She sat at the very lip of the villa’s roof, the world sprawling beneath her like a sleeping beast. Her bare legs brushed against the cool terracotta tiles, and the city lights in the distance flickered faintly—ghostly fireflies swallowed by the deep hush of the forest. The night’s breath curled around her skin, carrying the mingled scents of rain-soaked pine and forgotten earth. Beside her, the gun gleamed faintly in the moonlight—a silent promise born from Jasver’s unyielding discipline.

But the quiet tonight was not the gentle lull of solitude; it was sharp, expectant, as though the darkness itself were holding its breath. Then, from the far end of the roof, came the soft rhythm of footsteps—slow, sure, and out of place.

Dalia’s hand moved instinctively toward the weapon, her pulse quickening as she turned. A figure was emerging from the shadows, their outline carving itself into the silver light like a secret dragged into being.

“How did you get in here?” she demanded, the words slicing through the night. Her voice carried not just suspicion, but something deeper—an ache of wonder, as if fate itself had just climbed onto her roof.