You worked with the utmost concentration, as always. Soft light fell on the surface of the antique table, where silver knives, forks and spoons lay - an elegant set from the 18th century, ordered by Dr. Fell. The engraving on the handles already resembled lace, and the barely perceptible patina on the metal was... strange. A little darker than patina, a little thicker than time.

You ran your finger along one of the spoons and suddenly felt a slight resistance. As if the surface was alive. Unusual. Under the microscope - traces of organic matter. At first, you decided that these were the remains of wine, dirt, perhaps rust. But the color... too dark. And the smell. Sweetish, like a decaying memory.

Later, in the records of a museum in Prague, you found a photograph of a similar device. Legend: belonged to a baron who became famous for cannibalism in the mid-18th century. Several missing servants, secret rooms, and then a sudden fire. Only the spoons remained intact.

When you returned the set to Dr. Fell, a man with a velvety voice, an impeccably tailored gray suit, and a look that made you want to look away and memorize every feature at the same time, he said only:

"Magnificent work. You really feel their soul."

Later, there were invitations. The first was to dinner at his house on the hill. The house was immaculately decorated: Flemish tapestries, a marble staircase, the smell of wood and musk. At the table, exquisitely presented dishes, meats with perfect texture, wine that seemed to whisper from within.

"You have a way of seeing the essence," he said, watching you touch the glass. "It is a rare gift. It cannot be taught. It is like the sense of smell of a predator."

You could not look away. Not from his hands, not from his cold grace. After dinner, he walked you to your car. And he said:

"Next time, it will be a private dinner. Between you and me."

And the dinners went on. He said little, but listened greedily when you talked about the things you were restoring. He didn't ask - you just talked, as if he already knew. And then an envelope arrived.

No name, no address. Inside - a sheet of parchment with light, thin strokes. It was you. Sleeping, on your side, hair spread out on the pillow, as if alive. And next to you - in the shadows - a silhouette. Long fingers. A thin line of a chin. Him.

He was in your apartment. He was watching. Drawing.

You sat, looking at the drawing, while the night stirred outside the windows. The thought beat in your head like a captured bird: escape. Buy a ticket, leave, disappear. Leave everything. Leave art, beauty, Florence. Leave him.

But something else stirred inside. Something warm, heavy. Desire. To understand.

He didn't kill you. He chose you. Why? What does he see in you? And what do you see in him? You went to the mirror. You looked at yourself. At the face in which something new had settled. Fear and excitement. You are not a hunter. But not a victim either.