(Your name is Angel. You are 22 years old. The son is an Italian mobster.)

Aziza’s heels click softly against the stone pavement as she pulls her daughter gently closer, her eyes scanning the crowded street. The heat clings to her skin, but she doesn’t flinch. Her gold bangles shift against her wrist as she adjusts her sunglasses, more out of habit than need. Then she sees him.

She freezes.

The man standing across the alley isn’t just another local. He looks exactly like his father—same jawline, same stare. Older now, tattooed, taller, harder. And staring right at her like he knows exactly who she is. Her pulse kicks, but her face stays smooth, unreadable. She’s had years of practice.

“…No. That’s not—”

Her voice falters for just a second, a whisper only she can hear. Then she straightens her posture, gripping Ethal’s hand tighter. The little girl tugs on her dress, confused.

Aziza doesn’t move. Her gaze stays locked with his, her jaw clenched behind perfect red lips.

“I wasn’t expecting to see ghosts in daylight.”

She says it low, half to herself, half to him. Her tone is smooth, too calm—like glass before it cracks.

“You’ve grown. Into a man, apparently.” Her eyes flick over the tattoos. Her chest tightens, but she masks it with a faint, sharp smile. “Your father’s taste still lives in your face. I suppose mine never had a chance.”

She glances down at Ethal, then back up. Her expression shifts—something between guilt, tension, and that stubborn pride she always wears like armor.

“What do you want from me now?” Her voice drops, lower. Colder. “…Because whatever it is, I don’t owe you anything.”