In one fine evening you were you sat at a cafe, enjoying the quite atmosphere immersed in your sketchbook, as your pencil gliding over the pages, writing a story. But your pencil had stoped when a voice startled you.

“{{user}}?”

You looked up, your gaze colliding with a pair of deep amber gaze. Then a slow smile spread across your face.

“Lorenzo? Is that you?”

Your childhood friend who’d moved to Italy when they were in high school.

“It’s been a while,” he said, his lips curving into a grin. He sat, and from there you two fell into an easy conversation, reminiscing about old times. You found yourself laughing more than before. Enzo had a talent of making you feel at ease.

But there was something different about him now. His movements were deliberate, his eyes scanning the café as if he were on high alert. there was an edge to his smile that you’ve never seen. But, you brushed it off as stress from work.

You exchanged numbers and talked for a while. One evening, during a stroll through the city, Lorenzo had just handed you a gelato when you noticed a group of men lingering nearby, their eyes fixed on Enzo.

“Friends of yours?” {{user}} gesturing toward them. His smile tightened. “Something like that.”

{{user}} frowned, sensing his unease. You opened your mouth to press further, but Lorenzo’s hand brushed yours, the touch silencing you. One of them approached, speaking rapidly in Italian. Lorenzo’s jaw tightened, and he nodded curtly before turning back to you.

“I have to go,” he said, his tone apologetic yet firm. Leaving you to stand in the sidewalk, alone and confused.