaps even his own life—it was only right that he be the first to want to understand who he was dealing with.

He found him authoritative and, above all, sensible.

Almost unconsciously, Tano shifted his position in the chair. His back lifted slightly off the backrest, his shoulders straightened, and his chin tilted up a few imperceptible degrees. It wasn’t enough to look like a staged posture, but it was enough to betray that something inside him had shifted. Now he had his full attention locked on his examiners.

When the Asian man called him by his nickname, a faint smile tugged at the corner of his mouth—it lasted only a moment, a mere flash across his face. Meanwhile, Tano was watching, taking in everything.

The way Shiro held his phone, the positioning of his fingers, the subtle shifts in his expression as he spoke—Tano was looking for those tiny signals he had learned over the years to pick up almost on instinct: a tightening of the jaw, a pause slightly too long, an eyebrow raised at the wrong moment.

At the same time, his own body had begun to betray that growing pressure.

The thumb of his right hand started tracing along the chair’s metallic armrest. It drew small, absentminded circles on the cold surface, following the imperfections of the metal. Every now and then, his nail caught on a scratch or a tiny pit and remained trapped for a few seconds, as if Tano needed that tactile detail to vent part of the tension elsewhere.

A small, almost insignificant movement, but repeated.

Meanwhile, the Mediterranean man sitting across from the four was genuinely struck by the speed with which the technomancer was tapping on his phone. Shiro’s fingers moved across the screen with a methodical rapidity, almost irritating in its precision. Tano followed the motion for a few seconds.

Jesus, he had barely opened his mouth and the guy had probably already compiled half an encyclopedia on him. Based on the few bits of info they had shared, it didn't take much for Tano to imagine Shiro jotting down whatever crossed his mind: words used, hesitations, potential contradictions, maybe even his breathing rate. That Shiro had to be a real sharp mind—one of those guys who neatly compartmentalize everything and demand that every piece fits into its place.

Yet he spoke calmly, with an almost surgical composure. He didn't raise his voice; he didn't need to. Still, every word he uttered managed to make the massive metaphorical distance separating him from Tano crystal clear. He didn't even try to hide it.

The guy had balls, he had to give him that.

Tano’s eyes narrowed slightly when his skills were—fairly so, he had to admit—called into question. He didn't like it, but he understood it. Besides, a nickname like his probably hadn't helped; not exactly the name a group of professionals would want to see next to the entry for driver.

For a split second, he almost felt like laughing at the thought. Holy shit, from the outside, it really didn't sound great. He would have to prove them wrong, or at least try to.

Shiro’s provocations had been subtle, elegant, devoid of the vulgarity that would have made it easy to snap back. And they had achieved their goal, if only to the necessary extent.

They had put Tano on high alert.

The casual air that had characterized his way of speaking up to that point began to fade. His voice remained controlled, but gained weight and substance. His words came out more deliberate, backed by a firmness he had previously kept hidden on purpose.

- I can understand your skepticism given these premises. It’s certainly justified.

He paused briefly, shifting his gaze from Shiro to the others, as if to make sure those words were addressed to everyone and not just to the man who had raised the issue.

- In my old crew, I was one of the most sought-after drivers. And, well, I managed to get away with it pretty much every single time. Sure, I push cars to the limit, but I know where that limit is. I know how far I can go before a car politely decides to tell me to fuck off.

A subtle smile flickered across his face.

- I get them to the finish line. And if the finish line is no longer reachable, at least to a safe place. I’m not a car wrecker, no sir. Money was never handed to me on a silver platter and, above all, my old bosses weren't exactly the type of people eager to pay to fix my messes.

The more he spoke, the more something shifted within him; the tension didn't disappear completely, but it was gradually swallowed by something far more familiar to him. Passion—now that was something he knew inside out.

- In the back alleys of Naples, knowing how to drift through a corner actually pays off. And before you say it: yeah, I know, it sounds like some boy-racer bullshit.

The smile broadened by a few millimeters.

- But it saves you from useless slowdowns. If you know the road, if you know the car, and above all if you know how much you can ask of it without breaking its neck, you enter the turn and you're already out before the guy behind you has even decided how hard to hit the brakes. That's precisely where the difference lies between me and the ones chasing me.

Now he wasn't just answering a question anymore; he was living it.

For a few seconds, the room seemed to vanish around him, replaced by far more familiar visions: narrow alleys pinched between ancient buildings, headlights slicing through the dark, tires screaming on the asphalt, side mirrors skimming inches away from peeling walls and parked mopeds. The acrid stench of burning rubber. The steering wheel vibrating in his hands. The engine revving until it practically became a second heartbeat.

- You know, I've often preferred small, old cars. Old Alfa Romeos, Lancias, stuff like that. In the alleys, they're the absolute top. Small, light, fast...

He raised a hand slightly, punctuating his words with a gesture.

- ...and above all, they get pretty fun if you mess around under the hood with a few little...

His fingers mimed quotation marks in the air.

- ...innocent tweaks.

The word came out accompanied by a smile that was anything but innocent.

- My old boss even gave me one of his before he dropped off the face of the earth. Rest his soul!

And it was right at that moment that Tano stopped, dead in his tracks. The silence that followed seemed to grab him by the lapels and yank him right back into the room. He blinked once, then again. Only then did he realize just how carried away he had gotten.

He had started out trying to explain his skills in a professional manner and had ended up practically weaving a love letter to vintage Italian cars.

He cleared his throat with a short cough.

- Ahem.

He straightened up even further in his chair, trying to regain at least a semblance of his initial composure. He decided to leave the smile where it was, though—there was no point in pretending anymore.

- I’ve never had a car break down on me during a job, if that’s what you’re wondering.

That sentence, brief and crisp, seemed to put a final end to the matter—or at least, Tano hoped so. Then he saw the giant move; Herc stood up, and Tano immediately felt a tiny corner of his brain start to second-guess everything he had just said.

A wrong phrase? Had he insulted someone without realizing it? Maybe the joke about the old boss? Or the cars? Damn, maybe the guy was a Mercedes fanatic.

He followed him with his eyes as he approached. The more Herc closed the distance between them, the more obvious it became just how massive he was.

Tano was certainly not a man easily rattled, and he had met plenty of individuals capable of using their sheer size as a conversation starter, but watching that mass advance straight toward him without knowing his intentions was not exactly reassuring.

His thumb stopped tracing circles on the armrest; Tano’s eyes flicked over to Rey for just a fraction of a second. The presence of his old friend provided that bare minimum of reassurance needed to keep him from tensing up any further.

He didn't look worried—good. If Rey wasn't worried, he probably shouldn't be either.

Probably.

When Herc leaned down until his face was level with his and stared him straight in the eyes, Tano instinctively pulled his head back a few inches. A hard-to-define expression flickered across his face—half surprise, half curiosity. And maybe a tiny, minute part of him was calculating just how much it would hurt to get hit by a hand the size of his own head.

His eyebrows shot up when the question came. That wasn't a subtle provocation like Shiro’s; it had a different weight to it—simpler, more direct.

He was essentially being asked if the others could trust him with their lives, and surprisingly, Tano didn't even need to think about it. The smile faded, and for the first time since he had started talking about his driving, the irony vanished almost completely from his face.

He held Herc’s gaze.

- Every crew member I've ever had trusted me with their life.

His voice was lower this time, steady.

- And they came home on their own two feet.

He paused briefly, his eyes drifting toward Rey. Almost inevitably, a spark of his usual irony flickered back into his gaze.

- Even Rey. The last time he stepped out of my car, he still had both arms and both eyes.

The joke took a bit of the edge off the moment, but only for an instant. When Tano looked back at Herc, his expression turned serious once again.

- If you decide to trust me with your lives too...

His fingers closed slowly around the armrest.

- ...I'll make sure you won't regret it.

A final beat of silence.

- You have my word.

No smile this time, no joke; that was a promise, and Tano fully intended to treat it as one.

Then came Ruff—or, more precisely, her ploy. With Herc still towering in front of him and blocking most of his line of sight, Tano didn't see what was happening. He only heard the noise: glass hitting the floor—a sudden, sharp, violent crack.

The glass shattered with a crash that, for a second, completely tore through the constant hum of the sea nearby.

Tano’s reaction was immediate. His head snapped toward the source of the noise before his brain could even process what it was. His shoulders tensed, his eyes instinctively trying to peer past Herc’s massive frame to lock onto any movement that might pose a threat.

There was no flinch, no gasp, no frantic movement of someone caught completely off guard—just that fast, instinctive twist of his head. For a few moments, the clatter of the final glass shards rolling across the floor blended into the distant lapping of the water.

A jarring note, a sudden cacophony barging into the steady rhythm of the sea. Tano’s gaze tracked a few of the fragments as they skittered to a halt. No danger—just a glass.

Rey had an almost identical reaction. He simply turned toward the source of the sound, his eyes following the tiny shards as they skittered across the pebbles, catching the light for a fleeting moment. Then he looked at Ruff and offered a faint smile. The redhead might have had a sleepless night behind her, but Rey strongly doubted that glass had slipped purely out of exhaustion. Too convenient, too well-timed, and above all, entirely consistent with everything the four had been doing ever since Tano sat down.

A test. Another one—this time, for reflexes.

Rey tilted his head slightly with an amused look. He just hoped Ruff didn't plan on repeating the trick with every single candidate, otherwise, at this rate, they'd all be drinking out of paper cups for the rest of their stay.

With a flick of his hand, he caught the attention of a nearby guard and signaled him to call someone from the staff—the glass shards needed to be cleared. A reflex test was all well and good, but a foot sliced open by broken glass was significantly less so.

While someone took care of the minor mess, Rey let his gaze wander over the group, one by one. He tried to read on their faces what they had yet to say out loud. Convinced? Skeptical? Intrigued?

He had known Tano long enough to know what he was truly capable of behind a steering wheel, but his judgment wasn't the one that mattered right now—that decision was up to them.

He let a few more seconds pass, just enough for the silence to settle around the answers they had just received, before speaking up.

- So...

His eyes swept over the four once more.

- Are you satisfied with Tano’s answers?

A brief pause.

- Do you have any more in store for him?

The corner of his mouth twitched slightly, as if the question carried a subtle nod to the glass now sitting in pieces.

- Because, otherwise, I'd say we move on to the next candidate.

Shiro was the first to arrive.

Punctual as always—exactly as one would expect from a squad leader worthy of the name—the man elicited a subtle, barely noticeable smile from him. It wasn’t one of those wide, full smiles that light up a face: the morning fatigue still weighed on him like a blanket that was far too heavy, pulling his eyelid down and leaving a dull sensation of unrecovered energy in his limbs.

At the joke about how they were being spoiled far too much, Rey let out a brief, low, raspy laugh—almost just an amused huff of air.

Memory dragged him back, without asking for permission, to years that were far less generous. Days when a stale brioche, hard around the edges and perhaps a couple of days old, could mean the thin difference between having something in his stomach and reaching the evening with hunger pangs. The memory briefly left a bitter taste in his mouth, but Rey brushed it away as quickly as it had come.

- We won’t have you here forever, Shiro. Let us spoil you properly, at least while we can. And besides, this is a specific directive from Sal…

He paused.

A flash of realization crossed his eyes, and right after, he lowered his voice slightly, leaning in just enough for his words to be meant for the Asian man alone.

- Ah, right. He told me I can use his old nickname with you…- A hint of curiosity brightened his face. - Why the sudden change? New life, new name?

The irony surfaced just beneath his words, mixed with a genuine interest that not even the morning tiredness could fully suppress.

That was when he spotted Hercule approaching.

Rey straightened slowly in his chair, taking his time, easing his back away from the backrest with studied nonchalance. He didn’t want to give even the impression that, just a second prior, he and Shiro had been plotting anything in particular.

When the giant began to stammer, an almost comical look of perplexity appeared on the Mediterranean man's face. His eyebrows rose slightly, and after observing him for a moment, Rey gestured with his single hand in a slow, soothing motion, silently inviting him to slow down.

- Take a deep breath, Hercule. You look like you just finished running from the guards.- A half-smile curved his lips. - Why don’t you sit down and have a glass of water? Shiro, please, could you fill them all?

Then she arrived and, as good as Rey usually was at controlling what he let show, this time it was his smile that betrayed him.

It wasn’t the simple satisfaction of seeing another member of the team show up on time for a meeting. There was something warmer, more intimate, that flickered across his face before he could even suppress it.

His gaze lingered on Ruff a few seconds longer than necessary.

He followed her as she approached, his eyes wandering almost unconsciously over her figure, tracing the lines of her body, up to her neck. There, for a moment, his eyes came to a rest on the mark left from the night before.

That single detail was enough to awaken something inside him.

The fatigue didn’t truly vanish—it kept betraying him in the way his eyelids occasionally fluttered shut a little too slowly and in a voice even lower than usual—and yet, suddenly, it seemed far less noticeable.

- Of course. I’m glad you enjoyed it. - A subtle note of satisfaction vibrated through his words. - I figured it might do you some good… considering what we have on our plate this morning!

A light laugh accompanied his final words and, for a brief instant, Rey flashed a hint of a smile.

When Ruff settled in particularly close to him, he noticed right away.

He said nothing.

He simply mirrored the movement naturally, almost absently, shifting just enough to close the distance between them even further. In the end, only a few centimeters kept them apart: enough to maintain an appearance of discretion, but far too few for that proximity to be called purely accidental.

When everyone was finally present, Rey’s expression shifted, the lighthearted moment drawing to an almost imperceptible close. He snapped the fingers of his single hand toward one of the two security guards on the terrace. The man picked up on the signal immediately, turning and disappearing inside the house.

Rey cleared his throat.

When he spoke again, his tone had changed: firmer, more composed. The host had stepped aside to make room for the man helping to organize an operation.

- Right then. For our operation, I’ve handpicked four candidates: specifically, two drivers and two safecrackers who also specialize in art theft. All four are trustworthy veterans in their respective fields. But, naturally, the final say on who best fits the team is yours.

He paused briefly; with two fingers, he absently adjusted the edge of the patch covering his missing eye, fixing its position with a gesture that had long since become second nature.

- Let’s start with the first one. His name is Gaetano Panìco. Thirty years old, from Naples. A former gangmate of mine.

At that last sentence, something resembling an amused memory crossed his face.

- Hell of a driver, let me tell you. We pulled off some damn good heists together back in the day. When it comes to shaking the cops off your ass, he knows exactly what to do and, above all, he knows how to do it fast. He knows the narrow streets of the city center like the back of his hand, navigating them better than most people can move around their own living room.

Almost as if he had been waiting for those exact words to make his entrance, Gaetano appeared on the terrace just a few moments later.

His presence made an impression immediately.

He had sharp, almost sculpted features: a broad forehead, prominent cheekbones, and a defined jawline accentuated by the rough shadow of a short beard covering his chin and cheeks.

His hair was thick and deliberately messy, dyed in a way that was hard to ignore. A vibrant, golden copper dominated the top, catching the morning light, while the sides shifted into darker blue-green tones. Beneath that untamed mane, hazel eyes scanned the surroundings with a watchful calm, showing no signs of any particular tension.

He was tall. Very tall.

About one meter ninety (six-foot-three), maybe slightly more in his boots, with a solid build that wasn't overly bulky: broad shoulders, a lean torso, and arms toned more by habit than by any obsessed effort to build muscle.

A striking scar cut across the outer side of his right forearm, breaking the skin like an old, violent stroke of a blade.

He wore a loose black shirt patterned with yellow and tile-red designs, unbuttoned low on his chest. The fabric moved gently with every step, revealing glimpses of large, dark tattoos that coiled up from his torso toward his neck in sinuous, intertwined, almost tribal shapes. More ink trailed down both arms, occasionally vanishing under the folds of his sleeves.

Gold gleamed everywhere.

A hoop in his ear, several chains around his neck, bracelets stacked on his wrists. Every slight movement caught the warm light of the terrace and threw it back in sharp glints, giving him a styled, deliberately flashy look that stopped just short of being over-the-top.

On his legs, he wore loose-fitting jeans, slightly faded at the knees. His black polished leather cowboy boots, decorated with intricate stitching on the uppers, gave off a crisp, rhythmic sound against the floor.

Gaetano advanced slowly, wearing a faint smile and walking with the stride of someone in no particular rush to get anywhere.

His posture was far from flawless—one shoulder dipped slightly lower than the other, his left arm swayed lazily at his side, while his right hand remained tucked into his jeans pocket. There was something intentionally slouchy about the way he moved, as if standing up perfectly straight required more effort than he was willing to grant the moment.

Once he reached the table, however, his smile broadened.

He shook hands with Rey, and the two quickly exchanged a few words in their native language, with that immediate familiarity that only a shared history can create.

Then Gaetano took a seat in the chair prepared for him on the other side of the table. Only then did he seem to fully register the seating arrangement—him on one side, the four of them across from him. For a moment, he raised an eyebrow; it felt like a university exam, and the thought seemed to amuse him.

