Clara's hands shook as she clutched the edge of her chair. "Do you remember… when we confronted him?" she whispered, her voice tight. "After the first stories… the disappearances… the mutilations… the terror that started spreading through the city?"
Isabella shivered, pressing her fingers to her lips. "Yes. We demanded answers. We looked him in the eyes. We asked why… why the innocent boy we knew was gone. Why the streets feared him. Why people vanished. And do you remember what he said?"
Clara nodded, a bitter laugh escaping her throat. "He said… 'It's coincidence. None of it has anything to do with me.'" Her voice cracked, almost breaking entirely. "The audacity… to deny everything, as if our ears had heard rumors and nightmares, but not reality."
Anna leaned back, her face pale, eyes glinting with a mixture of fear and frustration. "Coincidence. That's what he called it. The boy who could make entire neighborhoods bend to his will, who could strike fear into the hearts of men twice his age… coincidence. How can anyone… how can we even think to believe him now?"
Elena's hands rested tightly in her lap. "We wanted to trust him. We needed to believe there was still a boy inside that cold mask. And yet… even as he smiled that calm, empty smile, we could see nothing but calculation behind it. Every story, every rumor, every life touched by fear… and he calls it coincidence?"
Clara's chest rose with a shuddering breath. "It makes me sick. To think… the boy who once left us little notes, who would bring fresh fruit in the mornings, who whispered 'I've got your back'… has become a monster whose silence alone can kill."
Isabella's voice dropped, trembling with anger and grief. "We confronted him because we wanted answers. Because we wanted him to explain the coldness, the disappearances… the city trembling at the sound of his name. And he had the nerve to say it was coincidence. Coincidence! As if every corpse, every fear, every whispered legend was just… happenstance."
Anna's eyes darkened. "Do you know what terrifies me most? That the boy we knew—the one we loved—is truly gone. That the Moretti name now relies on a monster. And no matter what, he will never confirm it. He will never admit it. He only lets the world guess, trembling at shadows and stories."
Elena added softly, almost to herself, "And yet… we know his heart. Or what's left of it. We know that Enzo and Luca… they are different. They've been confronted by us. They know the limits. They protect the family, yes, but they don't cross into needless cruelty. We can rely on them, if barely, that some line remains unbroken. But him… nothing remains. Nothing."
Clara wiped her eyes, voice hoarse. "It is unbearable. That we looked at him and asked, begged, for any shred of truth… and he looked at us and smiled, saying nothing. Denying every vile act… claiming it was coincidence. And now, after the uploader… after this city trembling, we are left with nothing but fear."
Isabella shook her head, a hollow sound escaping her. "How does a child who once loved us… who once was innocent… become something the city whispers about in terror? How does coincidence make hundreds vanish, men beg for mercy, families cower in every alley?"
Anna's voice cut through the room, firm and sharp. "We cannot undo it. We cannot bring back the boy. The Morettis must survive. That is all we can do. And hope… hope he spares innocents. But the moment someone threatens the family… we all know he won't hesitate. He never has."
Elena nodded. "And we cling to Enzo and Luca, because at least they have limits. Because at least they've been guided… corrected… confronted. They may be dangerous in the right hands, but they obey, they protect. Not like him. Not like the monster who claims every horror is coincidence."
Clara's lips pressed tight. "We can only remember him as the boy we once knew… and pray that the city survives until that monster tires of it. Or… until he moves on to the next shadowed corner. Because if the uploader… if anyone else… faces him… I do not know who could live to tell the story."
Isabella leaned back, shivering as if the chill of the world outside had entered the room. "We looked into his eyes… and found nothing. Coincidence, he said. But we know now. We know it was never coincidence. Never."
Anna's voice was low, but it carried steel. "And that… is the cruelest truth. That the boy who should have been ours… who should have remained innocent… is now the reason the city quakes in fear. And we… we must watch from the shadows, powerless, praying for mercy that may never come."
