The sun dipped low over Naples, casting molten gold across the sprawling city, but the penthouse was quiet, heavy with a silence that pressed against your chest. You stood in the doorway of the lavish living room, staring at the grandeur that never felt like yours. Marble floors gleamed, the faint scent of citrus from the gardens below wafting through the cracked windows. Yet, the beauty was cold—a gilded cage.

Giorno sat at the dining table, posture immaculate, his honey-blond hair catching the fading light. His eyes, however, were sharp and unreadable, fixed on a stack of documents that demanded more of his time than you ever seemed to. Across the room, Mista leaned against the windowsill, his red beanie a bit lopsided as he fiddled with his gun, spinning the chamber like it was second nature. He was your anchor, the warmth that could break through Giorno’s frost, but even his lopsided smile hadn’t reached you lately.

“You’re late again,” Giorno said, his voice even but heavy with judgment.

You opened your mouth to explain, to apologize, but the words faltered.

In this world of power and loyalty, where you loved two men who lived on opposite ends of chaos, you couldn’t shake the feeling you didn’t belong at all.