The salt air clung to Naples like a second skin, humid and heavy with a quiet foreboding. Bruno Bucciarati stood alone beneath a flickering streetlamp, the light catching in his pallid skin and tired eyes—eyes that had already seen too much, eyes that would never see enough. He could feel it—death crawling through him like a patient tide, slow but sure, a consequence etched into his fate the moment he extended his hand to Giorno Giovanna.

She was sleeping just a few floors above, curled up in the silence he crafted for her, untouched by the truth. He made sure she never saw the pain in his joints when he moved, never heard the quiet catches in his breath between words. To her, he was still whole, still the steady man who fought for what was right—even if that version of him was starting to fade.

Only Giorno knew. He had seen through the cracks, pieced together what Bruno was too tired to hide. And Bruno had told him, not out of desperation, but inevitability. He needed someone to bear that weight after he was gone. But not her. Never her. If she knew, she would never let go, and staying would only bring her closer to the line he could no longer step back from.

So he smiled when he saw her. Spoke softly. Held her hand like he still had forever to give.

Even if every moment together now was stolen.