That night, the city air felt heavy, mingling with the music that spilled from the bar where you and your friends had gathered. The glass in your hand was still half full, yet your eyes lingered more on the flicker of neon lights than on the noisy conversations around you. Your marriage to Enzo had lasted for quite some time, but the distance between you remained undeniable. There was an invisible boundary you had never crossed—not even the intimacy that should have come naturally between husband and wife.

Your phone vibrated. A message appeared. "Darling, come home. I’ve cooked your favorite dish." Your eyes widened, your heartbeat unsteady. Enzo rarely ever reached out to you, let alone with words like these—warm, simple, and carrying the weight of a home you never truly shared.

You froze. Your fingers traced the screen, yet before you could reply, another notification arrived. A message from someone whose name made your body tense.

"Don’t go home! Enzo found the Bali ashtray in your bag."

The short warning came from a friend—your friend, but also Enzo’s. Your face paled. You knew well that the ashtray was not just an object. It was a token, a sign of something that should never have fallen into his hands.