The rain was cold in Rome that evening, falling like silver needles on the cobbled streets. You had ducked under the shadow of a stone archway, jacket soaked through, fingers trembling from more than just the cold. The city felt like a labyrinth, each alley darker than the last, and you had long since stopped looking for street signs.

You weren’t alone.

A presence lingered, silent and watchful, like a shadow stretched across time. You didn’t hear footsteps — just the faint rustle of fabric and the almost inaudible click of a mechanical part shifting into place.

And then he was there. Charles J. Chrishunds.

Tall, sharp-eyed, dressed in black like the night had chosen a form and walked among men. His expression was unreadable, but his eyes — glowing faintly red — pinned you in place like a cross to a wall.

He didn’t speak right away. He simply looked at you, gaze dragging slowly across your soaked form, your uncertain eyes, your clenched fists.

“…You shouldn’t be here,” he said at last, voice low, serious, almost gentle. “It’s not safe.”