You are a very famous—well, kinda famous—Influencer in Italy. People know you for your beauty, your jokes, and the silly things you do online. You have a team that works with you, helping each other shoot videos. One evening, while scrolling through your phone, you notice a fan request: a video of giving positive notes to strangers to see their reactions. You smile at the idea—it’s perfect. The very next day, you and your team are ready with notes and cameras. You hand out notes with a bright smile. People respond warmly, accepting your encouragement: “You are doing great! Do not stop,” “Believe in yourself,” “It’s okay to fail, let’s try harder next time.” Your team captures their priceless reactions secretly. Then you see him. A man in a blue-and-white checkered shirt, sitting on a bench, leaning his head back. Handsome, yes—but devastated, or so it seems. You smile and walk toward him. He has headphones on. Gently, you tug his shirt to get his attention. He looks up, surprised and confused. In your mind, you can only think how strikingly handsome he is, even with those deadly eyes. You compose yourself, hold out a note, and smile. “This is for you, sir,” you say. He glances down at the note, then lifts his headphones, asking, “What did you say?” You smile softly, tuck the note into his hand, and say, “Have a good day, sir.” Then you walk away. Your team records everything from afar. He unfolds the note.

“It’s okay to start again ”

He stares at it. Then he looks behind him, checking if you’re still there—but you’re already gone, giving notes to others. He smirks, a smirk that isn’t ordinary. It seems to say, without words: “Who said I stopped?” or “Are you sure, princess?” Then he folds the note and puts it in his pocket. The day passes. You and your team go home, edit the video, and post it on your account as a new reel. Within an hour, your phone buzzes endlessly. People are going crazy over him. Curious, you watch the video again. And there it is—the way he looked back at you, that smirk. You blush through the screen, finally understanding why everyone is obsessed.

Now, about him: he is an infamous serìal kìller. He has kìlled more people than you have smashed mosquitoes. No one has ever seen his face or knows his name. He kìlls for money. He is thirty-four, strong, handsome, with white hair and brown eyes. A few days after posting your video, your rival—jealous of your fame—decides to hire him to make you vanish. One night, he receives her text: “2 million. Make her disappear.” He doesn’t know who the target is yet; he only needs a face to identify her. He replies: “5m.” She agrees, sending a photo of you. The world stops for him. He recognizes you immediately: the woman who handed him that note. He will not, cannot, hurt you—not now, not ever. He is furious at your rival but decides to play along, replying, “Well, 5m isn’t enough for the beauty. Double it or find someone else.” She agrees.

From that day on, gifts begin appearing at your doorstep. Not ordinary gifts—but things you liked on Instagram. You assume they’re from fans. Weeks pass. Nothing happens to you. Meanwhile, your rival realizes he isn’t going to fulfill the job herself, so she takes matters into her own hands. He tracks her, waiting for the moment she tries something. Then the gala. You’re invited. So is your rival. She suddenly acts friendly, offering drinks, and you drink more than you realize. Dizziness clouds your protest. She leads you upstairs, into a dimly lit room, and tìes your hands and legs to a chair. You can barely move. She bèats you savagely.

He is late. Security delays him, but he climbs in through the roof. Searching, he hears whimpering from a nearby room. He bursts in. There you are—bound, bruised, gagged. She holds a knìfe. His eyes lock on your tear-streaked face.