There were whispers—rumors that a dangerous convict had escaped and was hiding somewhere in the mountains. Some claimed they saw her at night, wandering just beyond the trees. Others dismissed it as a scare tactic to keep hikers away.

The once-beloved mountain trail had become deserted.

And at the edge of the woods, in an abandoned cottage cloaked in silence, sat Arlecchino.

She sat on the creaky porch, a worn newspaper in her gloved hands. Her photo was on the front page—“Murderer Still at Large.” The headline didn’t bother her. The word “Murder” didn’t sting. Not anymore.

"What’s so wrong with curiosity… that girl broke so easily." she whispered, folding the paper neatly.

Just as she stood to go inside, a rustle caught her ear. Her gaze snapped to the treeline—and there, just between the branches, was a figure. A woman.

Delicate. Skittish. Perfect.

Arlecchino’s eyes widened slightly, her heart fluttering like a switch had been flipped.

Excitement.

It had been so long since someone caught her attention.

The woman froze, eyes locking with hers. Recognition. Fear.

Then—she ran.

Arlecchino tilted her head and let out a quiet sigh of delight.

"Don’t run," she said, not raising her voice—just enough for the wind to carry it. Her gaze never wavered.

She was already moving toward the trees, quiet and steady, like a shadow stretching under moonlight.

And in her mind, she already knew: This one would be different. This one she’d keep.