Clara pressed her palms to her face, trying to hold back a sob that threatened to shake her very chest. "It started… after his father died," she whispered, her voice fragile, trembling under the weight of memory. "Before… before then, he was just a boy. Innocent. Gentle. Attentive, even. He… he would sit with me in the evenings, talk to Isabella… laugh, ask questions, dream. He had a kindness in him. A heart. And I thought… I thought we would always have him like that."
Isabella's lips trembled as she nodded slowly. "I remember. I remember him asking about the gardens… the neighbors… how he could help anyone who needed it. And then, one day… after father passed, everything changed. The boy we knew… vanished. His eyes… cold. Empty. He barely spoke to us, and when he did, it was clipped, calculated, as if every word cost him something."
Anna leaned back in her chair, the faint light of the drawing room glinting off the edges of her sharp features. "It was sudden. But not really. We noticed the rumors first… strange things whispered on the streets. People disappearing. Some families… ruined overnight. Neighbors cowering. And every story led back to him, even then—he was just sixteen."
Elena's voice was softer, but every syllable carried weight. "We tried to reason with him. To speak, to reach the boy we knew. But he smiled… that same calm, expressionless smile… and told us it was all coincidence. That it had nothing to do with him. And we… we wanted to believe him."
Clara shook her head, eyes wide, tears falling now. "But we couldn't. How could we? The small things, the vanishings, the streets bending… everything pointed to him. And yet, he never acknowledged it. Just… silence. Coincidence, he said. Coincidence! Do you know what it's like to hear that? After everything?"
Isabella leaned forward, hands gripping her knees. "I still see him sometimes… that boy he used to be. The one who cared. The one who… who smiled with us. And then… the monster. At fifteen, they say he took three men by himself. Knives, fists… precision like nothing we'd seen. No witnesses. No trace. And then it kept escalating. Sixteen, seventeen… every year, more terrifying than the last. And always… silence. Always denial. Coincidence."
Anna's fingers tapped against the armrest, sharp and rhythmic, almost like a suppressed panic. "Do you remember the first time we tried to confront him? After the whispers had grown into screams, after the mutilations started… we demanded answers. And he… he claimed nothing. Coincidence. He told us it had nothing to do with him. That even the bodies, the fear, the city trembling—it was all… chance."
Elena's lips pressed tight. "And now… after everything… after this latest… the uploader… we are left with nothing but certainty. That he has become something else entirely. That innocence is gone. And what terrifies me most… is that we cannot stop him. We cannot reason with him. There is no boy left to plead with, only the monster."
Clara's voice shook. "He started so young. Fifteen… the stories from that age… we never wanted to believe them. But now, each tale—how carefully he struck, how he could vanish and reappear… how he could manipulate, control, terrify… it all makes sense. Too late. We cannot look away. And yet, we cannot intervene. We are powerless."
Isabella added, a whisper so low it was almost lost in the room, "And we tried to reach him. We begged, we confronted… and he said nothing. Coincidence. And now… what can we say? How do you reason with someone who laughs at the notion of accountability? Who turns reality into chance while the city trembles beneath him?"
Anna's eyes darkened. "I think… I think we grieve not only for the city, but for the boy we lost. The boy who loved, who cared, who could have been… something good. Gone. Replaced by something… unimaginable."
Elena nodded slowly. "And that… that is the horror. The realization that innocence, kindness, hope… are gone. And what remains is something colder than the streets themselves. Something that cannot be bargained with, reasoned with, or mitigated. He is not just feared… he is untouchable."
Clara's hands curled into fists, knuckles white. "And yet… the moment anyone threatens our family, he will act. Ruthless. Unflinching. We can only pray that the innocent are spared. That the monster spares those who have done nothing. And hope… hope we are never in the path of his wrath."
Isabella's voice broke as she whispered, "How does a boy become this? How does a child, born with warmth in his eyes, transform into… into something the city whispers about in fear? It is a question with no answer… only horror."
Anna exhaled slowly, as if releasing a weight too heavy to carry. "We will remember the boy… and tremble before the monster. And wait. And pray. That is all we can do."
Elena's final words echoed in the silent room, almost swallowed by the shadows: "Coincidence… he said. And now… there is nothing left but truth. Nothing left but fear."