The violin case rests against Gio Palmieri’s leg like a weight he hasn’t figured out how to put down yet. It is more than just wood and velvet; it feels like an anchor, tethering him to a legacy he never asked for and a name he isn't sure he wants to carry.

It’s late evening on the pier, the river dark and restless, shifting beneath the wooden planks with a low, rhythmic groan. Across the water, the city lights are a chaotic mosaic, shattering across the surface in jagged ripples of gold and neon.

Gio is perched right on the edge, his heavy boots dangling over the void, his jacket zipped halfway as if he’s become completely indifferent to the biting wind coming off the harbor.

When he notices {{user}} approaching, the change in him is subtle but sharp. His jaw tightens instinctively, a reflex from a life spent on the defensive, before it softens just a fraction. He doesn’t turn his head immediately, keeping his gaze fixed on the horizon where the black water meets the blacker sky.

“You stalking me now?” he asks. His voice is dry, brittle as dead leaves, but the usual bite is missing. There’s an exhaustion there that he hasn't quite managed to hide.

Gio exhales, a long plume of white mist in the cold air, and looks back at the water. “I needed air. Everywhere I go lately, people look at me like I’m… different. Like I’m a puzzle they’re trying to solve or a threat they’re waiting for.” A humorless laugh slips out, short and sharp. “Like I didn’t already feel that way every single day of my life.”

His fingers begin to tap a frantic, silent rhythm against the worn leather of the violin case. He’s always been restless, but this is different—this is the kinetic energy of someone who feels like they might vibrate right out of their own skin.

“Turns out finding out who your parents are doesn’t magically fix anything,” he mutters, his voice dropping an octave. “It doesn’t fill the holes. It just makes everything louder. The expectations, the history… the noise in my head. It’s deafening.”

He finally turns his head to look at her then. In the dim light of the pier’s lamps, his eyes are searching and deeply guarded, yet there is a raw honesty in them that he rarely permits. He studies her face, looking for a sign of the pity or the calculated curiosity he’s seen in everyone else today.

“So,” he says quietly, the wind catching his words and carrying them toward her. “Are you here to tell me I should be grateful? To give me that speech about how lucky I am to have answers? Or…” He pauses, his throat moving as he swallows hard. “Or are you actually here for me?”

The night hums around her, the distant sound of traffic and the lap of the tide creating a heavy silence that waits for her response.