Rome, Italy. The exterior of Inferno hums with anticipation, a line of hopefuls snaking around the block. Bouncers in black suits guard the entrance, their eyes scanning the crowd with predatory precision. Inside, the club is a sensory overload—strobing lights, pounding music, and bodies pressed close in a chaotic dance. Luna trails behind her three roommates—Gina, Sofia, and Clara—her pink frock a soft contrast to their tight, glittering dresses. Her hands clutch her purse tightly, her shoulders hunched as if she could make herself smaller. The golden light of the evening fades behind her as she steps into the club’s dark embrace, her heart thudding with unease.

Luna hesitates at the entrance, her Bambi eyes wide as she takes in the chaos. The air feels heavy, charged with something she can’t name. Gina, leading the group, turns to her with a sharp glance, her red lips curling into a smirk. “Don’t flake now, Luna,” she snaps, her voice cutting through the noise. “We need four to get in. You’re not bailing.”

Sofia chimes in, her tone syrupy but laced with venom. “Yeah, don’t be selfish. You owe us for letting you stay.”

Clara, the quietest but cruelest, adds, “Unless you want to sleep on the street.”

“We could’ve brought someone hotter, you know,” Sofia mutters, loud enough to sting. “Be grateful you’re even here.”

Luna’s lips part, a protest forming, but their words sink into her like stones. She nods, her throat tight, and whispers, “Okay. I’ll come.”

The bouncer, a towering man with a shaved head, eyes the group. His gaze lingers on Luna, her innocent appearance a stark anomaly among the club’s usual patrons. He jerks his head, granting them entry. The roommates surge forward, their heels clicking on the polished floor, leaving Luna to trail behind. Inside, they vanish into the crowd without a backward glance, their laughter swallowed by the music.

He’d been watching her since she stepped through the door—like prey that didn’t know it was already caught.

Luna stands frozen, jostled by strangers, her purse clutched like a lifeline. A man brushes against her, his hand lingering too long, and she flinches, her eyes prickling with tears. The noise, the heat, the pushing bodies—it’s too much. Spotting a sign for the restrooms, she weaves through the crowd, her breath hitching as she escapes to a quieter hallway.

The ladies’ restroom is a stark contrast to the club’s frenzy—cool, dimly lit, with black marble counters and a faint scent of jasmine. Luna slips inside, her ballet flats silent on the tiles. She puts her purse beside the sink and takes out compact from inside seeing how her make up is messed up. She locks herself in a stall, her hands trembling as she sinks onto the closed toilet lid. she pulls out a small compact, reapplying her eyeliner with shaky fingers. “You’re fine,” she murmurs to herself, her voice barely audible. “They’ll come back. They’re your friends.” But the words feel hollow, and her chest aches with doubt. Minutes slip by, the silence of the restroom a fragile cocoon around her fragile heart.

Suddenly, the door bursts open—slamming so hard it echoes like a thunderclap. Luna jumps, her compact clattering to the floor.

A scream pierces the hallway, raw and desperate: “No, please! I didn’t do anything! Don’t—”

The plea cuts off abruptly.

A voice follows. Cold. Sharp. “Shut up. Your voice is grating.”

A gunshot.

Luna gasps, her hands flying to her mouth. Her body goes stiff, lungs locked, the world narrowing to a tunnel of dread. She scrambles into the bathtub in the stall, curling into a ball, her knees pressed to her chest. Tears stream silently, soaking her lashes. She bites down on her knuckles to keep from crying out.

The voice again—chillier now. “Marco, clean this up. You know the drill.”

Footsteps fade.

Luna stays hidden, counting seconds like lifelines. One thousand, two thousand—until twenty whole minutes pass.

She creeps out of the tub, legs trembling. Her purse sits on the counter, innocent and damning. She grabs it, heart jackhammering, and tiptoes to the door. Cracking it open, she peers out—empty.

Relief hits her. But so does a shadow.

A figure emerges from the darkness. Silent. Watching.

Endrit Bianchi.

Tailored suit. Gun in hand. Eyes like ink and frost.

“Kitty got caught, huh?” he drawls, low and mocking. “Thought I wouldn’t notice your purse by the sink?”

Luna’s purse falls. Her knees give. She sinks to the floor, sobbing. “I-I didn’t see anything,” she whispers. “I swear. Please. I’m no one.”

She bows her head. Her hair is a veil. Her voice is hope and horror all at once.

He crouches. Eyes locked to hers. His gloved hand lifts her chin—gentle, firm. Her tears sparkle like dew.

“You’re a terrible liar,” he murmurs, voice like velvet knives. “But you’re… different.”

His thumb brushes her cheek.

“Get up.”

She rises on shaking legs.

“You’re coming with me.”