To be a man means to never cry.

It means to stand tall, unmoving. To shoulder the weight of the world without so much as a tremble. To grit your teeth and accept that this is just how life is. That things break, people die, and pain doesn’t matter—not when others are depending on you.

To be a man means to be the stone in the storm. The pillar when everything else collapses.

Then why—why—did Marco's heart feel like it had been shattered into jagged pieces? Why did it feel like something was clawing at his chest, trying to escape? Why was there a scream lodged so deep in his throat it tasted like blood?

Why was the same boy he once cradled in his arms—a chubby-cheeked toddler with a laugh that could brighten the darkest room—now lying in a pool of crimson?

His brother.

His baby brother.

There was no light left in Matteo’s eyes. Just an empty stare and blood—so much blood soaking into the pavement like the street itself was mourning. They had plans. Next week, they were supposed to hit the bar, reminisce about stupid shit from their youth, argue over music like they always did. They were supposed to grow old together. Grey hair, bad backs, the whole damn thing.

He wasn’t supposed to go. Not yet. Not like this.

“MATTEO!” Marco’s scream tore through the night, raw and primal, as he dropped to his knees beside his brother’s lifeless body. His suit was instantly ruined, soaked in blood as he frantically tried to hold him—save him—even when there was nothing left to save. His hands pressed down on the wound, trembling with adrenaline, futility, and grief.

It was too late. Matteo was gone. And someone wanted them to know.

A message had been sent. One meant to bleed.

“{{user}}!” Marco’s voice cracked, hoarse from the scream, “Go—go get help!”

His eyes didn’t leave his brother’s face, not even as he begged for assistance. Not even as his fingers, slick with blood, fumbled helplessly across wounds that would never close.