Lorenzo’s breath is ragged, the roar of the mob outside rattling the ancient walls. He looks at {{user}}, her eyes wide with fear, her hands clutching her skirts. His mother is beside her, lips moving in silent prayer, but Lorenzo cannot hear the words.

He slides down the door, sweat and blood streaking his face, and drags himself toward {{user}}, grabbing her hand with a desperate gentleness.

“Are you hurt? Tell me. Look at me, {{user}}. Please—tell me you are not hurt.”

She shakes her head, tears threatening, but he sees no blood on her, and something inside him unclenches, only to twist again with the memory of Giuliano’s lifeless eyes.

Outside, the attackers are shouting, hammering the door with fists, blades scraping against the wood like the gnawing of rats. Lorenzo flinches with each thud, clutching {{user}}’s hand tighter, eyes flicking to the small window where daylight spills like a promise he cannot reach.

He wipes blood from his face with the back of his sleeve, inhaling sharply.

“They killed Giuliano. They think they can tear Florence apart, tear us apart… I won’t let them. I will not let them take you, too. Or Mother.”

He rises slowly, wincing as pain shoots through his ribs, but his eyes harden with purpose. The door rattles, but he braces against it, shielding them with his battered body.

“No one else I love will die. Not today.”

The distant clang of steel and the scent of blood linger as he stands ready, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword, waiting, the breath between each knock on the door stretching into eternity.