Evening hadn't yet settled in.
The Belloni kitchen, having passed its busiest hour, lay in a rare pause—quiet, as if catching its breath.
The air was thick with the damp heat of steam drifting from the dishwasher, mingled with the warm scent of fresh bread.
Luca sat on a chair in the corner.
On his knees rested a steaming porcelain bowl; beside it, a spoon wrapped in a thin handkerchief.
To any eye, he was only a boy bringing supper to his sick mother.
But his gaze lingered beyond the rim of the bowl—on a dim corner of the kitchen, on something that wasn't moving, but was worth watching.
"Your mother's room again?"
Angelo, the gruff cook, asked without looking up.
"Yes,"
Luca said, expressionless.
"She… might have an appetite tonight."
"She hasn't had an appetite in years."
Angelo sighed, stirring a heavy pot. He picked up a sack of market vegetables.
"Sort these before you go. I need to check the storeroom."
As he left, Luca's eyes brushed over his waist.
A thin silver key dangled loosely from a thread of a ring.
He set the porridge down and moved toward the silverware rack.
There, in the shadowed corner—places a hand could reach but eyes rarely searched.
The key slipped into his palm without a sound.
He crossed to the small medicine cupboard opposite the kitchen.
The lock was old but firm; the cold air behind it seemed to seep out even before the latch clicked open.
Inside, glass bottles and boxes stood in neat rows.
Sandalwood oil. Lavender tincture. Sedatives.
And on the top shelf—a plain white label, small print. Colorless. Scentless.
Luca took it down, unstopped it.
No smell.
No hue.
A drop on his fingertip, touched to his tongue.
Seconds later, his fingertips dulled, his breathing slowed—as though even his heart had sunk into deeper water.
He closed the bottle, slipped it deep into his pocket, and locked the cupboard again.
The key went back to its shadow.
Tonight, or not at all.
The Hunt's Air
By dusk, the courtyard was drenched in a red-gold light.
Shadows from the marble walls stretched long, and the hem of a gold curtain at the window swayed lazily in the breeze.
Luca stood at the window.
In his hand, the small glass bottle rocked gently, its contents invisible—no taste, no scent, yet potent enough to scramble a man's nervous system in a single swallow.
Tonight was the night.
A chance to break his arrogant brother.
And his first trial—proof that he deserved to survive in this house.
The Bait
The training hall door opened.
Marco stepped in, navy suit jacket over his shoulders, shirt buttoned crisp.
A pistol in one hand, a water bottle in the other.
"Let's hope you don't hide behind excuses again,"
Marco said, a lazy grin touching his mouth—one that cut more than it welcomed.
Luca smiled thinly.
"Shall I pour you some water, brother?"
He took the bottle from a guard, twisting his wrist just enough.
The clear liquid slipped silently into the water.
Marco drank without suspicion.
Even the sound of it sliding down his throat seemed loud in the stillness.
The Awakening
Luca closed his eyes for a moment.
In the dark behind them, a voice from far off whispered—
Adrian Cesare. That is your true name.
The smell of blood.
A burning house.
Powder and dust.
A black rose falling from his hand—
And the fading warmth of a young woman dying in his arms.
His heart beat slow, heavy.
Luca—Adrian—opened his eyes.
The hunt had begun.
Breaking the Balance
Minutes later, Marco's step faltered.
His aim bent awkwardly at the wrist.
"Why… is it blurry?"
Confusion flickered in his eyes, but no real caution.
Luca bent the guards' attention toward the far end of the range—a clang of metal, a shift in focus.
In that breath, the two of them stood alone.
He moved in, taking Marco's wrist, turning it gently but firmly.
The muzzle found Marco's temple.
Marco's breath roughened.
"You wouldn't dare—"
Luca's eyes didn't move.
"You have no idea what I'd dare."
The trigger pulled.
The blast snapped through the air; Marco's body went back hard, collapsing onto the marble.
Blood spread fast, spilling its heat into the cold.
Luca's breathing didn't change.
But the dam in his mind broke, and his knees felt weak.
The battlefield.
The blood.
The woman in his arms, eyes closing for the last time.
A tear slipped before he could stop it.
He reached for a black rose from the decorative vase in the corner, laying it softly on the pool of red—his signature to a self he'd once been.
Doubt and Shield
The door burst open.
Alessandro Belloni's gaze darted between the body and the boy.
"You…?"
The words were a blade.
He raised his gun, but footsteps rang down the hall.
Georges appeared, draped in his gray coat.
"Alessandro, have you lost your mind?"
His voice was low and firm.
"You really think a twelve-year-old could overpower an eighteen-year-old and make him pull the trigger on himself?"
Alessandro's eyes wavered.
"Reckless guesses damage the family,"
Georges said, stepping closer.
"Stand down."
The Aftermath
As the guards moved the body, Luca watched Georges.
The only man here untouched by his ability.
The only one who had shielded him.
I'll never use it on you.
The range fell silent again.
But the scent of blood and the black rose lingered, curling through the quiet.
From that day, Luca was no longer the "second son."
He was a new hunter—his name written in blood and roses.