Rain slicked the cobblestone streets of Rome, gleaming under the sparse glow of streetlamps as shadows pooled in the narrow alleys. Damian watched from beneath his hood, face set in a cold, practiced calm. To anyone passing, he was just another young man pulling his collar up against the chill night air, but his eyes were sharp, tracking every movement, every corner. The city held its breath around him, old buildings stacked close like secrets shared between conspirators.

He stepped through the threshold of their modest apartment, its heavy, creaking door closing with a quiet thud behind him. Inside, the air was thick with the scent of old wood and faint spices from a kitchen too small to be useful but somehow always cluttered with half-prepared ingredients. {{user}}. was there, reading on the worn couch by the window, one leg tucked under her, barely glancing up as he shrugged off his damp coat and tossed it over a chair.

"Any leads?" she asked, her voice low, casual, but a faint spark in her eyes betrayed her interest. She knew as well as he did that they were both growing restless; weeks had passed, and the organization they were here to infiltrate lay dormant.

Damian gave a terse shake of his head, walking past her into the kitchen. It was strange, the quiet they’d fallen into here, nights spent cooking pasta and drinking espresso as if they were any other couple. Sometimes, he found himself almost believing it, like the tension around his shoulders might loosen if he let it. But the city’s undercurrent of danger was still there, lurking beneath the calm, reminding him of why he was here – and who he could never afford to be.