- Nice to meet you, lady and gentlemen. As Gab probably already told you, my name is Gaetano. - He paused ever so slightly, punctuating the silence with a lazy wave of his hand. - But feel free to call me Tano. It’s definitely faster.

After introducing himself, he slid lower into his chair—literally. His hips shifted forward, his back sank against the backrest, and his center of gravity seemed to drop a good ten centimeters as he searched for a position he deemed comfortable enough. Eventually, he seemed to find it.

- My friends used to call me ‘Rota liscia’. Literally, ‘smooth tire’.

One corner of his mouth twitched upward.

- I’ve always had a habit of squeezing every last drop out of cars. And when I say every last drop, I mean everything. Which, let’s say… involved burning through a fair amount of rubber.

His voice was calm, almost lazy.

He didn't sound at all like someone sitting in front of four people who were supposed to judge his fitness for a heist. Instead, he spoke as if he were sitting at a bar table, in the middle of a conversation whose ending he already knew.

- I know you need a good driver. Especially in case something goes sideways. - His gaze drifted slowly from one face to the next. - And I think I’m your guy.

There was no obvious arrogance in the statement—rather, the quiet confidence of someone who had tested his abilities enough times to no longer feel the need to brag about them.

Throughout his presentation, Tano maintained an extremely relaxed, measured, almost slow cadence. His voice wasn’t particularly deep, but it naturally leaned toward a low volume, practically forcing his listeners to pay close attention.

His hazel eyes moved steadily among those present, one by one—never lingering too long, just enough to let each person know he was truly observing them, but without pressing to the point of turning that eye contact into a challenge or a source of discomfort.

His hands, meanwhile, accompanied his words with small, instinctive gestures. Soft movements of his fingers and wrists, a few open-palm flips: that classic Southern Italian hand rhythm that seemed to surface without him even thinking about it, yet always restrained, devoid of any drama.

When he finished, the shadow of a smile lingered on his lips for a few seconds more. Then he laced his fingers behind his head, his elbows flaring out to the sides, and Gaetano sank just a bit deeper into his chair, perfectly at ease.

Now it was their turn, and judging by the look on his face, he seemed genuinely curious to see what the first question would be.

Rey allowed himself to be led by that petite woman almost as if he were a guard dog following its mistress: docile in his movements, attentive to her every step, yet driven by something vastly different from loyalty. It was a warm, insistent, lustful curiosity that slithered beneath his skin—one that the more he tried to rationalize, the less he could understand.

He couldn't truly grasp how his appearance could still evoke such attention. Not after everything that had happened to him. Not after time, violence, and fate had carved marks upon him that an ordinary person might find disagreeable, even repulsive.

The days when he could call himself a latin lover belonged to another life now. A life he remembered with a mixture of nostalgia and irony, as distant as the cities he had left behind during those years spent on the run in self-imposed exile, maintaining a low profile thanks in part to Guiscard's help.

So why her?

Perhaps it was merely the allure of the exotic. Of the unusual. Of something he couldn't immediately place.

That woman seemed foreign to those lands in every detail: in her features, her colors, even in the way the light seemed to rest upon her. And although they both came from the same continent, nothing in her appearance seemed to remind him of his own people.

Perhaps it was simple curiosity, an itch to scratch, or the beginning of something deeper—something more dangerous precisely because it was still nameless. Whatever the answer, Rey only knew he would not back down.

He had to admit it at least to himself, even if without truly putting it into words: he was captivated by that red-haired woman with skin as fair as porcelain, still concealed by soft fabrics that now seemed like nothing more than a final obstacle before the rest of the world ceased to exist.

He watched her beneath the moon; the cold light slid over her in silvery reflections, breaking against her slender frame and weaving, now and then, into the gaps left open in her garments. A mere glimpse of exposed skin was enough to make his gaze linger longer than necessary.

Descending the stairs himself, Rey barely turned his head toward the men tasked with guarding the terrace and the private beach.

He said nothing—there was no need. A simple nod of his head, sharp and unequivocal, was enough to order them away. For that night, he wanted no prying eyes.

He waited until the guards' footsteps faded, swallowed little by little by the sound of the sea, then turned his eyes back to her.

And finally, he saw her garments slip down her body. The fabric gave way with an almost agonizing slowness, tracing the contours of her figure before pooling below. Unconsciously, Rey held his breath. He allowed himself that sight without feigning indifference.

Soft curves, elegant lines, and, here and there, marks on her skin that told a story he didn't yet know. The scars did not diminish the woman's allure. On the contrary, they captured his attention in an almost instinctive way.

Perhaps because he understood them; perhaps because, on his own body, he carried enough of them to have long since stopped considering them mere imperfections. Yet hers still managed to strike him.

There would be time, perhaps, to study them better. To wonder where they came from. To imagine the stories hidden behind each one.

When his own turn came, however, a subtle hesitation crept into him. It wasn't modesty—not really. It was something older and more stubborn: that ever-present moment when he knew someone was about to see, for the first time, what clothes normally managed to conceal.

He dropped his restrictions as well. The night air immediately caressed his exposed skin, still warm despite the breeze coming off the sea. Rey's body retained a strong, lean structure, surprisingly toned despite the years and everything he had been through. But it was impossible to ignore what covered it.

Scars—so many it was difficult to count them.

Some were thin and pale, nearly erased by time. Others were deeper and harder, left by blades that had tried to cut him open. Small depressions on his skin told instead of bullets. Burns spread irregularly across other areas of his body, distorting the surface of his flesh like old maps of forgotten wars.

Among those wounds, numerous tattoos survived—some still sharp, others faded and worn by the years, like memories time had tried without success to erase.

For a few seconds, Rey stood motionless. He kept smiling at her, but that smile had lost some of its usual arrogance. Then he took a deep breath. The sigh that followed was louder than the ones before.

He brought his hand to the eyepatch covering his useless eye, his fingers lingering just a moment on the fabric. That was always the worst part. He slipped it off slowly, and the moon illuminated what he normally hid: skin ravaged by acid, fused and deformed to the point that, around the lost eye, it was almost impossible to distinguish the eyelids from the rest of his face.

For an instant, he felt that old knot tighten in his stomach. Not fear. Expectation. The anticipation of the other person's reaction, of a hesitation, of a gaze shifting away—of that briefest flash of disgust he had learned to recognize even when someone tried desperately to hide it.

But he didn't run from the moment; he stayed there, exposed.

Then he stepped toward her.

One step after another, as the sand beneath his feet grew cooler near the shoreline and the salty scent of the sea filled his lungs.

He reached her, positioning himself on her right side—an almost automatic choice, as from that side he could offer her the only hand he had left.

His fingers sought hers. When they finally entwined, Rey felt that simple contact with an almost surprising clarity.

The skin, the warmth, the light pressure of her hand against his.

He led her toward the water.

The sea welcomed them warmly, opening around their legs while small waves died on the shore behind them. The moon trembled on the dark surface, and every movement shattered its reflection into hundreds of silver fragments.

For the rest of the night, there were only the sound of the sea, the salt on their lips, the warmth of their bodies, and those few sensations that needed no explanation.

And so the night passed.

Shiro slept undisturbed.

For Rey and Ruff, however, sleep was considerably more eventful.

Herc, for his part, managed to rest only in fits and starts, awakened now and then by mysterious—and decidedly suspicious—sounds that seemed to originate from somewhere beneath the beach. Noises vague enough to allow him to pretend he hadn't understood, yet eloquent enough to fuel more than a few questions.

The following morning, at nine o'clock sharp, a series of discreet knocks on the bedroom doors announced the start of the day. Anyone who opened would find a member of the staff, faultless in appearance, accompanied by a small cart laden with a breakfast as generous as it was inviting. The aroma of freshly baked croissants arrived even before the eye could rest upon them: fragrant, still slightly warm, with a golden and flaky crust. Beside them were slices of toasted bread, soft butter, and small jars of preserve in various flavors. These were followed by pastries dusted with a fine layer of powdered sugar, biscuits, and small breakfast sweets, along with porcelain saucers holding fresh fruit cut and arranged with almost obsessive precision. Naturally, beverages were not lacking: dark, aromatic coffee, tea, milk, and several carafes of fruit juice completed the service.

Before taking their leave, each staff member delivered a message to their respective guests: in an hour's time, Rey would be waiting for them on the veranda; the time had come to meet the potential future members of the team.

After finishing breakfast and getting ready, those who reached the terrace found a scene markedly different from that of the previous evening.

Rey was already there. The Mediterranean man sat behind the very table where, only a few hours earlier, they had dined together. That morning, however, the arrangement had changed: four chairs were placed neatly on one side, and only one on the other.

The impression was almost comical in its formality: to all intents and purposes, it looked like the preparation for a standard job interview—if one ignored the villa, the private beach, and the decidedly out-of-the-ordinary nature of the man waiting for them on the other side of the table.

The day promised to be clear and sunny.

A large awning had been rolled out over the metal structure spanning the terrace, casting a broad area of shade and shielding the guests from the already bright sun. The air, however, still retained the pleasant crispness of the early morning hours, accompanied by a light breeze that carried the scent of the sea up to the veranda.

On the table there were no documents, no folders, and no weapons in plain sight—only a carafe of water and a few glass tumblers, neatly arranged on a mirror-polished silver tray.

Rey waited with apparent composure. And if anyone had looked closely enough, they might have caught a few traces of the night just passed upon his face: a subtle hint of fatigue in his eyes, a body perhaps slightly more relaxed than usual, and that satisfied smile that seemed to have very little intention of explaining itself.

As soon as he saw them approach, however, his usual warmth instantly reclaimed his expression, welcoming them cheerily as if it were an ordinary morning like any other.

- Good morning!

His smile widened just a fraction.

- I hope you enjoyed your breakfast.

The lightness of his greeting couldn't entirely erase the feeling that something was about to shift. The night was over; now it was time to get down to business.

The comment about how useful Shiro could have been to them in the past brought a fleeting shadow of concern to Rey’s single eye. It was barely a ripple, a shift so subtle it could have gone unnoticed, yet enough to tense his features for a split second.

Throughout his life, he had met all kinds of people and learned the many shades—often far from pleasant—that the human soul could take on. He certainly didn't possess the same information that those close to the Asian man guarded so jealously, yet he didn't need grand revelations to sense that Shiro's closet harbored a fair number of skeletons. Some, likely, were still too cumbersome to be ignored.

Rey did what seemed most appropriate in that moment. Or rather, he chose to do nothing at all.

He simply returned the Asian man's gaze with a silently apprehensive look, accompanying it with a faint nod as the martial artist resumed speaking. He hoped, in vain, that the dark thought might leave Shiro's mind as easily as it had left his lips; that the invisible knot tightening in the pit of his stomach might also dissolve.

When, shortly after, Shiro nipped in the bud the possibility proposed by him and Herc, Rey couldn't entirely hide a certain surprise. Not because he hadn't expected his idea to be questioned—far from it—but because of the almost sharp firmness with which the Asian man opposed it. There had to be something else behind that decision. Perhaps a past history with the big guy, perhaps something more personal and unpleasant than Shiro was willing to admit.

That was not the time, however, to dwell on such thorny matters. He could look for a better opportunity to ask the technomancer the reasons for his choice, perhaps away from prying ears and tensions that were already all too obvious. For the moment, he merely nodded deeply, accepting the decision without pushing further, before responding to Shiro's proposal.

- Besides, you're the ones operating on the field. I'm just a humble... actually, a very humble head of base security. - A subtle touch of irony softened his voice. - Sounds like a good idea to me, Shiro. We could set you up with a van to manage the close-range reconnaissance. What do you think?

He let his eyes bounce between the two men, briefly studying their reactions, before the woman seated beside him caught his attention once more. Ruff had just opened, with almost disarming familiarity, the bottle of white wine left on the table.

The sight brought an amused smirk to Rey's lips. During this time, he could indeed have offered his guests a decent variety of spirits, though his intentions were decidedly more moderate than those of a certain someone else at the table.

When he met the woman's gaze, he picked up his freshly filled glass and mimicked her movements. He swirled the wine slowly, watching the pale liquid cling to the glass walls for a moment, then brought it to his lips. He drank calmly, but steadily enough to empty nearly half the glass.

The martial artist's final question caught him right as he was still sipping. A sudden laugh vibrated in his chest and cracked against the rim of the glass, splashing a few drops of wine inside it. Rey quickly set it down on the table and wiped his muzzle with a napkin, trying to regain a shred of composure.

- Well, as much as my brother and I would appreciate that, I don't think staging a prison break from Poggioreale falls within your job description! - he answered, still shaken by laughter. - I appreciate the thought, though. Maybe someday... who knows!"

He kept chuckling for a few more seconds, rubbing his single eye from time to time, still moist with laughter. That question had caught him off guard, perhaps due to a previous slip-up of his: he must have implied that his brother was not yet entrusted to the loving care of the state's prison system.

Yet, as the amusement slowly faded from his face, a different glint flickered in his eye—subtler, more calculating. That accidental interlude could turn into a seed to be cultivated in the future. Not right away, of course. Everything required its own time, and certain ideas needed to be nurtured with a great deal of patience.

He then finished the last few shrimp on his plate, shelling them with his usual skill despite having only his left hand to rely on. When Shiro announced he was retiring to his room, Rey offered him a deep nod and a gentle smile, though a trace of genuine disquiet lingered in his gaze.

- Of course, Shiro. As soon as I get a chance, I'll drop by your room, provided it's nothing too urgent. In the meantime, try to get some rest and maybe step outside for some fresh air. You look a bit pale... paler than when you arrived.

Shortly after, he extended the same gesture to Herc, bowing his head once more in farewell.

- Certainly. They won't mind a bit of company and a distraction from the routine. Just be careful if they ask you to play cards—they might strip you clean.

When he was finally left alone with Ruff, the atmosphere seemed to shift.

Rey felt the same electricity that seemed to envelop the woman—a subtle tension that was far from unpleasant, rendering the silence suddenly denser. He remained there contemplating her for a few seconds, taking his time, letting the moments be marked by the rustling of plants in the breeze and the distant steps of the guards, audible every now and then beyond the terrace.

His face now wore a calm, almost absorbed expression. The corners of his lips were slightly upturned, as if he were savoring the moment. Or, more precisely, the sight right in front of him.

At Ruff's words, Rey rose slowly from his chair. The movement was unhurried, devoid of hesitation. He picked up the napkin resting on his lap and set it on the table, then grabbed his glass, sliding the stem between his fingers. With the rest of his hand, he picked up the bottle of white wine, still half full.

He approached the woman without haste, his steps measured. He revealed no particular emotion on his face, save for the quiet desire to indulge her request. Stopping no more than a meter away from her, he leaned against the balustrade as well.

From that distance, the scent of the wine mingled with the salty tang carried by the breeze. The nearby lights cast soft reflections across Ruff's features, while the evening darkness seemed to gather around them, isolating them from the rest of the house.

Rey lowered his voice slightly. His tone grew deeper, almost intimate, so much so that the breeze itself seemed to carry his words to the woman's ears.

- I'm glad my proposal was received so well... - He paused briefly, keeping his eye fixed on her. - Right about now, the water should be truly... delightful.

He fell silent for a moment, granting himself the time to study her face more closely—her features illuminated by the warm glow of the lamps and the softer, flickering light from the beach.

- Let's go, then. Let's not waste any more time.

With that, he turned slightly toward Ruff and, with an elegant tilt of his head, gestured toward the stairs leading down to the private beach. The gesture carried a touch of deliberate chivalry, almost like a formal invitation.

Only the subtle smile tugging at his lips hinted that beneath all that courtesy lay something else entirely.

While waiting for his beloved inside the car, Salazar took advantage of those few moments of quiet to close his eyes and let the silence slowly put his synapses back in order. He rested his head back against the seat, trying to melt away at least a fraction of the tension accumulated throughout the evening, as his breathing gradually returned to a more natural rhythm.

The car’s soundproofing, however, isolated him almost completely from what was happening outside. Thus, he couldn't hear Shiro emptying his stomach into one of the nearby dumpsters, throwing up everything he could no longer hold down. He remained in his seat, oblivious to the distress that had bent the technomancer double, convinced that those extra minutes of waiting were merely yet another consequence of the night’s unforeseen hitches.

As time went on, though, a suspicion began to creep into his mind. Shiro was taking too long.

Salazar reopened his eyes, his brow furrowing slightly. He was already preparing to get out and look for him when the door opened. Shiro peeked into the passenger compartment, looking even paler than usual. The dirty light from the streetlamps fell across his face, highlighting his tired features and almost waxy complexion.

When their eyes met, a smile immediately appeared on Salazar’s face.

It had nothing to do with the cold, artificial smile he had reserved for the middle-aged police officer moments earlier. This one was genuine, warm, almost disarming. It held all the affection Salazar had fiercely guarded from the men he had forced himself to confront that evening. All the gentleness he had kept buried beneath layers of sarcasm, violence, and control finally resurfaced, perhaps made even more intense by the relief of being able to show it to the only person he deemed truly worthy of receiving it.

