Panic is said to be an accumulating process — a slow build of tension that claws at the mind until it finally spills over. But for Isadora, it happened all at once.
One moment she was standing near the parked cars under the dim lights of the street, the next her entire body froze as she watched Ettore — her personal bodyguard — giving sharp, clipped orders to the other men. His voice carried through the cool night air, precise and calm, though the edge in it betrayed his own urgency. The men moved swiftly, fanning out across the nearby buildings in groups of twos and threes, searching for any CCTV cameras that might have caught a glimpse of Elisa's movements.
Yet as the minutes ticked away — ten, twenty, thirty — the silence that followed each attempt was unbearable. Every report that came back empty pressed down on Isadora like a physical weight, and with it, a dreadful realization began to take form. Something was terribly wrong.
It wasn't just a simple disappearance.
