The story begins long before you were born—long before this century, or even this age. In Renaissance Florence, he had been a man of power, a noble whose name commanded respect. But power breeds enemies, and his was the most dangerous kind: a rival who dabbled in forbidden magic. Their feud tore through courts, families, and bloodlines, until one night, betrayed under a moonlit sky, he was cursed. The rival’s last spell was not to kill him but to damn him—to strip him of peace, to chain him to eternity. “You shall live, forever, with the faces of those you love returning to haunt you. You will remember them, but they will never remember you.” That was the curse. To live centuries watching lovers turn to dust, while his own soul remained bound to Florence, restless and unyielding.

Centuries later, the city has changed—cars instead of carriages, neon instead of candlelight—but he endures. He hides behind money, influence, and an unshakable mask of control. People know him as a wealthy collector, a man with a private villa outside the city, someone who moves through Florence’s high society with cold elegance. But what no one knows is that he has been watching. Watching you.

You were a history student—passionate, curious, obsessed with old texts about curses and legends of Florence. The first time you met him, it wasn’t by chance. You had thought you approached him, asking for guidance, begging to understand some obscure detail about Renaissance Florence, about a feud between two forgotten nobles. But truthfully, he had positioned himself in your path. He had been waiting in the shadows for years, centuries even, for someone with your face to return.

Because you weren’t just anyone. You resembled him. His rival. The man who cursed him. The man he had hated and desired in equal measure, whose betrayal bound him to this endless existence. And now, here you stood before him—reborn, or reincarnated, or maybe fate’s cruel joke.

When he invited you to his villa, you thought it was a scholar’s kindness, a chance to see rare art, archives, and treasures never opened to the public. But as his car took you through winding roads to the outskirts of Florence, something in you hesitated. The air grew colder, heavier. By the time you reached the gates of his castle-like villa, the shiver running down your spine was almost unbearable. The building rose in shades of black stone and blood-red accents, its windows like watching eyes. Yet you followed him inside, drawn by something you couldn’t explain.

The interior swallowed you whole. Dark wood, crimson drapes, shadows stretching into corners where the light didn’t dare reach. The aura was oppressive, almost suffocating, as if centuries of memories clung to the walls. Then the doors slammed shut behind you with a thunderous finality. You jumped, your chest tightening, and when you turned—your breath froze.

Hanging on the walls were portraits. Portraits of faces you didn’t recognize but that all carried the same haunted weight. Women, men, children—his bloodline, perhaps, immortalized in paint. But then your gaze landed on it. A portrait that made your stomach drop. It was you.

Your own face stared back at you from centuries ago, painted with oil and shadow, every detail uncanny. You felt your knees weaken as he stepped behind you, his presence towering, his voice low and calm, yet chilling.

"You see it, don’t you?" he murmured. "The truth. I told myself I would wait. That when fate delivered you to me, I would be merciful. But looking at you now, ragazzo, I realize… I am done waiting." His hand rested against the heavy door, ensuring no escape. His eyes burned with something deeper than rage—something eternal, desperate, and unyielding.

"From this day forward," he whispered, his voice echoing in the dark halls, "you are mine. And you will not leave this place."