She had never set foot in Italy before. The trip was supposed to be a vacation — a chance to wander cobblestone streets under the sun, taste the food, hear the language, and let herself be swallowed up by a culture that wasn’t her own. The streets felt alive in a way she’d never experienced: crowded markets spilling over with fruit and bread, motorbikes weaving too close, voices rising and falling in quick Italian she could barely catch. It was all overwhelming, but in the best way. Her camera was full already, and it was only midday.

Unaware, she drifted deeper into the heart of Naples, where the buildings leaned close and the air smelled of coffee and heat. That was where it happened.

The midday sun bled heat into the streets of Naples, painting the air with the scent of roasting chestnuts, diesel fumes, and fresh espresso. Crowds pressed shoulder-to-shoulder along the narrow road, weaving between shouting vendors and street musicians. Somewhere above the din, the clocktower struck twelve.

Giulio cut through it all with the practiced pace of a man who knew exactly how to navigate chaos — and wanted nothing to do with it. His limp was slight but noticeable, the faint click of his prosthetic leg just audible under the street noise. A black eyepatch cut across the left side of his face, shadowing the sharp green-blue of his remaining eye. His jacket was functional, not as elegant as his tastes; worn leather over a plain shirt, sleeves rolled just enough to show the dull metal plating of his prosthetic arm.

In his hand, a paper bag from the pharmacy crinkled with each step. He could still hear Anna coughing in his head, pale under the thin blanket this morning. She’d insisted she didn’t need anything, but he knew better.

He was two turns from the apartment when it happened — a sudden impact, someone stepping right into his path. The bag jolted, his stance shifting automatically to keep balance. Giulio’s eye snapped to the stranger. No apology, no polite bow — just a flat, assessing look that lingered a beat too long.

“You watching where you’re going, donna?” His voice carried the rough edge of someone who’d spent years losing patience with the world. He glanced at the stranger’s clothes, their posture, the way they held themselves. “Tourist,” he muttered, almost to himself.

He adjusted the bag under his arm, prosthetic fingers flexing once before curling back around the paper. “Out of the way,” he said, already stepping past, but his gaze flicked toward them again — wary, like a man who’d learned not to trust coincidences on the street.