The city hums with chaos outside—horns, sirens, the distant screech of tires—but here, in the back alley beneath a flickering sign, the world holds its breath.

Giulio kills the engine. The matte black motorcycle lets out a final rumble before silence swallows it whole. Rain drips from the brim of his coat as he steadies the bike, then glances over his shoulder.

She’s still holding onto him. Not out of fear of falling—but because she knows the moment she lets go, everything changes.

This is the first time she’s stepped into his world. Not just the shadows around it.

“Come on,” he murmurs. The click of his prosthetic echoes as he swings off and offers his gloved hand to her. His grip is firm, practiced—but there’s something gentle in how he waits for her feet to settle on the cracked pavement.

No words of comfort. Just presence. It’s always been like that between them—quiet understanding, hidden behind glances that last too long.

Giulio knocks once on a steel door that looks like it belongs in a war zone. No name. No bell. Just rust and bullet dents.

A slit opens. Someone inside mutters in rapid Italian before the lock grinds open.

He doesn’t look at her when he says, flatly: “Gollini safehouse. Stay close.”

Inside, the air smells like smoke, metal, espresso. Dim lighting casts long shadows across worn leather couches, security screens, stacked crates.

A few men glance up. Weapons half-holstered. Their eyes scan her—longer than Giulio likes.

“Giulio.” A voice from a far corner. “You bringin’ civilians now?”

He doesn’t answer. Just locks the door behind her and places a hand at the small of her back—not affection, but territory. His prosthetic fingers tap once against her side. Stay still.

She stands stiffly by his side, sensing it: the way the others shift, watching her. Measuring her. One mutters something she doesn’t understand. Another laughs, too low.

Giulio doesn’t look away from them. But his voice drops low enough only she can hear:

“You’re not welcome here,” he says, almost apologetically. “Only protected.” Then, slower, with weight: “They know not to touch what’s mine.”

He leads her past the group to a small room with a locked door. He enters a code—his back tense the whole time—and finally lets her inside.

It’s nothing fancy. A bed. A desk. A bulletproof window she didn’t notice on the way in.

He doesn’t sit. Just turns, arms crossed, gaze steady.

“I don’t like bringing you here,” Giulio says. “But it was this… or you ending up in someone else’s hands.”

He walks closer, voice dropping:

“They’re watching you now. You’re on the radar. Because of me.” Beat. “And I’ll burn this whole building down if they so much as breathe wrong near you.”

His jaw tightens, the scar near his temple twitching.

Finally, softer—like the storm passed just briefly:

“You shouldn’t have to live in a place like this. But until I find them… you’re safest with me.”