With the smile still on his lips and his head resting against the seat, Salazar began to listen to the report Shiro had prepared for him. The calm composure of his face was brushed by a faint touch of surprise, so subtle that it betrayed itself only in a slight downward curve of his lip.

He remembered Sarah’s father well. He also remembered shooting him in the shoulder just to pretend he had earned the favor of the Claws and Cass. It had been a bold move, certainly, but Salazar would never have imagined it could trigger such a vast chain reaction. A small butterfly effect that, after all this time, threatened to put a wrench in his plans just when things were getting good.

At Shiro’s joke about how, in the end, Salazar already belonged to him, a light chuckle escaped his lips. A soft blush tinged his cheeks, visible even in the dim light of the car. He lifted himself slightly from the seat to get a better look at him, then reached out toward the cheek Shiro was offering him, letting his fingers slide over it in a slow, almost contemplative caress.

- Exactly. How dare that rascal get between you and me? We really showed him... It’s a pity I couldn't get a good look at him from the roof. I didn't recognize him.

After those words, he fell silent again, but his hand didn't pull away. He continued to offer physical comfort to the technomancer as the latter went on with his explanation, stroking his face with his thumb and occasionally studying his paleness with a concern he chose not to express out loud.

He was relieved to discover that, at least on the surface, Sarah had had nothing to do with that rather clumsy attempt to pull the rug out from under his feet. After all, the best way to survive undisturbed in the foulest folds of society was precisely by forging friendships and agreements with those who passed for its pillars: politicians, officials, cops. It was one of the most valuable lessons Salazar had learned in his homeland. Power didn't reside solely in the hands of those who broke the law, but also in the hands of those who decided when to enforce it, when to ignore it, and who to turn it against.

Shiro’s comment about Salazar’s charming and elegantly fashionably late entrance managed to elicit a short laugh from him. The sound briefly lightened the tension still hanging heavy inside the car.

- Well, there was one person in the audience in particular that I really couldn't afford to disappoint. And, by the looks of it, I managed to make quite an impression... But damn, this thing is heavy.

He huffed with an almost childish irritation, lowering his gaze toward the weapon of destruction now resting at their feet. It seemed far less impressive lying still on the floor of the car, yet Salazar could still feel its weight in his arms and, above all, across his shoulders. He tilted his head from side to side, slowly rolling his neck in the hope of finding even a shred of relief for his muscles, stiffened from the exertion. A sharp pain shot through the back of his neck, forcing him to clench his jaw for a moment.

When Shiro explained how he had chosen to handle Roy, Salazar grew serious again. He nodded slowly a few times, pondering the consequences of that decision. The situation had created something akin to a debt of honor on Sarah's part, and a debt like that, if leveraged at the right moment, could be worth more than the money they had earned that night.

- If she considered us scum before, now she’ll certainly have a bit more... respect for us. Especially after we proved to her that we're not just simple scavengers. You did very well. It could become an ace up our sleeve should our cooperation become necessary again in the future.

The smile returned to his lips almost immediately when he learned that his subordinates had also performed flawlessly. Well-oiled cogs in a machine that, that night, hadn't merely made them considerably richer, but had completed its task with almost masterly precision.

That realization kindled a glint of satisfaction and pride in his eyes. Yet, as the convoy began to move again and the city lights slid across the window, his gaze ended up settling on Shiro once more.

The flickering reflections of the streetlamps passed over the technomancer’s profile, illuminating him for brief moments before consigning him back to the shadows. Salazar watched him with something bordering on adoration, dwelling on the dark circles under his eyes, his still-colorless lips, and the exhaustion Shiro was stubbornly trying to keep under control.

He remained still, a trace of surprise touching him, when Shiro’s hand reached toward his forehead and began to stroke it softly.

For a few seconds, Salazar said nothing. He simply closed his eyes and tilted his head slightly into the touch, surrendering to the caress like a stray cat that, after a lifetime of defending itself from every hand, suddenly discovered that some fingers could offer warmth instead of pain. He let himself be lulled by that simple, almost timid gesture, savoring it with the silent hunger of someone who had received far too little affection to ever consider it ordinary.

It was then that he noticed Shiro’s fingers couldn't remain entirely still. They were trembling.

The movement was faint, but clear enough to break the serenity Salazar had only just reclaimed. He wanted to draw closer, hold him tight, and banish the cold that seemed to have penetrated right down to his bones. He wanted to offer him all the warmth stored within his own body, even at the cost of being left with none, if only it meant Shiro might feel better.

Fate seemed to answer that request before Salazar could even turn it into an action.

The car went over a bump with a sudden jolt, pitching Shiro forward almost into his lap. Salazar reacted on instinct. He wrapped both arms around his body, holding him gently while avoiding any abrupt movements. He drew his face near his neck and welcomed him against himself, turning that small space inside the car into a second pocket of warmth, isolated from the night's chill and the violence of everything they had just faced.

The quiet hum of the engine, the steady motion of the car, and Shiro’s breath against his skin created, for a few moments, an almost unreal bubble of tranquility.

Salazar sighed softly.

He felt a fraction of the evening's heavy burden finally melt away from his shoulders when Shiro placed a tender kiss on the curve of his neck, light enough to make him shiver. It wasn't fear, nor was it cold. It was exhaustion giving way to something softer—a vulnerability Salazar would grant to him and him alone.

When Shiro pulled away again, Salazar felt an immediate pang of regret. He didn't try to hold him back, but nodded weakly at his advice, deciding to grant himself some rest. Before closing his eyes, however, he sought out his hand once more.

Their fingers met and intertwined naturally. Only then did Salazar allow himself to sink into the seat, gradually loosening his grip on reality and surrendering to the embrace of Morpheus, without ever letting go of Shiro’s hand.

From that moment on, their plan proceeded exactly as intended.

Salazar and Shiro were dropped off at the agreed meeting point for the vehicle swap—a secluded alley not too far from the Baron’s. Waiting for them was a non-descript, metallic gray sedan, so ordinary it was practically invisible among the other cars parked along the street.

They quickly abandoned the first vehicle and climbed into the second, taking with them everything they couldn't afford to leave behind. They set off again a few minutes later, taking side streets, winding detours, and dimly lit neighborhoods. Every turn had been chosen with care to throw off any potential pursuers and make their route nearly impossible to trace.

The journey lasted about half an hour.

As they moved further away from the heart of Torn City, the buildings gave way to increasingly isolated structures. Neon signs disappeared from the rearview mirrors, replaced by the deep darkness of the countryside and the jagged silhouettes of trees at the edge of the road. Finally, they turned down the drive leading to Salazar’s mansion, protected by distance and silence.

There they spent the rest of the night, waiting for the situation in the city to cool down.

By the very next morning, while Salazar was still slowly emerging from sleep, Shiro had the chance to read in the newspapers about the scandal engulfing the Torn City police force. The main headline took up most of the front page: “Police investigating Torn City’s biggest criminals: the police.”

The article recounted how Craig had been photographed during a drug deal and how, upon his arrest, he was found in possession of the very same substance. The evidence had brought to light a criminal operation through which he had enriched himself for years, exploiting his position and a network of accomplices built within the department.

Making matters even worse were the confessions of several men Craig had always considered fiercely loyal. Among the faces published alongside the article, Shiro could particularly recognize the officer Craig had, in all likelihood, intended to use as a human shield during the meeting.

A particularly detailed paragraph was dedicated to Officer Sarah Wilson. According to the paper, she was the one who had led the investigation and restored "luster" to the police force. The mayor had publicly commended her, and everything suggested she would be the one to replace Craig as head of the unit, taking on the task of reorganizing it and purging its remaining traces of corruption. Of Roy, however, there was not a single word.

To find out what his fate had been, Shiro had to wait for a message from Helen. The text relayed Sarah's apologies and an invitation to lunch for both him and Salazar. The police officer wanted to meet them to make amends and personally explain everything that had transpired. Helen also added one final piece of information.

Roy had retired.

Suddenly, without any announcement or ceremony, he had left the police force behind and stepped off the stage.

All's well that ends well.

Salazar and Shiro had secured their money. Salazar had finally achieved his goal of building an organization of his own. A major portion of the rot infesting Torn City had been rooted out, even if no one would ever truly know the names and the hands that had made that purge possible. For once, every cog had turned in the right direction.

Then again, the wheel of fortune never stops spinning.

Salazar observed the man in front of him for a long moment. He was completely immobilized, at his mercy, yet he kept clinging to words in an attempt to make his situation a little less desperate. He spoke with the caution of someone who knew he was standing on the edge of an abyss, hoping a well-chosen sentence might still pull him back.

In truth, the Mediterranean had no intention of hurting the Francophone. At most, he would knock him unconscious, leaving him to wake up in the clinic once everything was over. He would even take the care to settle him far from the filthiest spots on the floor and, above all, from those stains of dubious origin whose color and consistency hardly invited reassuring guesses.

He shifted his gaze several times between Towan and the doctor slumped on the cot, now unconscious. The former, after all, could prove to be a valuable asset for the success of that mission. And it had to be something truly important if it had managed to crack even the blonde woman's usual self-control, making her more nervous and impatient than customary.

With slow, almost tender movements, Salazar pulled Towan’s mask back up and adjusted it over his nose. His fingers lingered for just a second on the elastic band, checking that it was properly placed, then he took a few steps back and returned to the cot where the doctor lay. He said nothing. For a few moments, he simply observed him, while the quiet hum of the lamps and the muffled breathing of those present filled the silence.

Finally, he pointed to the prone body with a gesture of his hand and turned to the woman.

- Has the little prince already decided to go to sleep?

By way of an answer, she grabbed the doctor and shook him with a certain fervor. The man’s head flopped limply from side to side; from his lips came only a few guttural groans, deep, confused sounds that could never be mistaken for real words.

Salazar let out a loud, impatient sigh. He approached Towan again—the man who, shortly before, had introduced himself as a doctor—and slowly ran a hand over his own face. His palm caught the thin sheen of sweat making his forehead glisten. The air in the clinic was heavy, almost sticky, saturated with disinfectant and something sharper that the disinfectant couldn’t quite conceal.

- Would you be able to wake Sleeping Beauty up for us? - he asked, tilting his head slightly. - Maybe you could even make him feel better, but only within the limits of what’s… strictly necessary.

He let those final words hang in the air for a few seconds.

- In exchange, you can keep all his equipment. Heck, as far as I’m concerned, you could take the whole clinic with you. I don’t think his hands will be able to hold a scalpel after all this, anyway. Not with any dignity, at least.

He turned toward the blood-stained operating table. On the metallic surface, the harsh ceiling light fractured into dull, reddish reflections. Salazar lowered his voice significantly, as if confiding a detail of minor importance.

- Or that his legs will still be able to make him walk…

Then his gaze snapped back to Towan. A broad, almost cordial smile appeared on his face—one so out of place that it was more unsettling than a screamed threat.

- Of course, you’re free to accept or decline. We won’t subject you to the same treatment if you decide not to cooperate with us. But let me tell you one thing…

He began to pace the clinic. The sharp clack of his heels echoed across the worn, filthy tiles, marking each step with precision. That rhythmic sound felt almost like the countdown of an invisible clock.

Salazar stopped in front of an x-ray abandoned on the wall, left there more out of neglect than any real usefulness. The film hung crookedly, covered by a fine layer of dust; it displayed a milky ribcage, crisscrossed by shadows that the flickering light made even more sinister.

- An opportunity like this rarely comes along. Don’t waste it. Torn City isn’t usually so benevolent…

He shot him a sideways glance, studying his reaction, while out of the corner of his eye, he surveyed the still-salvageable equipment. Some instruments were dirty, others discarded haphazardly, but several pieces of machinery still seemed usable. In the right hands, that place might even resemble a real clinic again.

He had to admit it: maybe Towan had arrived at exactly the right moment. A replacement sent by fate, or by whatever force amused itself by handing out opportunities in the least opportune circumstances. Someone capable of recognizing and handling a doctor’s tools without using them merely as blunt objects.

A fainter smile, genuine this time, brushed his lips. His mind drifted for a moment to a person who should have been there with them, but whom other obligations, running parallel to his own, had forced elsewhere. Their absence felt like an empty space in the room, a missing presence that Salazar tried to banish by forcing his focus back to the present.

Whatever Towan’s decision might be, he only hoped he would make it quickly.

The aggressive stench of disinfectant, used in almost desperate quantities to mask far more aberrant odors, made his eyes sting and his nose wrinkle. With every breath, the acrid taste of chemicals settled on his tongue, mixing with a metallic scent that seemed to seep from the walls themselves.

And yet, Salazar was accustomed to the absolute worst odors a human body could produce when it needed to be concealed.

Rey slowly blinked his single eyelid, staring for a few moments at Shiro’s incredulous expression. To him, the joke had been blindingly obvious, and such a genuine reaction managed to pull a smile from him, followed by a low, deep, and measured laugh that barely vibrated in his chest.

- Oh, come on, Shiro, it was just a figure of speech. The villa we’re in belongs to some rich guy who rents it out to wealthy tourists visiting our lovely city. We simply rented it through a shell company so we wouldn’t leave a trace.

The Mediterranean man looked around with satisfaction. Almost everyone present seemed to have settled in, to varying degrees, letting themselves be enveloped by the villa's quiet atmosphere and the warmth of the evening. That sight gave him a feeling he hadn't experienced in a long time: the thrill of being back in the game, at least for the moment, and of doing so to honor old friendships that even immense distance had never truly managed to break.

He let his gaze wander between the two half-Japanese men, listening to their tranquil chatter as the salty ocean breeze mingled with the scent of wine and seafood laid out on the table. The evening promised a rare, almost suspended calm, as if for a few hours the rest of the world had decided to leave them in peace.

Then, finally, he saw her arrive.

The woman’s figure advanced wrapped in soft, fluttering fabrics stirred by the garden’s gentle breeze. Those clothes gave her a lively, almost ethereal air; for a moment, to Rey, she looked like a fairy appearing among the plants to watch over the place entrusted to her. His smile broadened, though retaining its usual composure and without showing his teeth. He offered her a deeper nod than usual, welcoming the last arrival with that warm, measured hospitality that seemed to have always been second nature to him.

- Ah, but of course. At this hour, the beach is quite a sight. Though if I may, I'd suggest a midnight swim: there’s nothing better to cool off and relax. You have my word!

For most of that brief exchange, before the briefing got underway, Rey kept his eye on the red-haired woman. A subtle smile lingered on his face, while a faint, hard-to-read gleam shone in his single eye. He made sure, however, to address the other two men sitting at the table as well, not wanting to commit the discourtesy of shutting them out of the conversation.

When the discussion shifted to the technologies the museum might employ, Rey noticeably narrowed his eye. He had to admit to himself that it wasn't his field at all. Still, he remained fascinated by the torrent of words spilling from the technomancer’s mouth: obscure terms and seemingly indecipherable concepts, uttered with a natural ease that almost made them sound simple.

The explanation, however, came to an abrupt halt.

Rey’s eye widened slightly, and it didn't take him long to catch the far-from-subtle embarrassment that had overcome Shiro. The technomancer had taken refuge in the food, passionately biting into creatures sharing his own color, as if chewing with enough determination could erase what had just happened.

- For goodness' sake, Shiro, you really are a straight-laced academic when it comes to this stuff! If we'd had someone like you a few years ago, we would’ve made twice as much money doing half the work!

Rey grabbed the glass of white wine he had poured himself before the others arrived. The glass was cool against his fingers, and the wine, pale and bright under the villa’s lights, left a dry, pleasant note on his tongue. He took a sip, then nodded enthusiastically when Herc also pointed out Shiro’s seemingly incredible IT skills.

- Exactly, just like your friend says!

At Ruff’s request, Rey nodded a couple of times. He neatly dabbed his mouth with the cloth napkin unfolded over his lap, then finished chewing his mouthful of seafood before answering her.

- Well now, Guiscard didn’t tell me you were all artists! But of course, Miss Ruff, that’s absolutely not a problem. We’ll add your requests to Shiro’s; I reckon we’ll be able to find everything in the same place. If you don't mind me asking, what exactly do you plan to use them for? I’m not here to judge, mind you, but you’ve got me quite curious now!

He let his amused gaze bounce among everyone present, accompanying a brief laugh with a gesture of his single hand. He turned his palm upward and gave a slight shrug, as if to lighten the question and frame it as innocent curiosity—nothing worth getting defensive over.

Rey then listened as Shiro offered to act as a scout inside the museum. He nodded slowly, allowing the idea to take shape in his mind. Indeed, dressed like an ordinary tourist, the technomancer wouldn’t attract any special attention. He could easily blend in with the visitors, slip under the radar of most security personnel, and gather all the necessary intel without raising suspicion.

Furthermore, even in the event that someone remembered him later, Shiro wouldn't be physically stealing the treasure. This significantly reduced the risk of a security guard recognizing him after the fact and linking him directly to the heist.

