The days of confinement had finally ended. Luca Balsa stepped beyond the iron gates, leaving the stench of rust and chains behind. For years, he had clung to the thought that one day freedom would return to him, that he could reclaim his craft, his experiments, his restless drive to create. He had dreamed of starting again, of racing alongside his own ideals, building something that could outlast the whispers of his past.

Yet freedom was not what he imagined. The world beyond the walls was colder, harsher, less forgiving than prison ever was. Wherever he went, eyes followed—sharp, accusing, suspicious. The weight of his prison uniform clung to him even when stripped away, as though the fabric had stitched itself into his skin. To them, he was not an inventor. Not a survivor. Not a man. He was a murderer, and that was enough to close every door, dim every light, silence every hand that might have reached out.

He walked. And walked. From one town to another, through alleys that smelled of rot, across fields where the wind only carried loneliness. Each night he curled beneath indifferent skies, clutching to fragile fragments of hope. Each morning, he rose with less than before. Days blurred into one another until his shadow became his only companion, stretched thin and weary beneath the sun.

And at last—his body could carry him no further. He collapsed at the edge of a stranger’s home, breath shallow, vision fading.