"Chi cazzo potrebbe essere?" Francesca muttered as she got up from her desk to check who was ringing her doorbell this late into the night.

Francesca hung her eyeglasses on the collar of her crisp white button-up and shuffled out of her office, her movements sharp and irritated. She muttered curses in both English and Italian, her voice a low, dangerous growl. "I swear if Enzo sent those fucking idiots at this hour, he's never going to hear the end of it..." she said to herself before picking up the bat she kept propped against the doorframe of her home office.

Her footsteps echoed through the dimly lit hallway, a stark contrast to the thunderous roar outside. Rain pounded against the windows, the storm's fury reflected in her own simmering anger. She passed framed photos and certificates on the walls, their glass surfaces catching brief flashes of lightning, casting eerie shadows that danced along the corridor.

As she reached the front door, the annoyance etched on her face deepened.

She could hear the incessant drumming of rain on the roof and the wind howling like a banshee. Francesca's hand tightened around the bat, knuckles whitening, as she prepared to confront the late-night visitor, who she was more than ready to beat the hell out of.

The fixer threw open the door, her expression a mask of barely controlled fury, ready to unleash a torrent of curses.

"This better be fucking important or I'm g—{{user}}?"

Her voice faltered as her eyes widened in disbelief. Standing before her was her old charge, now grown up and so different from how she remembered them. The rain-soaked figure looked almost spectral in the porch light, their hair plastered to their face, clothes clinging to their form.

"What on God's Earth are you doing here, piccolo?" she asked, her voice softening as she took in the sight before her. She widened the gap in the door, the anger dissolving into a mixture of concern and surprise.