As for Herc, the situation was different. The man was big, imposing, and decidedly harder to ignore. He could pass for a tourist too, sure, but he’d still be the kind of person people tended to notice and remember. Rey, however, didn’t know about his past as a lethal shadow—a detail that, had he known it, would likely have tipped the scales in his favor.

Yet, that very contrast between the two sparked an idea.

He raised the index finger of his left hand, signaling his proposal with a satisfied gleam in his eye.

- You could both go! An extra pair of eyes certainly won't hurt. And if one of you happens to draw attention, he could serve as a distraction for the other, giving him a clearer field. What do you say? Do you think it’s doable?

The Mediterranean man let the question hang over the table, mingling with the rustle of the breeze and the discreet clinking of cutlery. He awaited their verdict with a curious smile, watching their reactions closely.

When Herc asked him that surprisingly specific question, Rey raised an eyebrow. He hadn't expected the loyalty of his men to be called into question, especially through such an elaborate turn of phrase. However, rather than taking offense, he seemed intrigued.

- That’s a very peculiar question, Hercule. And I must say it’s also quite relevant, considering your role as the group’s ‘defender.’

He adjusted his position in his chair, then continued with the same calm as if he were laying out the villa’s floor plan.

- Right now, there are twelve guards on duty: two in the back, two on the roof, two inside, four out front, and another two at the gate.

As he spoke, Rey gestured with his single hand, pointing out one by one the spots on the property where, in theory, the guards were stationed. Every movement was slow and precise, devoid of any nervousness.

- Can you trust them? They were all vetted through secure channels. None of them is a new face, neither to me nor to Guiscard. To tell you the truth, none of them work directly for me. We all work for Guiscard, in case you were wondering. So, as you said yourself, if you trust him, you can trust us too. Right?

Rey’s tone remained remarkably placid. He didn't seem the least bit bothered by their diffidence, which he considered more than understandable. After all, these new friends from overseas were in an unfamiliar land, surrounded by people whose language they didn't even speak. Expecting instant trust would have been naive, not to mention unprofessional.

Every now and then he turned toward Shiro and Ruff, making sure they were following the explanation too. He pointed to the villa’s strategic points again, illustrating where, if the need arose, they could find allies ready to step in.

- I know that where you come from, danger lurks around every corner... and even where there isn't one. But here, you’re safe as houses. You see, around these parts, the police actually do their job, and the prisons are far more secure. Just think, in over a hundred and twenty years, fewer than ten people have ever escaped from the prison in Naples!

For a few seconds, no one spoke. That brief pause allowed the air to lighten, clearing away the subtle tension the safety talk had brought with it. Still, there remained the quiet awareness that getting caught right there in that villa would add a massive headache to an already delicate situation.

Rey let another moment pass, then cleared his throat. The sound was enough to pull everyone’s attention back to him.

- And my brother can vouch for that too. Maybe one day you’ll have the chance to meet him... or we’ll make sure you do!

A small, lively smile crossed his face before he spoke again.

- So yes, of course—the prospective new team members have been sized up from top to bottom, complete with proper background checks and all. They’re no less reliable than anyone else, and tomorrow, as planned, we’ll evaluate their suitability together.

Shiro’s actions were infinitely faster than Roy’s reflexes. The elderly policeman was still paralyzed by the incredible display of strength that had just unfolded before his eyes. Until a few moments ago, he had been convinced he had the situation under control, that he had finally trapped the technomancer in a vice from which he could not escape. He had already tasted victory—that bitter, reassuring taste that accompanies the certainty of having broken one's opponent.

It was that very certainty that betrayed him.

Shiro’s maneuver came even before Roy’s brain could register the danger. A sharp, precise movement, devoid of hesitation. Pain shot through his arm like an electric shock, violent enough to instinctively force his hand open. The rifle slipped from his fingers and hit the ground with a sharp, metallic clatter, almost deafening in the sudden silence that had fallen around them.

Roy tried to react, but his body no longer belonged to him. Every movement was anticipated and smothered in its infancy. His joints protested, his muscles were strained to their breaking point, and every attempt to break free only worsened the pressure Shiro exerted. Within seconds, he found himself completely immobilized, at the mercy of the man he had, until that moment, treated with condescension and contempt.

One of the officers approached with hesitant steps.

The weapon he held trembled slightly, but enough to reveal the fear he was desperately trying to hide. He moved as if walking on broken glass, aware that a single wrong move, a word spoken in the wrong tone, or a reflex too abrupt could turn an already precarious situation into a slaughter.

Roy felt his cheeks burning. It wasn't just the shame of being disarmed and pinned down in front of his own subordinates. It wasn't even the fact that he had been defeated by someone he believed, just moments before, he had completely in his grasp. It was the way it had happened.

He had been humiliated in front of everyone. In front of the officers who had followed his orders and the criminals he had sworn to fight. He had been stripped of his authority, his confidence, and even the lies with which, for years, he had tried to justify his choices. Shiro had laid him bare for what he truly was. Nothing more than a Craig who hadn't made it.

A man who, when he finally had the concrete chance to change something, had chosen the easiest path. He hadn't overthrown the corrupt monarch sitting on the throne; he had preferred to take his place. He had donned the same crown, accepted the same compromises, and breathed in the same stench, convincing himself that his mere presence would be enough to make the system less rotten. It hadn't been so.

When Shiro grabbed his face, forcing him to look at him, Roy averted his eyes. He couldn't bear the weight of those eyes, nor that of his own actions. Shame crept into him with a corrosive slowness. What he had done would not only stain his own honor. It could also drag down the name of his daughter—the only person who still seemed to represent something authentic within the now-putrefying institutions of Torn City. She could truly have been a breath of fresh air, a presence capable of fracturing the stagnant balance that for decades had protected men like him, and he risked poisoning that chance too.

By now, Roy was at the mercy of the fate he had chosen for himself. The same fate he had fed day after day, compromise after compromise, and which was now crashing down upon him with all its violence.

The cruelest lesson, however, was not the defeat; it was receiving a lesson in honesty and righteousness from the very person he had always considered part of the filth. From one of the men who, in his eyes, contributed to fueling the stench he had sworn to fight his whole life.

Yet, in that moment, the stench came only from him.

From his vantage point, Salazar couldn't clearly make out his lover's thumbs-up. The distance, the flickering streetlights, and the accumulated tension offered him nothing but uncertain silhouettes. Yet, it was enough for him to see the state Roy had been reduced to and to catch, if only vaguely, the techomancer’s satisfied expression to understand that the worst had passed.

He drew a long breath.

The air filled his lungs almost painfully, as if he had forgotten to breathe until that very moment. His shoulders dropped, finally free of at least some of the tension that had stiffened them, and the heavy rifle he held lowered by a few centimeters.

His arms had begun to ache; he hadn't noticed the fatigue until that instant. The adrenaline had kept every sensation at bay, relegating it to the depths of his body, but now the weight of the weapon asserted itself once more with brute force. It dug into his shoulders, strained the muscles of his arms, and stiffened his fingers around the grip.

Perhaps it really was over. At least for tonight. Perhaps they could finally go home, far from the red and blue flashing lights that stained the facades of the buildings like intermittent wounds. Far from the sirens, the drawn weapons, and that constant sense of persecution that seemed to follow them everywhere.

Perhaps they could truly build something together—something that belonged only to them, without having to ask anyone's permission and without being forced to constantly look over their shoulders.

And, maybe, they would finally get to be alone for a while.

When he saw the police officers begin to retreat from the street below, Salazar lingered for a few more seconds on the edge of the rooftop. He watched the silhouettes of the agents fall back, dragging the tension and humiliation of defeat along with them, then turned slowly and headed toward the stairs.

The first step was heavy, the second already lighter. Shortly after, he was practically skipping down.

A low, muffled laugh vibrated in his chest as he tackled the flights of stairs, forced every now and then to slow down by the enormous piece of wrought iron he carried with him. It was too big, too heavy, and too vulgar to truly deserve the name of a weapon. Every step made it sway, forcing Salazar to constantly adjust his balance, brutally reminding him of its sheer weight.

Yet, not even that could wipe the smile from his face; the night was finally drawing to a close. In just an hour, they had faced two formidable opponents. They had confronted them together, shoulder to shoulder—or almost—and had come out of it alive. The mere thought stretched the corners of his lips almost to his ears, turning his tired face into a mask of genuine satisfaction.

The dirty windows of the stairwell let the city's intrusive lights filter through in patches. Pale, uneven flashes crossed his face as he descended, lingering on the imperfections of his smile, on his teeth, on the creases of his skin, and on the scars that adorned his face. Under those blinking lights, the marks left by the past seemed to take on a sacred quality.

No longer mere wounds. They looked like luminous veins, pathways carved into the flesh through which flowed a stubborn, ancient energy. An energy capable of feeding the green of his eyes, making it intense enough to brave the night and alive enough to catch the gaze of the mercurial pools belonging to the keeper of his heart.

Shiro watched Roy’s officers as they abandoned the field.

Their faces showed a mix of disappointment, fear, and bewilderment. Some avoided looking at him, while others kept turning back in his direction with the rigidity of animals fearing they might be hunted. They retreated quickly, trying to maintain at least the illusion of an order that, in reality, had already been completely shattered.

The battlefield had remained almost untouched. No piles of bodies, no pools of blood. Yet, the air still felt contaminated. It was thick with the acrid smell of tension, dust, hot metal, and, above all, the metaphorical stench of a demon that had just been exorcised.

Not by the police, not by the men who were supposed to defend order. It had been exorcised by someone who, according to their laws at least, should have represented its very antithesis. Someone who, paradoxically, possessed far more capability than they did to restore a shred of balance to that dark stain blotted across the map of North America.

Before the car doors slammed shut, the technomancer managed one last look at Roy.

The elder policeman was placed in the back seat of a cruiser with the same cold practicality reserved for a criminal. At that moment, he resembled them far more than the men who, still leaning out of the windows, kept those long fingers of blued steel trained on them.

Roy remained motionless.

His shoulders were hunched, his hands out of sight, his face hollowed by defeat. Only a slight twitch of his lip betrayed what he was trying to hold back. Perhaps anger. Perhaps humiliation. Perhaps tears he would never allow anyone to see. He remained alone in the sterile back of the vehicle, separated from the others by a cage, surrounded by the smell of plastic, sweat, and failure.

It was then that Salazar finally showed up.

He was slightly out of breath, a consequence of the numerous flights of stairs he had tackled with the heavy rifle still slung over his shoulders. His chest rose and fell rapidly, and a few strands of hair clung to his forehead, but the fatigue couldn't obscure the amused expression on his face in the slightest.

If Shiro had turned toward him, he would have been greeted by a wide, almost brazen smile. Now that the distance between them had closed, Salazar looked even more relieved. As if only the other man's physical proximity could fully convince him that he was still there, alive and whole.

- So, boss, let's get the hell out of here, what do you say?

He raised his voice just enough to be heard, using a playful tone that tried to mask his exhaustion and the urgent need to leave everything behind. With a nod of his head, he invited Shiro to join him inside the car. It was the very same vehicle where, just a short while before, they had promised each other they would meet again soon. A simple promise, made under the weight of uncertainty, which against all odds they had managed to keep.

Salazar disappeared behind the tinted windows of the SUV.

If the technomancer followed him, he would find him slouched in one of the seats, his back slumped against the backrest and his legs slightly apart. The rifle had been placed on the floor, wedged in the space between his dress shoes, finally stripped of its menacing importance.

The Mediterranean man was breathing deeply, his head tilted slightly back. More than the exhaustion from the stairs, he was trying to recover from the sudden decompression. The last remnants of adrenaline were still pulsing through his body: his fingers trembled slightly, his heart beat too fast, and every outside noise still sounded close enough to make him want to grab the weapon again.

When Shiro stepped inside, Salazar turned his head toward him. His smile faded, but only a little, giving way to curiosity.

- What the hell did that pig want? - he asked, pausing for a moment before correcting himself. - Or rather... who was that pig?

When all the members of the group finally reached the main terrace of the villa, they found waiting for them a sight capable, at least for a few moments, of making them forget the fatigue and worries accumulated throughout the day.

The terrace directly overlooked the sea, which stretched out before them like a dark, boundless expanse. The last shades of the sunset had already retreated beyond the horizon, giving way to a deep sky dotted with sparse stars. Further down, the waves crashed against the coast with a slow, regular rhythm, producing a soft murmur that reached the villa, blending with the rustle of the evening breeze.

In the center of the terrace, a round table had been set for four people, as elegant as it was generous. Upon it, every kind of Mediterranean delicacy had been arranged with an almost ceremonial care. Platters piled high with still-warm fried seafood released an intense aroma of fish, lemon, and oil; nearby, wooden boards held cured meats and cheeses typical of the region, cut into generous portions and accompanied by olives, pickled vegetables, and slices of bread with a golden crust.

In the center of the table stood a large, hand-decorated ceramic pasta bowl, from which thin wisps of steam arose. The patterns painted on its surface recalled the colors of the sea and the coast: small blue waves, yellow lemons, and interwoven green leaves. From within came an inviting scent of pasta, tomato, garlic, and seafood, so rich that it immediately stimulated the appetite.

The plates and chargers featured the same motifs as the pasta bowl. The cutlery, perfectly polished, reflected the glow of the outdoor lamps, while the cloth napkins had been precisely folded next to each place setting. A white tablecloth completely covered the tabletop and draped softly over the edges, revealing only the metal legs of the structure—the sole element betraying its nature as an outdoor table.

The lighting of the terrace had been designed with equal care. The lamps arranged along the perimeter diffused a warm, delicate light, sufficient to illuminate every corner without being harsh. There were no blinding reflections or overly sharp shadows: only an amber glow, capable of making the atmosphere welcoming and dissolving, at least in part, the tension remaining on the shoulders of those present.

Not far away, two guards walked back and forth along the rear of the villa. Their regular steps barely echoed on the terrace flooring, accompanied occasionally by the rustle of their clothes and the faint clinking of their equipment. They kept a watchful eye on the coastline and the darkness of the sea, ready to intercept any unwanted presence attempting to approach the property.

Rey was already sitting at the table.

When he saw the others arrive, he looked up and welcomed them with an open smile, accompanied by a gesture of his only hand.

- Finally. I was starting to think you were going to let everything get cold.

The tone was playful, almost familiar. Behind that lightness, however, a certain impatience was discernible. Not so much for the dinner, but for the meeting that was to accompany it.

He waited for everyone to come over and take their seats. In doing so, he tried not to show too openly his hope that the only woman in the group would choose one of the two chairs next to his. He limited himself to discreetly following his companions' movements, pretending to be more interested in the arrangement of the cutlery.

Only when everyone had settled in did Rey straighten up slightly in his chair and clear his throat.

- So, my new friends, please start eating. Don't be shy and taste a bit of everything. In fact, you'd better get used to it: at our facility, we intend to fatten you up.

The joke was accompanied by a short laugh and a broad smile, which for a few moments completely relaxed his face. The convivial atmosphere of the table seemed to be reflected in his mood as well.

Then, slowly, that lightness faded.

The smile didn't disappear entirely, but it became more subdued. His gaze changed too, taking on a firmness more suited to the topics they were about to address.

- Before we begin, Shiro…

Rey turned toward him. As he spoke, he accompanied his words with small, measured, and precise hand gestures.

- Regarding what you requested, by tomorrow morning you will have everything you need to configure your instruments. I have already given instructions for the material to be retrieved and checked before being delivered. You shouldn't have any problems, but if anything is missing, let me know immediately.

He took a moment to observe the recipient of his words, as if to make sure everything was clear, then turned his attention back to the rest of the group.

- The same goes for all of you. Should you need any specific equipment, clothes, documents, or even just something to make your stay here more comfortable, don't hesitate to ask. It's better to take care of every need now, rather than noticing a shortage at the worst possible moment.

His gaze then rested on Herc and, for a moment, his tone grew lighter again.

- Ah, I almost forgot. Herc, we had some cans of food prepared for your little meowing guardian. They are in the kitchen, in one of the lower pantries. They should last for a while, but if you run out, don't hesitate to ask for more. I wouldn't want the fiercest member of the team to start viewing us as his enemies.

A shadow of amusement crossed the Neapolitan's face once more.

While the others began to serve themselves, Rey took his own plate and placed some of the food from the table onto it. He chose a bit of the fried seafood, some vegetables, and a small portion of pasta, moving with the calmness of someone who wanted to give the impression that this was just a dinner like any other.

However, he did not interrupt his explanation.

- Moving on to the important matters, the Guiscard extends his apologies for the scarcity of details you've been provided with up to this moment. It is not a matter of a lack of trust in you—or at least, not entirely.

He let a faint smile surface, more ironic than amused.

- At this stage, we couldn't afford any information leaks. The more people who know the details of an operation, the higher the chances that something slips out. We preferred to proceed with caution.

Rey set his cutlery down for a few seconds, adopting a more composed posture.

- As for the church, we know that the display cases intended to hold the valuables are shatterproof. The material should withstand both impacts and standard cutting tools. Complex locks have been installed at the base of each case, likely connected to an independent alarm system.

