My name is Hazel Moretti.
I did not remember dying.
I remembered waking.
The ceiling above me was unfamiliar—high, cracked in the corners, painted a faded cream that smelled faintly of old plaster and espresso. For several seconds, I lay still, listening to the rhythm of my own breathing, waiting for panic to arrive. It didn't. Instead, there was clarity. Sharp. Unforgiving.
I was alive.
Not just alive—earlier.
I sat up slowly, my hands trembling as they brushed against linen sheets that were not mine. The room was modest, Roman in its age and stubbornness, with tall windows and wooden shutters painted a tired green. Outside, I could hear the city stirring—heels on stone, a Vespa roaring past, a man arguing animatedly into his phone.
Italian.
The sound hit me harder than any scream could have.
"No," I whispered, my voice hoarse. "No, no, no…"
I swung my legs off the bed and nearly collapsed. My body felt younger. Lighter. Stronger. I rushed to the mirror hanging beside the wardrobe, my reflection confirming what my mind already knew.
I was twenty-six again.
Alive. Unscarred. Untouched by grief.
Reborn.
My breath hitched, and with it came the memory I had been trying to outrun.
Federico De Luca.
His name echoed through my head like a curse and a prayer tangled together. Federico—brilliant, volatile, dangerous. Federico, who hovered between genius and madness like a man balancing on a knife's edge. Federico, who had loved me with a devotion that made my skin crawl… and my pulse race.
Federico, who had died.
My fingers curled against the edge of the sink as images assaulted me in fragments: his smile, sharp and knowing; the way his voice dipped when he spoke my name—Dottoressa Moretti—as if it were a secret meant only for him. I remembered the weight of his gaze, the way he watched me as if I were the only constant in a world he barely understood.
He had been addicted.
I had been obsessed.
And now… I was back.
A soft knock sounded at the door.
"Hai dormito bene, Hazel?" a woman's voice called. Warm. Familiar.
My chest tightened.
Giulia.
I opened the door to find Giulia Bianchi, my colleague and closest friend, standing there with a mug of coffee and a raised brow. Her dark curls were pulled into a messy bun, and she looked exactly as she had years ago—before everything went wrong.
"You look like you've seen a ghost," she said, switching effortlessly to English. "Or worse. A patient."
I forced a smile that felt foreign on my lips. "Just… jet lag."
She snorted. "You've lived in Rome for three years. Try again."
I accepted the coffee with shaking hands. The scent grounded me. Real. Tangible.
This was real.
Giulia leaned against the doorframe. "You're due at San Vittore today. First session with him."
The word him landed like a gunshot.
My heart skipped. "Federico," I said before I could stop myself.
Giulia blinked. "Yes. Federico De Luca. Our favorite headache." She tilted her head, studying me. "You okay? You're pale."
I wasn't pale.
I was terrified.
Because this was it. This was the moment where everything had begun the first time. The first interview. The first mistake. The first crack in my carefully constructed professionalism.
"I'm fine," I lied.
Giulia smiled, unconvinced but indulgent. "Bene. Because he's… interesting. Borderline antisocial traits, high intelligence, no remorse indicators—but not fully detached. He's walking a very thin line."
I knew.
God, I knew.
The prison smelled the same—disinfectant and old stone. San Vittore had always felt less like a correctional facility and more like a museum for broken minds. As I walked down the corridor, my heels echoed with a rhythm that felt too loud, too final.
Each step pulled me closer to him.
I reminded myself that this time was different.
This time, I knew how it ended.
The guard stopped in front of a reinforced glass room. "Dottoressa Moretti," he said politely. "He's been waiting."
Waiting.
Of course he had.
When I stepped inside, he was already seated, hands folded neatly on the table, posture relaxed to the point of arrogance. He looked up slowly, as if savoring the moment, and smiled.
Federico De Luca was devastatingly unchanged.
Dark hair, slightly too long, falling into eyes that were too observant, too alive. His expression was calm, but I could see it—the flicker of recognition, the spark of something dangerous lighting up behind his gaze.
"Hazel," he said softly, in Italian. "Finalmente."
Finally.
My pulse thundered in my ears, but I forced myself to sit across from him, spine straight, expression neutral. Professional.
"You may call me Dottoressa Moretti," I replied coolly.
His smile widened. "Ah. So formal. I like it."
I hated that a shiver ran down my spine.
This time, I would not underestimate him.
This time, I would not let him consume me.
And yet, as he leaned forward, eyes locking onto mine with unsettling intensity, I felt it—that same pull, that same dangerous familiarity. Not his addiction.
Mine.
Somewhere deep inside, something dark and hungry stirred, whispering a truth I was not ready to accept.
I had been given a second chance.
And I was not here to save him.
I was here to understand why, even knowing how it ends, I still wanted him to look at me like that.