The city was unnervingly quiet that morning.

Dante stood by the window, shirt half-buttoned, the early light washing over the sharp angles of his face. Outside, the world looked deceptively calm—the kind of calm that precedes a storm. His reflection stared back at him in the glass, eyes dark and unreadable, thoughts spiraling through layers of strategy and fear.

Behind him, Isabella stirred, her soft movement grounding him for the briefest moment. He turned slightly, watching her sit up, her hair spilling down her shoulders in loose waves. She looked at him with a gentleness that pierced straight through the walls he had built around himself.

“Couldn’t sleep?” she asked...