He paused briefly, giving the others time to absorb the information.

- Furthermore, motion sensors will be mounted for the entire duration of the exhibition. We don't know the exact model yet, nor do we know if they will be connected directly to the internal security, an external central station, or both. Finding out the type of technology used will be one of the first tasks to carry out during the preparation phase.

The sound of the sea seemed to grow louder in the brief silence that followed. A gust of wind swept across the terrace, slightly lifting a corner of the tablecloth and bringing with it the salty smell of the coast.

- We also know that there will be a few security guards inside the facility during the night. They shouldn't pose an insurmountable problem, but I don't want them to be underestimated. A bored, tired, or distracted guard is still a person armed with eyes, ears, and, in all likelihood, a radio.

He took a shrimp from his plate and began to shell it patiently, using his fingers with a dexterity that betrayed a long-standing habit of compensating for the lack of his other limb.

- Three weeks from now, the exhibition will officially open to the public. It will remain accessible for about fifteen days. It is within that window that we must conduct at least one complete reconnaissance.

He looked up from the shrimp and observed those present, one by one.

- One of you will have to play the part of a tourist. They will need to enter during regular visiting hours and carry a hidden camera, small enough not to draw attention. It could be embedded in a button, an accessory, a bag, or any other object that fits naturally with the chosen cover.

His voice slowed down, carefully emphasizing every step.

- The footage will help us reconstruct a rough floor plan of the interior, identify entrances, secondary exits, blind spots, and any surveillance cameras. We will also need to determine the exact position of the display cases and the valuables, as well as figure out which areas are normally off-limits to visitors.

He brought the shrimp to his mouth and ate it, chewing slowly before resuming.

- During that phase, whoever conducts the reconnaissance must behave in an absolutely natural manner. No suspicious movements, no lingering too long in front of doors reserved for staff and, above all, no questions that might make someone remember their face. They must be just one of many visitors destined to be forgotten within a few minutes.

Rey took his glass, took a small sip, and placed it back on the table.

- Now, speaking of the cardinal…

This time, his gaze shifted toward Ruff. The smile that appeared on his lips was slightly wider, as if that part of the plan amused him in particular.

- In a week, an event will be held to present and publicize the exhibition. Patrons, journalists, institutional representatives, and several prominent figures from the diocese will be in attendance. De Andreis will participate in person.

Rey leaned slightly in his direction.

- That will be the first real opportunity to approach him. We have already prepared fake badges that should allow you to pass security checks and access the areas reserved for guests. The cover will be solid enough to withstand a superficial check, but you will have to be careful not to push your luck beyond what is necessary.

He took another shrimp and began to shell it slowly, continuing to speak as if the task required no concentration at all.

- Your job will be to strike up a conversation. No pressure, no overly direct questions. You will need to study him, understand how he reacts, what topics catch his attention and, above all, if there is a way to gain his trust. The first meeting must seem accidental. If all goes well, he will be the one to remember you.

Once he finished shelling the shrimp, he brought it to his mouth. He took a few seconds to eat it, while the sound of cutlery and plates filled the silence left by his words.

When he spoke again, his tone became more serious once more.

- Now let's talk about the elephant in the room: the shortage of personnel in your group.

He leaned back against his backrest, studying the reactions of those present.

- For the night of the heist, we will absolutely need a safecracker. Someone who doesn't just know how to pick a common lock, but who has experience with complex security systems and is capable of working under pressure. We cannot afford to let a display case cost us half an hour, or have a mistake trigger an alarm ahead of schedule.

With his hand, he gestured vaguely toward the area beyond the terrace, where the road faded into the darkness.

- We will also need a driver. Or, to be more precise, someone who knows how to drive and transport people and gear without drawing attention. They must know the local roads, including the secondary ones, the alleys, the routes along the coast, and the less monitored streets. If something goes wrong, the planned route could become unusable within seconds. In that case, the driver must be capable of improvising.

He let those words hang in the air for a moment. Then, his expression relaxed slightly.

- Fortunately for you, while you were getting settled in, we didn't just sit on our hands.

Rey paused briefly and looked at them inquiringly.

- By the way, are the rooms to your liking? Have you found everything you need?

He waited for the others' replies without showing any rush. For a few moments, he simply ate, listening to any observations and nodding when necessary. The interruption allowed the tension to ease slightly, even though no one could truly forget the subject of the conversation.

When everyone had answered, Rey resumed.

- We have identified a couple of individuals who might fit the bill. We haven't officially hired them yet, and they don't know all the details of the operation. For the time being, they have only received the information necessary to understand the type of work required.

He wiped his fingers on his napkin, then placed it carefully next to his plate.

- Tomorrow morning they will come here and introduce themselves to the rest of the team. It will be a sort of interview, though I doubt they would appreciate that definition.

A thin smile curled his lips.

- You will be able to ask them any questions you deem necessary. You will have to assess their skills, of course, but also their character. A person can be the best safecracker in the region and still turn out to be useless if, at the first unexpected hitch, they lose control or decide to sell out their companions to save their own skin.

The smile disappeared as quickly as it had appeared.

- What matters most to me is their reliability. Technical skills can be verified. Loyalty, however, is always much harder to measure.

His gaze passed slowly from one face to the next, lingering for an instant on each one.

- I will participate in the meeting as well. If either of them fails to convince us, or even just leaves us with the wrong feeling, we will count them out and look for other candidates. We don't need to fill seats at all costs. We need the right people.

He leaned forward slightly toward the center of the table, resting his forearm next to his plate.

- So, does that work for you?

For a few seconds, the only sounds left on the terrace were the distant rush of the waves, the steady footsteps of the guards, and the light clinking of cutlery.

The dinner continued to release its inviting aromas, but by now it was clear to everyone that this table had not been set merely to welcome them—it was the place where the heist had just begun to take shape.

Everyone had listened in an almost religious silence. Breaking it was only the irregular thud of boots on the asphalt, which from time to time crushed glass, pebbles, or other debris impossible to recognize in the darkness, and the metallic clinking of weapons. Every strap that tightened, every magazine bumped by mistake, every moving part that resonated in the night seemed louder than normal, as if the entire street were holding its breath, waiting for a spark.

Roy’s officers kept moving forward, but something among them had begun to change. From time to time, they exchanged quick, almost furtive glances. Small hesitations hidden by the yellowish reflections of the streetlights, barely hinted grimaces, nods so discreet they could be mistaken for involuntary movements. Yet Shiro could have noticed them all. The further his speech went on, the more the officers' conviction seemed to crumble.

At first they advanced in a compact block, their shoulders rigid and their hands firmly anchored to their weapons. They had the gait of those who had already passed a sentence and only had to execute it. Then, word by word, they had slowed down. Rifle barrels lowered by a few centimeters. Fingers moved away from triggers. Aggressive postures softened, giving way to an uneasy caution.

The orders received, accepted without any hesitation until just a few minutes before, now began to appear for what they truly were: not justice, not duty, just a reprisal disguised as a police operation. Shiro's words had brought light to the exact place where Roy had tried to cast shadows.

Behind the back of the small unit's leader, murmurs began to rise. Broken phrases, hushed whispers, questions that no one yet had the courage to utter out loud. Roy couldn’t make them all out, but he understood their meaning perfectly. His men were doubting—not just the operation, but him as well.

Even Roy, by now, no longer seemed so sure of his own actions. His body, however, reacted to that uncertainty as if it wanted to suffocate it by force. His lower lip had begun to tremble, at first almost imperceptibly, then with increasingly evident twitches. His eyebrows had lowered until they covered part of his eyes, hidden beneath those voluminous, silvery bushes. His hands clenched with growing violence. 

The fist clenched around the megaphone exerted such pressure that the plastic creaked between his fingers, threatening to crack. His knuckles had turned white. His cheeks, on the other hand, had slowly taken on a reddish hue that grew more intense with every new word spoken by the technomancer.

Was it anger? Anger at seeing his own righteousness put on trial and demolished by a man who wasn't even half his age?

Was it fear? Fear of being able to discern, in the whispers of his subordinates, the first signs of a rebellion? The realization that those men, lined up by his side until just moments before, were reconsidering the small private war he had tried to transform into an arrest?

Or perhaps it was just shame. The shame of someone having the truth slammed in their face with a force as violent as it was composed. Of someone forced, for the first time, to look at themselves from the outside, only to discover that the reflected image held nothing of the hero they believed themselves to be.

Roy lowered his gaze for an instant; Shiro's words, steeped in passion and anger, continued to wash over him as he stared at the asphalt. It almost seemed as if he were searching, among the broken glass and dust, for the fragments of his own pride. A pride that hadn’t simply fallen: it had been shattered to pieces in front of his men, in the most burning of defeats and the most silent of humiliations.

When he raised his eyes again, he fixed them first on Shiro, studying his face. The technomancer’s features, now hardened, betrayed no hesitation. His jaw was clenched. His shoulders, still. Only his hands gave away the pressure he was enduring: his leather gloves emitted faint pops every time his fingers squeezed tighter into his palms.

Then Roy’s gaze slipped past him, behind the Asian man. His men had moved; fired up by their leader’s words, and perhaps even more irritated by a freedom so newly reclaimed and already threatened once more, they had stepped a few paces closer. Not enough to trigger an immediate reaction, but just enough to make their intention clear. Weapons were gripped tightly in their hands, their eyes fixed on the officers.

Some showed an open, almost feverish anger. Others maintained a more dangerous calm, that of someone who had already decided just how far they were willing to go. None of them seemed to have any intention of abandoning Shiro in the face of threats from a less-than-irreproachable officer. They had sensed the policemen's indecision and were taking advantage of it.

Roy’s men, on the other hand, were too busy brooding. Until just a few minutes before, they had believed they were facing one of the city's many plagues to be eradicated. Criminals. Scum. Targets who didn't need to be granted reason or dignity. Now, instead, they were forced to digest the words Shiro had hurled at them—not directly or with threats, but with a truth fierce enough to hurt more than a bullet.

It took Roy a few seconds to realize that his men had completely stopped advancing. They were no longer following his orders; they were whispering among themselves, trying to figure out how to act, whether it still made sense to proceed, whether it was truly worth risking a carnage just to support their superior's wounded pride.

Roy spun around.

The movement was so abrupt that his coat flew open for an instant while the megaphone swung in his hand. He began to gesture furiously, pointing first at his men and then at the opposing line. His arms moved erratically, almost independently of his will.

His voice, already hoarse, kept breaking—partly from the excessive volume, partly from the emotions now crowding his throat, making each word sharper and more unhinged than the last.

- You spineless cowards, what the hell are you waiting for? Arrest this scum right now!

The command bounced off the building facades and returned like an empty echo.

No one moved.

Someone even looked away.

Roy stood frozen, his chest heaving rapidly, unable to believe that the authority he had clung to his entire life had dissolved in a matter of minutes.

One of the officers stepped forward cautiously toward him. His face was tense and worried, marked by an unease he no longer even tried to hide. His rifle was pointed downward, gripped in his hands not as a weapon of attack, but almost like a burden he would have preferred to rid himself of.

When he spoke, he used a low tone, perhaps in the hope of sparing his superior further humiliation; Shiro, however, managed to hear him.

- Roy, what the hell are you doing? Don't you see we're just wasting time? These guys will be out in a matter of hours anyway. Let's go help the others with—

He didn't manage to finish the sentence. Something inside Roy snapped.

It wasn't a reasoned decision; there was no calculation, no assessment of the consequences. Just the sudden explosion of all the anger, shame, and fear he had tried to compress within himself.

With a violent gesture, he ripped the automatic rifle from his subordinate's hands. The officer couldn't even put up a resistance; he barely had time to open his fingers, caught off guard by the brutality of the act, before Roy spun the weapon and aimed it directly at Shiro.

The barrel stopped just a few inches from the technomancer's face. The movement was so rapid that several men from both sides instinctively raised their own weapons. A chorus of disengaged safeties and clicking metallic parts broke the silence, but no one dared to take the next step.

Roy's expression had become unrecognizable, his mouth twisted into a grimace, his eyes glassy and wide, his nostrils flared. His face seemed to almost replicate the one that, just a few minutes prior, had marked Craig.

Perhaps Shiro had been right. Perhaps, deep down, the two of them weren't so different after all. Both told themselves they were driven by higher principles. Both hid behind some idea of order, necessity, or justice. But once the justifications were stripped away, nothing remained but the exact same hunger. A brutal hunger, the need to impose oneself, to dominate, to not feel small.

From that distance, Shiro could almost see the bullet inside the barrel. The streetlight glinted faintly off the metal, casting a dull reflection in the dark. It looked like a lead creature nestled in its steel nest, ready to come into the world only to destroy something.

Roy brayed, saliva pooling at the corners of his mouth, a few drops spraying toward Shiro's face, illuminated for a split second by the flashing lights of the squad cars.

- I DON'T GIVE A FLYING FUCK IF I DISAPPOINTED YOUR EXPECTATIONS AS A PALADIN OF THE LAW, YOU TOTAL PIECE OF SHIT! NOW PUT YOUR FUCKING HANDS UP OR I SWEAR TO GOD TOMORROW MORNING YOUR NAME WILL BE IN THE OBITUARIES!

The scream washed over the entire street.

Roy’s men froze.

No one seemed to know whether to intervene, lower their weapons, or play along. One wrong move could turn that place into yet another slaughterhouse, and they were acutely aware of being outnumbered.

Even the officer from whom Roy had snatched the rifle remained motionless, his hands still raised at chest level, as if the weapon were still floating there between his fingers. His gaze darted from Roy to Shiro, desperately searching for a solution that didn't exist.

The technomancer’s men froze as well. The anger that had driven them forward instantly turned to ice, replaced by fear. Not for themselves, but for Shiro. The barrel was too close; Roy was too unstable.

All it would take was one misinterpreted movement. A hand raised too quickly. A foot shifting on the asphalt. Even a sudden noise could make the man’s finger twitch on the trigger. No one was truly breathing; time seemed to have stopped.

Everything had come to a head. The cup was full to the brim, and a single drop would be enough to make it overflow. Roy, however, had not yet reckoned with his host.

A long, loud whistle cascaded from the top of the buildings. In that unnatural quiet, it seemed to cut the night in two; several heads snapped upward almost simultaneously.

Up there, on the edge of one of the buildings, a figure shrouded in darkness could be made out. The body was little more than a black silhouette against the sky, illuminated intermittently by the flashing lights of the squad cars and the headlights of the cars parked in the street below.

It was him—Shiro’s favorite Mediterranean. And, judging by the circumstances, Roy’s too.

He had arrived on the scene like a superhero straight out of some B-grade action movie: posing on the rooftop, theatrical, armed, and fashionably late.

Cupping his hands around his mouth, he took a deep breath and threw his voice down toward those standing some twenty meters below.

- HEY, YOU FILTHY PIG! DON'T YOU KNOW YOU'RE NOT SUPPOSED TO MAKE NOISE DURING QUIET HOURS? YOU RISK PISSING OFF THE OTHER TENANTS THAT WAY!

The sentence hadn't even finished echoing between the buildings when, behind Shiro, ten windows flew open almost in unison. The sharp crack of the window frames was followed by the rapid movement of as many figures: from each window, a person armed with a heavy rifle emerged. The barrels were rested on the windowsills and immediately aimed at Roy and his men. The movements were coordinated, planned in advance, so precise they left no room for doubt.

This was no improvised threat; that position had been prepared. Salazar, too, finally made his entrance. He leaned down and, with a slight effort, lifted a massive weapon. It was an M60, though from below and in the uncertain light of the street, what stood out most were its bulky size and brutal silhouette.

The gesture had something deliberately spectacular about it. The weapon had been transported in one of the henchmen's cars more as a deterrent than for actual use. A precaution meant for particularly stubborn law enforcement—one that had seemed perhaps even excessive when first proposed.

Roy’s presence, however, proved that such prudence had not been useless at all.

The Mediterranean had heard only the officer's last words: the threats shouted against his beloved, the promise to shoot him and put his name in the obituaries, had been enough. A violent, immediate aversion gripped his stomach. He didn't care who that man was, what badge he wore, or what justifications he had told himself to get to that point. In that moment, only one thing mattered: covering Shiro's back.

The technomancer had spoken, drawing all the attention to himself and, above all, granting his men the time necessary to take up positions. Now, that time was up.

Roy slowly raised his gaze: for the first time since he had grabbed the rifle, his attention snapped away from Shiro. His eyes traveled up the facades of the buildings, stopping one by one on all those occupied windowsills.

One barrel. Then another. Yet another.

Everywhere he looked, he found a weapon aimed at him. His men, too, had grasped the situation. Some turned pale; others widened their eyes and immediately lowered their rifles, as if fearing that even holding them could be interpreted as a provocation. A few began to back away—one step, then another—the officers slowly retreating toward the squad cars, never turning their backs, their expressions tense and terrified. Every inch of distance gained seemed like the only thing still separating them from a sudden death.

