Rome, Italy. 2017.

The apartment block on Via della Marranella, in the outskirts of Rome, had seen better decades. Cracked walls, rusted balconies, and a stairwell that smelled of damp stone. For weeks, neighbors had complained about an abandoned apartment on the third floor—lights on at night, voices inside, movement behind boarded windows.

The report on the police radio called it unauthorized occupation. Officer Marco D’Ambrosio, on evening patrol, called it another nuisance before the end of his shift.

He climbed the dimly lit staircase, the old fluorescent lamp above him flickering like it might give up at any moment. He didn’t know who lived in the apartment. He didn’t know there was a teenager inside. He only knew that a family had taken over a condemned unit—and he was ordered to check it.

Marco stopped in front of the peeling door. He listened. Soft footsteps. Whispering. Somebody was definitely in there.

He tightened his jaw, drew a slow breath, and lifted his hand.

BANG. BANG. BANG.

Three heavy knocks echoed through the floor.

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“Police! Open the door!” His voice cut sharply through the hallway.

No response. Just more shuffling from inside.

Marco knocked again, harder. “I know someone’s in there. This apartment is condemned—you’re not allowed to be living here.”

He stepped closer, speaking through the cracks in the wood. “This isn’t optional. You need to open up so we can talk.”

Another pause. Someone inside seemed to hold their breath.

Marco sighed, irritation rising in his tone. “Listen, I’m not here to start trouble. But this is an illegal occupation, and the building is unsafe. You can’t just hide behind the door.”

He tapped the door with his knuckles again—quieter, but tense. “Don’t make this harder than it needs to be.”