Roy, however, stood still. The rifle was still aimed at Shiro, but his grip no longer held the same firmness. His arms had begun to tremble. His breath caught halfway up his chest, and his mouth remained slightly open, unable to produce a sound. His eyes, wide with shock, kept darting from one window to another. Surprise had cracked his fury, and through that crack, slow but relentless, fear began to creep in—cold, lucid, completely different from the anger that had dominated him until that moment. He was no longer the man invested with authority, the commander issuing orders, the judge ready to punish the city's scum. He was just a middle-aged man, surrounded, with far too many guns pointed at him. Reality gripped him bit by bit, squeezing his body like a vise. For the first time since he had arrived, Roy seemed to truly understand just how close he was to death.

And indeed, the poor wretch—a victim of a beating, and worse—was a man in his forties, wrapped in a lab coat that must have once been white. Now, however, that whiteness survived only in patches, choked by dark stains, dried streaks, and reddish halos that told different stories: partly the blood of the patients who had passed through there before him, and partly, without a doubt, his own. It was still dripping from his nose, which was swollen and crooked, reduced to such a state that it looked as if someone had lingered on it longer than necessary. His eyebrow was split, his lips torn in two places, swollen and glossy, while one eye, grotesquely bruised, was now reduced to a purplish slit.

The other facial features were almost impossible to distinguish. Everything had been deformed by the blows: the blood, the sweat, the taut skin, the harsh shadows cast by the neon light above him. Nothing remained but a mop of medium-length black hair, completely disheveled and plastered to his forehead in damp strands. His breath came in gasps, short and irregular, with a small, choked rattle every time he tried to swallow.

The American could have easily noticed that attached to the collar of the man—now lying down and forced to remain on the medical cot in the center of the room—was the hand of a heavily-built woman. She wasn't simply holding him still: she was pinning him there, as if his body no longer had any right to decide where it belonged. Her fingers, clenched in the fabric of the coat, had yanked the collar until it was deformed, almost as if she intended to tear it off.

The woman wore a black shirt with the sleeves rolled up to her forearms. Across one of them, bare and tense from the exertion, ran a long, pale scar, old enough to have healed poorly, but not enough to have been forgotten. Her dark blonde hair was short and styled into rigid strands with gel or molding paste; despite this, a few tips strayed forward, slightly out of place, as if they too had taken part in the violence of just moments before.

Her face was angular, hard, marked by another scar that furrowed her entire left cheek. It began just below the eye and descended along the skin with an almost cruel precision, turning into a sort of involuntary decoration. Her eyes, an extremely pale blue, were framed by light makeup, now slightly smudged at the corners. There was no blind rage in that gaze. There was something worse: control, irritation, a cold impatience, as if the doctor were not a person, but a defective object that stubbornly refused to work.

Over her shirt, she wore a pair of dark leather shoulder holsters, with her pistols tucked into place. A yellow tie with a tortoiseshell pattern, loosened and crooked, hung over her chest like the only detail almost out of place amidst that composition of leather, blood, and metal. Her black leather gloves, still soiled, caught the neon light in flashes. On her legs, she wore elegant black trousers and a pair of Oxford shoes of the same color, clean enough to make it clear that the blood hadn't reached that far by chance, but by choice.

She continued to hold the doctor down firmly, but she had stopped beating him. Not out of mercy. She had stopped only because the calm, though faintly irritated, words of another man by her side had forced her to.

The man stood a bit further back; he was shorter than her, but no less present because of it. On the contrary, he seemed to occupy the room with a more dangerous naturalness, as if he had no need to raise his voice or lift a finger to be obeyed. He, too, had the left side of his face decorated by several scars, more numerous and irregular. They crossed his cheek, his forehead, and even his eye—still functioning—which, beneath those pale lines, retained a sharp, clear, and alert gaze. He wore a short beard, a goatee, and a longer, well-groomed mustache. His eyes held emerald reflections, cold and deep.

His figure was slender yet powerful, enhanced by the cut of a single-breasted red jacket that gave prominence to his shoulders and lengthened the line of his body. Underneath, he wore a black shirt made of a lightweight, almost sheer material that offered a glimpse of his physique and the ink of the tattoos on his torso. A gold chain vanished and reappeared just beneath the fabric, catching the sickly reflection of the lights for an instant. The elegant trousers, wide and made of the same color and material as the jacket, fell softly over his legs, ending above a pair of square-toed, black suede loafers.

He made a calm gesture, inviting the woman to stop. The movement of his hand was slow, almost bored, yet enough to impose a limit. In doing so, he flashed a gold ring on his left pinky finger: an heraldic crest was engraved on its surface, small but unmistakable—the kind worn not as an ornament, but as a statement of who one is.

If Towan had entered—precisely to prevent the doctor from crossing the blue threshold—he could have finally observed the inside of the clinic more closely. It had not been born as such. It had been carved out of an old utility room, perhaps a warehouse, perhaps a forgotten room beneath some more respectable business. The walls still bore the anonymous imprint of places adapted in a hurry: replastered surfaces, corners hidden by furniture too large for the available space, exposed pipes left where no one had bothered to hide them.

There was a medical cot with cracked padding, slashed in several places and patched up as best as possible with strips of clear adhesive tape, now yellowed by time. Above it, an adjustable lamp hung slightly to the side, like a tired eye forced to look at everything. A steel cart occupied the space next to the cot; its wheels had left marks on the floor, and instruments lay on the metallic surface, arranged with a precision too rigid to seem reassuring. A few locked cabinets filled one wall, bearing faded and scratched labels that were impossible to read.

The equipment was not improvised, but it wasn't modern either. There were machines salvaged from private facilities, instruments sealed in packages without legible labels, boxes of medications with writing in different languages. Everything seemed bought second-hand, stolen, or made to disappear from some inventory with the complicity of someone who knew how to leave no tracks. It wasn't the clutter that stood out, because there was no clutter. It was the suspicious quality of that order. Everything seemed to be in its proper place, but no place seemed truly legitimate.

In a corner, a laboratory refrigerator hummed relentlessly. The sound was low, continuous, persistent, and it seeped beneath the other noises: the doctor's broken breathing, the creaking of the cot, the faint creak of leather gloves every time the woman adjusted her grip. Next to the refrigerator stood a wheelchair, abandoned askew, a gas cylinder secured to the wall with a chain, and a medical waste container closed too quickly, as if someone had preferred not to look at what was inside.

The floor had been recently washed. You could tell. The tiles reflected the light unevenly, still marked by the passes of the mop. But between the crevices of the grout remained dark, thin, stubborn stains—smudges that no longer belonged to the present, and which no amount of bleach seemed to have managed to erase completely. The neon light above the cot made everything look paler: the skin, the hands, the disposable sheets, the faces of those who entered. It wasn't a light that truly illuminated. It stripped things bare.

Beyond a sliding door lay a small recovery room. Two camp beds, thin curtains hanging from metal tracks, a poorly folded blanket, and an old monitor set on an unstable small table. The screen was off, black, but it still bore fingerprints and scratches along the frame. There were no call buttons to summon help, no names on the beds, no medical charts, nor any windows large enough to let in more than a sliver of air. Only a high, dirty basement window allowed a gray, tired light to filter through, not enough to give a real sense of the outside world.

The worst detail wasn't the dirt, because the place wasn't dirty. It was the coldness. Everything seemed set up to last only for a short time: ready-made suitcases, sealed boxes, absent documents, surfaces easy to wipe clean. A clinic designed not to heal, but to disappear before anyone could prove it had ever existed. That place did not promise salvation. It promised discretion. And in a city of sin, discretion was often just another name for damnation.

The smell was typical of basements trying to seem sterile without ever truly succeeding: bleach, latex gloves, stagnant humidity, and something metallic that no detergent could entirely cover up. Beneath it all, imperceptible yet present, was the warm, human smell of fear. It didn’t belong only to the doctor. It had lingered in the air, accumulated over time, absorbed by the curtains, the sheets, the cracks in the wall.

So, there was nothing left to do but offer one's services, speak carefully chosen words, and take away what was necessary for the newcomer in that corrupt city. Or, at the very least, that would have been the most sensible plan. Walk in, assess, speak only as much as strictly necessary, and leave with what was required.

And yet, that is not how it went.

As soon as Towan crossed the threshold of the room, a figure hidden behind one side of the door lunged at him with brutal swiftness. He had no time to turn or understand. One hand gripped his wrist, the other shoved him hard, and in an instant, he found himself with his arm twisted behind his back, pinned in an unnatural position—painful enough to take his breath away, but not enough to make him lose his focus. His body hit the wall with a sharp thud. His cheek brushed against the cold surface, rough in some spots, damp in others. For a moment, he felt nothing but the impact, then the weight of the attacker behind him, the held breath, the pounding of his own heart echoing in his ears.

The French-speaker suffered no particular pain or injury, nothing he couldn't bear. Only the blow, the wounded pride, and that unpleasant intimacy with the wall, too sudden to be ignored. He couldn't see who was holding him down. He could feel their grip, though: firm, experienced, without hesitation. Someone who wasn't improvising.

The man in red and the woman stared at him from beneath those pale, deathly lights. Not with surprise. Not entirely. Rather, with a wary, calculated attention, as if Towan's entrance had interrupted something but might also prove useful. The woman didn't let go of the doctor, though her fingers slightly loosened their grip on his collar. The man on the cot coughed, or perhaps tried to speak, but only a wet, choked sound came from his throat.

The man dressed in red approached Towan with slow steps. Every movement seemed calibrated to betray nothing: no haste, no nervousness, no surprise. He stopped a short distance away from him, close enough to invade his personal space, but not so much as to appear impulsive. He studied him in silence. First his eyes, then his posture.

With his right index finger, he gently lowered Towan's mask. The gesture was almost gentle.

He remained silent for a few more seconds, as if he wanted to allow himself the pleasure of observing the newcomer's face before deciding what to do with him. The hum of the refrigerator filled the space between them. Somewhere, a drop fell onto a metallic surface with a minimal but distinct sound.

Only then did the man's voice, slightly promiscuous and hoarse, reach the unfortunate man's ears.

- Unfortunately, the clinic is currently closed, my young friend. You have arrived at a truly terrible time: the doctor is currently… unable to work, as well as to speak, for now. Did you need something?

The sentence was spoken with a courtesy so controlled it was almost offensive. Every word seemed carefully chosen, polished, laid out like a blade on a table. There was no explicit threat in his tone, yet the threat was everywhere: in the room, in the bleeding doctor, in the hand pinning Towan down, in the gold ring catching the light as the man still brushed the edge of the mask.

Then, a scream shattered the fragile calm that had settled over the room.

- You miserable son of a bitch, don't you dare die before answering our questions!

The woman had shouted at the doctor, giving him a slight shake. Her face, which until a moment before had been kept under fierce control, flared with a more open rage. The doctor flinched on the cot but lacked the strength to react. His lips trembled. A trickle of blood slid from his nose to the corner of his mouth.

The man dressed in red turned toward her and sighed loudly.

He didn't seem frightened by the outburst, nor surprised. He simply seemed bored. This interrogation, apparently, had been going on for too long, and not the way he would have wanted. Calm returned to his face as quickly as it had cracked, but a harder shadow passed through his emerald eyes.

- I told you to let him breathe, - he said in a low voice, his patience now wearing thin.

The woman stared at him for a moment, her hand still clenched around the doctor's collar. Then she clenched her jaw, inhaled through her nose, and forced herself to slightly loosen her grip. Not enough to free him. Just enough to show that she had listened.

When Shiro got out of the car, the slam of the door seemed to cut through the tense air that had built up between the two factions.

Some of his men remained inside the vehicles, motionless, their hands ready and their eyes fixed straight ahead. They knew perfectly well that, at that moment, the only orders to follow were those of the Asian man, certainly not those of the cop facing them down. Others, however, cracked their doors open just enough to use them as cover, positioning their bodies behind the glass and bulletproof metal. No one made a movement wider than necessary. No one tried to appear braver than needed.

It was precisely that coldness, that almost instinctive foresight, that kept Roy’s men from losing control entirely. The police kept them at gunpoint, sure, but they did so with a taut, fragile calm, like a rope ready to snap. Fingers were close to triggers, eyes narrowed, jaws clenched. It wouldn't take much. A wrong move, a faster step, a hand slipped into a jacket, and that night could have filled with gunfire.

The man commanding the unit approached Shiro with a slow, controlled pace. His issued boots made the pebbles crunch under his soles. Every step had a precise, almost calculated weight, as if he wanted to remind everyone who, at least on paper, was in charge there.

Shiro got a better look at him now that the cop was no longer just a silhouette swallowed by the white beams of the headlights. He had a sharp, rectangular face, hard as a door slammed one too many times. His gaze was icy, steady, weighed down by years of poorly suppressed anger. His long, broken nose cut across his face unevenly, its crooked bridge telling the story of at least one old fight, maybe more, without needing any words. His beard was short but untrimmed: a rough, two-day stubble darkened his jaw and neck. His hair, short and graying, was buzz-cut—practical, with no concessions to elegance.

He wasn't a particularly tall man, maybe five-foot-nine, no more. He had a stocky, broad build, a bit heavy with age and too many donuts washed down in the car during endless shifts. And yet, beneath that layer of neglect, the muscle was still there. You could sense it in his shoulders, in his neck, in the way he kept his arms slightly flared, ready to react. He carried that almost stereotypical scowl from an old cop movie, something reminiscent of Inspector Callahan, but with less charm and much more exhaustion. His thick eyebrows drooped over his pale eyes, almost hiding them, making his gaze seem even heavier.

He stopped a couple of meters from Shiro. Not close enough to grab him, not far enough to seem cautious. It was a deliberately chosen distance, the kind that said: I could arrest you, but first I want to enjoy the look on your face.

He slowly lowered the megaphone. When he spoke, his voice came out raspy, hoarse, fouled by smoke and nights spent shouting orders.

- I’ll tell you what you can do for me, kid.

The words came out in an almost amused tone, but there was nothing cheerful about his expression.

- We know damn well that where you just came from, a major drug deal went down. We even caught that maggot Craig red-handed. We took a real nice photo shoot of him.

He chuckled for a few moments. A dry, unpleasant laugh, devoid of any real joy. Then he coughed, bringing a hand to his mouth, as if his throat had suddenly filled with the residue of too many cigarettes smoked back-to-back. When he lowered his hand, the smile was already gone.

- But obviously, to make a deal, it takes two parties…

He left the sentence hanging for a moment, savoring the silence. Behind him, the cops still weren’t moving, but the air around them seemed to have grown thicker. Dirtier. More dangerous.

- And it really looked like the boss of one of those parties was wearing a damn nice fur coat. Just like the one you're wearing.

The cop’s eyes slid over Shiro’s fur coat with a mix of contempt and satisfaction. Then they snapped back to his face.

- But, as it turns out, that guy had Hispanic features. Which you don't exactly seem to have.

His tone dropped lower. Sharper.

- So I'm only going to ask you once, pretty boy. Where the hell is your boss?

At those words, something shifted in the man’s eyes. It was no longer just suspicion, nor simple arrogance. It was resentment. An old, festering resentment that had lingered beneath the skin long enough to become personal.

- We still have some unfinished business…

He almost snarled it. For a brief second, his gaze flicked down toward his own shoulder—the one damaged during that fateful night. The gesture lasted only a fraction of a second, but it was enough. Enough to make it clear that he wasn't just speaking as a cop. There was an open account there. A pain never digested. Perhaps even a wound to his pride, deeper than the one in his flesh.

- You know… I still haven't thanked him properly.

The silence that followed was heavy. Shiro could hear the distant hum of the engines still running, the held breath of his men, the faint creaking of the car doors being used as shields. Every sound seemed amplified, as if the world around them had shrunk to those few meters of gravel, headlights, and aimed weapons.

Then the cop whipped his head around toward his men.

The movement was quick, sharp. A signal.

Instantly, the police began to advance slowly. They didn't run. They didn't need to. They moved with caution, weapons raised, short and synchronized steps. The circle was tightening bit by bit, without haste, but with constant pressure. It was the kind of advance that didn't leave many ways out.

The cop turned back to face Shiro.

- My daughter is sorry to have to blow up your deal…

The sentence came out with a fake, almost theatrical calm. As if he were reciting a rehearsed line. But beneath that hoarse voice, beneath that lawman facade, lay something much more sinister.

- But you see, we have to clean up this city thoroughly. We can't leave a single corner untouched.

He took another half-step forward. The gravel crunched under his weight.

- So, why don't you tell us where your boss is?

He tilted his head slightly, as if he were offering Shiro a favor. As if this were an actual negotiation and not a threat dressed up as a question.

- That way, at least you and your little friends can go home safe and sound.

His gaze hardened even further.

- Not everyone has to be left out of the deal…

As the battered asphalt continued to roll beneath the three cars—alien sights in the landscape they found themselves in—Rey now listened in silence, a faint smile rippling across the scars that covered his face. A hellish place, yet full of hope for the world’s fugitives? It certainly sounded like a curious spot, but definitely not one suited for someone like him, especially at a time in his life that had taken such a heavy toll on both his body and mind. He let out a silent laugh at the comment about his eyesight, restricting himself to a smile, as the woman was sitting completely in his blind spot.

- Don't worry, Ruff. I’ve had a few years of practice avoiding old ladies on crosswalks by now. You're in safe hands with me behind the wheel!

Finally, the cars turned onto a well-paved, better-maintained, and significantly wider road, now with a single lane in each direction. Rising more clearly before them was the ancient city of Naples, characterized by the modern skyscrapers of the financial district. They stood like a shield before the colorful buildings and palazzi that made up the heart of the city, from which the vibrant domes of centuries-old churches scattered across the territory would peek out from time to time. The smile on Rey’s face grew noticeably wider.

- So, this legendary Torn City sounds like a truly paradoxical place: riddled with death at every corner, yet magnanimous enough to serve as a final harbor for the desperate... don't take offense if I say I don't envy you! Though I must admit, living in a place like that definitely builds character. Here in Naples, life... just flows. Sure, it has the usual problems that plague any big city, but without the risk of getting slaughtered while taking a stroll!

A brief, fleeting grimace crossed the Neapolitan's face, likely caught off guard by some memory that threatened to contradict his words. Had Shiro glanced at him through the rearview mirror, he might have noticed that the gesture mirrored the very same grimaces Sal used to make.

- Well, at least not that often... but don't worry, you’re safe as houses with us!

This time, the man's voice was slightly less cheerful, subtly concealing a note of melancholy brought on by the necessary adjustment to his description of the city.

- To your disappointment, the place where you’ll be staying is far from the city center, at least on foot. It’s secluded, but very charming, trust me! And to answer your question...

He nodded in the woman's direction, choosing not to take his only available hand off the steering wheel.

- Aside from being your tour guide, I’ll be head of security where you’ll be staying for the next month or so. Don't worry, it'll fly by. In fact, I'll tell you more: you won't even want to leave once the job is done!

There he was again, slipping back into that tour-guide tone of voice used to trap clueless tourists experiencing the Mediterranean city for the first time.

- And unless you're planning on staying awake all night, I strongly advise against a cappuccino after dinner! At most, a nice digestive made from local liqueurs. Have you ever tried limoncello? You’re going to fall in love with it!

And so Rey began to talk about places to visit, picturesque alleys, and dishes so succulent just hearing them described made your mouth water. All of this, however, was seasoned with a few tips on how to avoid tourist traps, and occasionally interspersed with minor complaints about how the current administration was running the city. It’s a small world after all, isn’t it?

After a good 40 minutes in the car—prolonged by city traffic, the lawlessness of various drivers parked completely ad cazzum, and squeegee men looking for a few coins under the pretext of washing windshields with questionably clean rags and fluid—they finally left the heart of the city behind, eased by the presence of the sea welcoming them with its brilliance. They began heading upward, toward the houses clinging to the ledges, into the neighborhoods that were both literally and metaphorically high up.

- We’re almost there, ladies and gentlemen! I think Guiscard chose a truly beautiful location for your stay!

And the facts were quick to back up the driver's words: the convoy of cars turned into a driveway in front of a green-painted metal gate. It was framed by two pillars, the right one bearing a marble plaque with the name "Elisa." For the moment at least, the passengers could only see tall trees and the sea peeking through the shrubs. The automatic gate swung open and the cars resumed their drive, taking a very steep path paved with red stone and lined by low white walls. Finally, the villa came into view before their eyes in all its opulence.

The villa rose over the cliff with an irregular and majestic structure, as if it had been added to piece by piece over the years, following the capricious shape of the rock. It didn't have the compact look of a city palazzo; it was a complex, articulated building made of overlapping terraces, loggias, balconies, and projecting sections, all facing the sea.

The facade, a warm, slightly rosy white, bore the marks of the sun and the sea salt. The walls were tall and smooth, interrupted by narrow windows, French doors, and large arched openings. Some windows were shielded by green curtains, while others looked as though they had been closed for a long time, dark and still. The green of the fixtures and curtains created an elegant contrast with the light plaster, giving the villa an ancient, Mediterranean, almost aristocratic air.

The upper section was the most orderly and stately. A light-colored balustrade ran along the flat roof, resembling a panoramic terrace. From up there, one could dominate the entire gulf: the sea ahead, the sky above, the coast behind. The roof wasn't pointed or imposing, but low and squared, with chimneys and small utility structures barely breaking the horizontal line of the building.

Looking further down, the villa grew more complex. The floors didn't seem perfectly aligned; some recessed while others jutted out over the drop, creating open terraces and outdoor walkways. Each level had its own outlook, a railing, a balcony, or a small porch. On the left side, the structure descended along the cliffside with a series of semicircular balconies and white arches that seemed almost suspended over the sea. They looked like panoramic galleries, places designed for sitting in silence and listening to the waves.

In the center of the villa opened a large, bright, terracotta-colored courtyard. It was bordered by low balustrades and pots filled with plants resistant to the sea wind. That terrace felt like the outdoor heart of the residence: a space for summer dinners, anticipation, private encounters, but above all, for their arrival.

The base of the building was the most impressive part. It didn't rest on flat ground, but directly on the raw, yellow, weathered cliffside, which was full of cavities and layers worn away by the water. The villa seemed to cling to the rock with walls, arches, and terraces, adapting to the drop rather than correcting it. It looked fragile and powerful at the same time: vulnerable because it was exposed to the sea, yet stubborn, as if no storm had ever managed to budge it.

On the right flank, a narrow road cut through the vegetation and the rock face, reaching almost to the house. From there, the villa appeared more private, almost hidden, protected by the trees and the slope. Maritime pines grew around the building with bent trunks and irregular crowns, brushing against balconies and windows. They weren't just decorative; they seemed like part of the structure itself, as if they had been helping the house resist the wind for years.

And then there was the staircase. Long, steep, and embedded in the cliffside, it descended from the terrace with narrow, austere steps. Rather than a simple path down to the sea, it looked like a secret passage.

The cars therefore slowly made their way down the tree-hidden road, giving the three of them plenty of time to admire the charm of the building that would shield them from the chaos of the city. The vehicles came to a gentle halt in the aforementioned courtyard, right next to the villa's main entrance.

- And here we are, gentlemen—Villa Elisa is all ready to host you and to turn this business trip into a bit of a pleasure cruise! I’d suggest you get comfortable in your rooms and unpack your bags. Maybe even get a little rest before dinner, so we can talk more calmly about what we know regarding the 'job.' Plus, we’re going to need a new member for the team, given the unfortunate mishap with your escort.

With that smile still on his face, he quickly got out of the car, walked around, and opened the door for the woman sitting beside him. This high-end treatment, however, was also extended to the other two men, whose doors were opened for them—a luxury service that was definitely unexpected. Rey's men quickly began carrying the luggage inside the house.

- The villa features several balconies and a terrace that looks directly out over the sea. Your rooms are upstairs, each with its own en-suite bathroom. Your complexions suggest you aren't big fans of tanning, but if you want to go for a swim or simply enjoy the sea breeze, there are stairs that lead down to a private beach. So, we'll meet back up tonight around nine o'clock on the main terrace. We'll dine there, with the evening breeze and the melody of the sea. Until then, make yourselves at home and don't hesitate to call if you need anything. I’ll be with the others setting up arrangements in the living room.

And with that, the scarred man took his leave for the time being, disappearing behind the large front door that welcomed the guests within its walls. The heat was noticeable now, and the salty air clung to them like an unwelcome embrace; however, had the three of them stepped through the doorway, they would have happily discovered that the entire house was air-conditioned—pleasantly cool, and above all, free of the humidity that was making it hard to breathe properly.

The bedrooms were on the upper floor, along a wide, quiet hallway where the white walls reflected the light of the sea even in the late afternoon hours. The floor, made of perfectly preserved light-colored tiles, felt cool and clean underfoot. Through the tall windows drifted the salty scent of Posillipo, along with the distant sound of boats and the continuous chirping of cicadas.

In the center of the room stood a white-painted, wrought-iron bed with an elegant headboard featuring soft, harmonious lines. Atop it, ivory-colored linen sheets and a light blanket were neatly arranged. On either side of the bed, two nightstands in polished dark wood with small brass knobs held a lamp with a cream fabric shade and a finely crafted silver frame.

Against the longest wall stood a substantial walnut wardrobe, solid and perfectly integrated into the space as if it had been designed right along with the house. Inside, the scent of wood and lavender mingled with that of carefully stored clothes. Next to the window, a 1940s vanity table with an oval mirror reflected glimpses of the sea, the sky, and curtains swaying in the wind.

The furniture possessed a sober and refined character: solid wood chests of drawers, well-preserved wicker-bottomed chairs, wide and bright mirrors, elegant trunks at the foot of the bed, and polished brass handles. The curtains, light and luminous, allowed a clear, diffused light to filter through, accentuating every detail of the decor.

At night, with the shutters left ajar, the room took on an even more evocative charm. The white of the walls became veiled in shades of blue, the iron of the bed cast dark silhouettes against the walls, and the sea, invisible beyond the garden, seemed to breathe inside the house. Everything retained the character of a timeless elegance, suspended between the discreet luxury of another era and the refined tranquility of estates overlooking the sea.

An en-suite bathroom was connected to each bedroom, accessible through an internal door that integrated seamlessly into the room. The doors, lacquered in the same white as the walls, featured polished brass handles and slim, elegant frames, hinting at the meticulous care with which every detail of the villa had been designed.

The bathrooms were spacious and bright, feeling more like private lounges than mere utility rooms. White dominated here as well, but it was far from cold: it was the white of light marble, glazed ceramics, perfectly folded towels, and the light that streamed through the tall windows, reflecting off the polished surfaces.

The light marble flooring extended all the way to the bathtub, which was understatedly built into the wall, while the white ceramic sink rested on a veined marble countertop. Next to the tub, each bathroom also featured a spacious shower lined with glossy white tiles or marble, enclosed by transparent glass panels that allowed the light to pass through without disrupting the harmony of the space. Above the sink, a large mirror with a gilded frame expanded the room, catching the reflections of the sea drifting in from the bedroom. The fixtures, in brass or chromed metal, boasted classic and refined lines, solid to the touch like everything else in that house.

Each bathroom thus offered both the convenience of a shower and the slower pleasure of a bath, both perfectly integrated into the environment. Beside the sinks stood ceramic soap dishes, thick glass tumblers, wide mirrors, and side sconces that diffused a warm, soft, almost boutique-hotel-like light.

So, how would our heroes decide to spend their time before the dinner-meeting?

Hey guys, is the heat wearing you down and you're looking for an excuse to stay inside where it's cool? Why not join us? We would be more than happy to help you stay cool!

That night in Torn City, the heat didn't just hang in the air—it clung to you. It crawled under your clothes, slid down your spine, and glued your shirt to your skin like a second skin of guilt. It was one of those filthy, stagnant heats that offered no relief even after sunset, seeming to rise straight out of the cracked asphalt, the storm drains, and the rotting walls of the buildings. It was as if the sentence of having to live in that God-forsaken hole always found new ways to make itself felt: in the sweat, in the rancid stench of the alleys, in the nervous buzz of half-dead neon signs, and in the constant feeling that something was wrong just behind your back.

An interesting rumor had reached Towan's ears.

One of the city's many back-alley doctors—the kind of people with no sign, no license, and no questions asked—was in urgent need of liquidity. Hard cash, fast, untraceable. That was why he was getting rid of old medical equipment: irons, examination tables, cabinets, surgical instruments, and other gear that, according to the source who passed the tip, was still in more than decent condition. Not new stuff, of course. In Torn City, nothing was truly new, not even the wounds. But it was usable, and for Towan, that was enough.

For a man who had just arrived in the city, this could be an opportunity. Not a stroke of luck, no. In Torn City, luck had a nasty habit of showing up with a blade hidden up its sleeve. But it could be a start. A first brick. The foundation on which to build, quietly and discreetly, his future underground clinic. A place to patch up criminals, dig out bullets, stitch up gashes, and sell silence along with bandages. A place where the Hippocratic Oath would have a price, and not a particularly cheap one either.

Following the directions he’d been given, Towan crossed the city's east side on foot. He walked at a steady pace, without rushing and without lingering too long, keeping his eyes open and his hands close enough to his pockets so as not to look like an easy target. At that hour, Torn City shed its skin. The faint pretense of legality that the daytime residents stubbornly tried to feign was swallowed by the shadows, and from those shadows emerged the rest—the real city, the one that didn't need to put on an act.

Small-time fences lingered on street corners, briefly flashing the glint of watches, necklaces, rings, and various trinkets before making them vanish again under oversized coats or inside battered briefcases. They had quick smiles, nervous eyes, and hands constantly in motion. A little further ahead, a few prostitutes tried to touch up their makeup using cracked compact mirrors and dark shop windows for a reflection. Their lipstick smudged, sweat ate away at their foundation, but they kept going anyway, with a tired, angry dignity. They put on display what little they had left that could still fetch enough for a room, a meal, a fix, or simply another day to drag into the next.

Then there were the dealers of forbidden substances—forbidden at least on paper, which in Torn City was worth less than toilet paper. They leaned against the walls, looking like they weren't waiting for anyone but watching everyone arrive. A glance, a nod, a half-smile, and they became old friends. They called you brother, boss, doctor, soldier—whatever it took to get you to step closer. One of them followed Towan for about ten yards, as persistent as a mosquito.

- Compound X, friend. Clean stuff. Opens up your mind and brings you back to life!

Towan didn't slow down. The man drew almost level with him, keeping up his chatter in that thin, sticky voice, listing improbable benefits and even more improbable promises. He claimed it wasn't addictive, that underground boxers used it before fights, that a single drop was enough to feel God breathing inside your skull. Towan brushed him off with a sharp shove of his shoulder, without really looking at him.

The dealer spat on the ground and shouted something after him that got lost in the noise of the street.

Finally, the American reached the back entrance of one of the many anonymous buildings on the east side. It was a narrow, tall tenement, its facade blackened by smog and neglect. The windows looked like blind eyes. Some were bricked up, others covered by yellowed curtains or plastic bags taped into place. In the back, the metal door was scratched, dented, and stained with rust along the edges.

Towan tried the handle.

Locked.

Then he pushed gently. It wasn't locked. The door opened with a low, metallic groan, almost as if annoyed. Beyond it, a narrow corridor led to a staircase winding down into the belly of the building. The instructions had been clear: enter from the back, go all the way down, ask no useless questions.

The air inside was different. Colder, but no better for it. It smelled of mold, old bleach, damp iron, and something sweetish he didn't want to identify right away. He inhaled slowly, then began his descent.

Every step gave a little moan under the weight of his tread. The hallway lights flickered above him, half-blown, turning on and off at irregular intervals. At times, the stairs vanished almost completely, leaving him to move forward in a dense twilight, broken only by sickly, yellowish streaks. Along the walls, the moisture had drawn dark stains resembling bruises. Here and there on the floor, puddles of dubious origin spread out, stagnant and oily, reflecting the light for an instant before turning black again.

That was when he heard the noises.

At first, they were faint, muffled. Distant thuds, like something being beaten against a mattress or against cloth-covered flesh. For a few seconds, he heard nothing but the hum of the lights and the steady beat of his own heart. Then came another thud, sharper.

It wasn't a dropped object. It wasn't a slammed door. It was a blow. And after the blow, a smothered groan.

Curiosity had crawled into his stomach, but along with it came something else: prudence, perhaps; or that subtle presentiment that separates an opportunity from a trap. Every step downward made those sounds clearer. Sharp thuds, ragged breaths, a hiss of pain choked off before it could even become a scream. Someone was beating some poor soul methodically, without rushing, the way you handle a job that needs to be done right.

When he reached the bottom landing, the noises stopped. Not gradually. All at once.

Before him stood a heavy, armored door, painted a dull gray. It was ajar. Through the thin crack between the door and the frame filtered a blade of whitish light—cold, too clean for that place. From inside, low murmurs emerged. A man's voice, irritated and worried at the same time, was speaking fast. Another answered with something Towan couldn't make out.

There was a smell of disinfectant. Stronger now. But underneath, poorly hidden, lay the metallic tang of blood.

The silence around him seemed to have grown heavier, as if the entire building were holding its breath along with him. He had come to buy surgical irons, examination tables, and old equipment. He had come to give a first body to his project. Not to stumble into a beating, a settling of scores, or whatever else might end with his name written in the wrong place.

And yet, there he was. Just inches away from the answer.

What would Towan do now? Would he feed that curiosity which had so often opened forbidden doors, leading men sharper than him to believe they were immortal? Would he find, beyond that threshold, the very opportunity that had brought him down into this hole beneath the city? Or would he burn his wings attempting to fly too close to a light that, in Torn City, never shone without demanding something in return?

He listened in silence to Vahan’s report about the cars that, apparently, were indeed waiting for them at the mouth of the alley—or, in their case, at its exit. Every word seemed to tighten around him like a belt pulled too tight. Salazar slightly squeezed the hand Shira had left near his, almost without realizing it, while his brows furrowed even deeper and his forehead lined with tense, deep creases. When he, too, reached the same conclusion, there was no more room for self-deception. They were Sarah's men. They couldn't be anyone else.

He sighed softly, almost holding his breath until the very last useful second, when he realized that his beloved had followed the exact same line of reasoning. He averted his gaze for a moment, letting it wander around the car's interior: over the dirty reflections on the windows, over the unstable shadows sliding across their faces every time they passed under a dying light in the alley. His mind began to race faster than the engine. He was looking for a way out, a mistake, any crack in that trap that was about to close around them.

Then, the Asian man’s voice broke the silence. Salazar turned toward him immediately, as if that sound had physically torn him away from his own thoughts. He gave him his full attention, no longer giving in to the panic that was trying to claw its way beneath his skin.

When Shiro put his option on the table, Salazar raised an eyebrow, curious and wary at the same time. He didn't really intend to interrupt him, at least not right away; yet the simple gesture of a finger placed against his lips was enough to surprise him. He remained silent for a few seconds, more out of astonishment than obedience, as a faint flush crept up his cheeks. He felt almost embarrassed by how little it had taken to quiet him.

He listened to the first part of the plan, and as much as it pained him to admit it, he had to acknowledge that it could work. It was quick, clean, even elegant. But the idea of using his beloved as bait left a bitter taste in his mouth. It felt natural to want to counter, to object, to say something. Anything.

Or at least, he would have tried, if the technomancer’s hand hadn't moved from that single finger on his lips to a much firmer grip. Now Shiro’s entire hand covered his muzzle with a quiet firmness, completely preventing him from making a sound. The Mediterranean man’s flush deepened.

And along with the certainty that he had to let the Asian man speak to the end, came another realization. A much less comfortable one. Being handled like that, silenced with that calm authority, held without real violence but without any chance of reply, stirred decidedly... conflicting feelings within him.

The problem was, he didn't manage to hide it well enough. Shiro probably noticed it, too. And Salazar, deep down, cursed himself a little for letting that hidden side show, right at a moment when he should have appeared solely lucid, cold, and in control of the situation.

So he let his partner finish the explanation, like it or not, while he tried to mull over the plan of action that had just been laid out.

In fact, the police officer wouldn't bend the law to that extent just to see him dead. No. Sarah wanted him alive. She wanted him behind bars, along with his men, preferably with enough evidence to pin him down once and for all. And if she only found part of the group, if she arrested the others without getting her hands on him, she would be forced to halt, at least for the time being. She would already have enough individuals in custody to manage, enough noise, enough bureaucracy, enough eyes on her.

Salazar would have time to assemble a legal team. To gather bail money. To clean up what he could and patch up the rest. Even if it meant sacrificing the entire haul from that evening.

The damage would be far more contained if they followed Shiro’s plan.

"Damn it."

The thought crossed his mind through gritted teeth, torn right down the middle between wonder at his beloved's impeccable quickness and the burning frustration of being forced to use the owner of his heart to save himself.

When he felt himself guided by Shiro’s hand, when that plan was sealed by a fleeting, tender kiss, Salazar gently closed his eyes. He allowed himself only a few seconds. Very few. Just the time needed to let everything wash over him: the fear, the trust, the risk, the love, that annoying helplessness clawing at his chest.

Then he took a deep breath.

- You are so irresistible when you act like this…

A faint, slightly sad expression passed over his lips, like a hairline crack in his mask. His brow furrowed for an instant, too, before the boss returned to his place, sharp and composed like a blade returned to its sheath.

He unmuted the phone. The voice he spoke with no longer held any of the fragility from a few seconds prior.

- Stop the convoy immediately.

He ended the call.

Within about ten seconds, all the cars ground to a sudden halt. The tires groaned against the damp asphalt, the chassis swayed slightly, and the passengers inside jolted forward. For an instant, inside the car, everything seemed suspended.

Then it was Sal who leaned toward his beloved, returning a light kiss on his lips. Brief, but loaded with everything he couldn't afford to say.

- I'll come get you even if you're on the moon, but please... be careful.

He quickly slipped the fur-lined coat off his shoulders, ridding himself of that elegant but impractical burden. The cold bit into his arms and neck immediately, but he paid it no mind. He swiftly grabbed the two metal briefcases, feeling their weight pull at the muscles in his hands, and stepped out of the car.

The alley air hit him, foul with gasoline, dampness, and tension.

- Everyone in the back seats, get out now. With me on the roofs. The rest stay in the cars and proceed toward the exit of the alley.

The men hesitated for a second. It was a brief hesitation, but noticeable: glances crossing, doors half-opened, hands frozen on the seats. They didn't understand the reasoning behind the order, and perhaps for that very reason, fear began to creep among them. But no one dared to object.

One after another, they climbed out of the cars and approached Salazar.

He, meanwhile, moved toward the window where Vahan was sitting. The glass was already rolled all the way down so the man could hear better. Salazar leaned in slightly, locking eyes with him.

- Do everything Mr. Amashiro tells you. Clear?

The mixed-race man nodded vigorously. His expression had turned hard, resolute, as if that single order had given a precise shape to his fear.

- Count on us.

Salazar returned the nod. He didn't add anything else. There was no need.

He stepped away from the car and gestured for the rest of the convoy to move out.

The cars, emptier now, started moving again along that green mile of concrete, shadows, and choked headlights. If Shiro had leaned out of the window, he would have seen the figures of his beloved and his bodyguards retreating into the shadows to the side, swallowed little by little by the walls, the fire escapes, and the night.

For a fraction of a second, the technomancer might have caught Salazar’s expression.

It was worried.

Not overtly terrified, not broken, not weak. But shot through with a genuine, almost naked tension that the boss would never show in front of his men. It lasted only a split second. The time of a blink, because the cars had already picked up speed and the darkness had closed over him again.

Just as Vahan had said, it took them about a minute and a half to pull up in front of the police cruisers.

The emergency lights were flashing.

The blue and red bounced off the narrow walls of the alley, cutting through the darkness at regular intervals, turning every face into an intermittent mask. The police officers were stationed beside their cars, weapons drawn and aimed toward the exit of the alley. The scene possessed something unreal yet inevitable, as if that road had always been leading them there.

During that short drive, Shiro would have had enough time to explain the plan to the men left at his disposal. Even the car that had stayed in the rear had caught up with them, tailing the convoy and completing that small formation destined to take the hit.

In front of them stood four law enforcement officers, all in bulletproof vests, all armed with assault rifles. They didn't look like agents sent there to improvise. They were prepared. Heavily prepared. Ready for whatever the criminals were planning to try.

Among them, however, Sarah was nowhere to be seen.

She was likely busy leading the main group, the one tasked with capturing Craig. In her place, at the head of the blockade, was a man in his late forties. He had light-colored eyes and the same resolute, almost granitic expression as the woman with whom the two lovers had struck that fragile pact just a few days prior.

It had to be Sarah's father; there was little room for doubt.

The man held a megaphone in his hand. He raised it calmly, aiming it at the now-stationary convoy. His voice came out amplified and metallic, bouncing between the walls of the alley.

- Step out of the vehicles immediately, with your hands fully in view.

The second chess match of the night had just begun.

And as precisely as Shiro had placed his pieces across the playing area, the chessboard was still unstable, dangerous, ready to flip at the first wrong move.

Everything was still up in the air.

He slowly followed Shiro’s hands with his gaze, watching the way they approached his own without haste, without demand, as if even that gesture needed to ask for permission before touching him. The Asian man's gloved fingers began to clasp his with a gentleness that felt almost out of place, considering what still rested in the center of his palm: the corrupt cop's badge.

That small piece of metal seemed to weigh more than it should have. Its sharp corners pressed insistently against Salazar’s warm skin, which was kissed by the Mediterranean sun, leaving behind a rough, irritating sensation, like a stubborn reminder. It didn't truly hurt—not enough to force him to open his hand, but enough to prevent him from ignoring it. It was there. Cold. Hard. Real. And by its mere presence, it seemed to taint even that moment of tenderness.

Sal raised his gaze just a fraction toward his lover, his eyes slightly narrowed, not out of mistrust, but out of concentration. He absorbed every word with a careful, almost disciplined calm, as though he were letting Shiro’s voice wash over him and slowly slip beneath his skin. He sensed its delicacy, its restrained weight, the true intentions hidden behind those caresses disguised as reasonable sentences. There was care, yes. There was fear. There was also that stubborn affection that Shiro never truly flaunted, but which he still managed to make him feel every time, even in his reprimands.

The only exception was a thought left half-finished, not entirely expressed. Perhaps out of embarrassment. Perhaps out of fear. Perhaps because certain things, if spoken aloud, became too real to ever be put back in their place.

Salazar drew his own conclusions nonetheless. He interpreted that final warning as an invitation, or perhaps as a more intimate caution: he would have to learn to face adversities that, sooner or later, might catch him in the absence of the technomancer. In the absence of his guiding voice. In the absence of that presence capable, with just a few words, of bringing freshness and clarity back to his mind when everything else became noise, impulse, blood rushing to his temples.

When he felt the light caresses on the back of his hand, Sal tightened his grip on the metal object just a little more. His knuckles strained beneath his skin. It was an almost instinctive gesture, as if he wanted to confine within that badge all the doubts, all the unknowns, and all the rot that its mere presence had dragged into the car's interior. As if closing his fingers tightly around it were enough to keep it from contaminating the rest.

And then the thought arrived, dirty and precise.

Was it possible that his desire to excel—stubbornly, arrogantly, almost childishly—over his opponents had been, deep down, the first true reason he had been forced to flee his homeland? Had it been that very hunger for dominance, that refusal to bow his head, that had torn him away from home, from living loved ones, and from those already consigned to memory?

The answer, in his mind, arrived blunt and heavy. It didn't explode. It fell. It fell like a felled trunk in the heart of a forest, with a dull thud capable of awakening flora and fauna from an idyllic stasis.

Yes.

Once again, he had too much to lose. Far too much. And it was no longer about his honor, nor any kind of street reputation. It wasn't about his money, his properties, his rackets, or some territory to defend with his teeth. All those things, once upon a time, had seemed vital to him. They had been the measure of his worth, the simplest way to remind the world that Salazar was not someone to be stepped on.

But not now.

Now, finally, it was about someone.

About someone breathing right beside him. About someone who spoke to him with that calm capable of defusing the venom in his throat. About someone who, without truly realizing it, had placed back into his hands a life worth returning to whole.

Salazar had a strange sense of déjà vu. Perhaps it wasn't the first time he had been pushed to that conclusion by the warmth Shiro always managed to infuse within him, with an almost cruel patience. He blinked a couple of times, as if returning from somewhere very far away, and nodded slowly. Then, he placed his remaining free hand over his lover's gloved ones, squeezing them gently, with a love he was finding increasingly easier to feel than to name.

- I need to make amends with Sarah, you're right... - he admitted, his voice lower than usual, less theatrical. - Even though she chose to help us this time, it doesn't mean she will in the future. Not if I don't make an effort... to be less of an asshole, frankly.

He then carefully raised their hands, guiding Shiro's toward his own lips. It wasn't a quick gesture, nor a distracted one. It felt almost like a small surrender. Salazar bowed his head slightly and pressed a gentle kiss against the other man's gloved fingers, lingering a moment longer than necessary, as if in that contact he could deposit a portion of the apologies he was never good at articulating.

- I'm sorry. I went too far. But finally seeing that ugly face in person...- He inhaled softly, tightening his jaw just a fraction. -...it really started making my hands itch.

He cleared his throat slightly, almost annoyed by his own honesty. He let their hands fall back onto his thigh, without entirely breaking the contact. The car continued to move forward through the narrow alley, slow and tense, swaying slightly left and right due to the uneven asphalt, poorly patched potholes, and garbage bags abandoned too close to the walls. Every bump made the chassis vibrate, and from the depths of the vehicle came that low hum of the engine held in check, ready to snarl if only it were asked to.

It was within that muffled movement, between the metal of the badge and the warmth of Shiro's hand, that Salazar spoke again.

- For a moment, it felt so good to have him in my grasp. At our mercy. - He smiled faintly, but it was a crooked smile, more bitter than amused. "It almost felt like I had never stopped, in all these years. As if that part of me had just stayed there, quiet and patient, waiting for the right moment to come back out.

He lowered his gaze to the badge, then closed his palm more tightly around it.

- But I truly believe this will be one of the very few times I'll operate directly in the field. By now, we have enough money and enough people to limit ourselves to playing the puppeteers... with all due respect to our subordinates, of course.- He raised a hand slightly, as if granting an invisible apology to the entire world. - But I think you understand what I mean. The less we expose ourselves directly, the better off we are.

He turned toward Shiro, seeking in his eyes a confirmation that, deep down, he already knew he wanted to follow.

- And besides, admit it: the image of the boss holed up in his mansion, welcoming his captains into his smoky study with a cat on his lap suits me, doesn't it?

He let out a short laugh, more to lighten the heavy moment than out of genuine amusement. It was one of his usual strategies: throwing irony over what hurt, like an elegant tablecloth draped over a chipped table. Yet, behind that seemingly frivolous comment, there lay a more serious, almost modest desire. To expose himself less. To risk less. Not out of cowardice, nor out of exhaustion, but to protect what now had a name, a face, a voice. To protect the people he cared about. To protect, before anyone else, his partner in life.

When he then felt Shiro’s touch on his face, Salazar fell silent.

The glove brushed his cheek with such care that, for an instant, it made him lose track of everything else. Then came that comment, so simple and so targeted, and the Mediterranean man couldn't help but blush slightly. Not much. Enough, though, for the warmth to rise along his cheekbones and betray his composure.

Without realizing it, he mirrored the other's gesture, biting his lower lip just a fraction. Then, like a cat seeking affection, he nuzzled his face against Shiro’s gloved hand. He closed his eyes for a moment, basking in that further contact as if it were a reward. Perhaps the only reward he truly hoped to obtain at the end of that evening's work.

- But of course. I had to look impeccable in your eyes. It was the least I could do... - he murmured, a shadow of malice returning naturally to his lips. - Perhaps there will be other occasions where no one stands between the two of us.

Those few minutes spent in the car, seasoned with gentle words, sincere emotions, and tender concerns, had managed to greatly lighten the atmosphere inside the vehicle. They hadn't erased the danger, nor the blood still warm beneath the surface of the decisions just made, but they had rendered it less suffocating. More distant. Bearable.

Salazar then nodded decisively, finding, as he so often did, a form of wisdom in his lover's words. He inhaled deeply and tried to regain a modicum of composure, just enough to face the rest of the evening without letting himself be dragged away by impulse again.

- You're right. I'm sorry, my treasure. Let me explain. - He adjusted his posture slightly in his seat, turning his mind back to logistics. - Right now, we are pulling away from the hot zone as quickly as possible. Then we'll drive around separately for a bit, keeping only one car with us, just to ensure no one is following us and that things settle down. After that, as soon as Sarah sends us a message to confirm whether or not the operation was a success, we'll have them drop us off in a little alley near Baron’s. A switch car is waiting for us there.

He paused for an instant.

His expression softened. A small, knowing smile formed on his lips as he went back to admiring those mercurial pools that, even in the middle of chaos, managed to give him the absurd impression that there was still a way out.

- And besides... do you have plans for tonight?

Unfortunately, that brief moment of intimacy was cut short by the car phone, which began to ring beneath the center armrest, cutting through the air like a blade. The sound was sudden enough to instantly alter Salazar’s expression. The softness vanished from his face, replaced by a colder, more calculating tension. His brows furrowed just a fraction.

The call was unexpected. And in this line of work, unexpected calls rarely brought good news.

Salazar answered quickly, this time putting the phone on speaker so Shiro could hear as well.

- What's happening, Vahan? Is there a problem?

From the other end came a tense voice, barely held in check beneath a layer of professionalism.

- The rear guard is reporting that a couple of police cruisers are waiting for us at the end of the alley. And they don't look like they have good intentions. What do we do?

The Mediterranean man bit his lip with slightly more force than necessary. A flash of irritation flickered through his gaze. He was frustrated by the policewoman's unreliability, by the terrible timing, and by the few options suddenly left in his hands. If the alley had felt narrow before, now it seemed almost like a gorge ready to close in on them.

Keeping the call active, he pressed a button next to the phone to mute the microphone. Only then did he turn to Shiro, serious. No irony this time. No smile placed there to cover the nervousness, only urgency.

- What do you suggest we do? - he asked, his voice low but clear-headed. - We can force the blockade with the cars. They're resilient enough to let us do it, and we have two cars in the convoy ahead of us that can clear the path. Or there are the rooftops... but I don't know how convenient that would be with two briefcases full of cash.

For an instant, the badge in his palm seemed to grow even colder and Salazar realized that the night wasn't done settling the score just yet.