In this city, every heartbeat owes someone a debt.
Naples breathes in the dark. The air is heavy with salt from the harbor and the faint rot of the old quarter, where laundry lines hang like surrendered flags above narrow streets slick with yesterday's rain. The city never really sleeps—it just turns down the volume and listens to itself bleed.
Ciris Romano walked through it like a man immune to noise. His stethoscope hung crookedly from his neck, coat half-buttoned, tie askew, eyes shadowed by the kind of exhaustion that doesn't wash off with a good night's sleep. He moved like muscle memory—one step after another, automatic, indifferent, as if the pavement owed him for every hour he'd spent patching other people together.
The hospital's fluorescent ghosts still clung to him, the metallic smell of antiseptic, the burn of coffee that had boiled too long, the echo of monitors that beeped long after the patient flatlined.
He didn't look heroic, despite the whispers that followed his name through the corridors of San Martino. If anything, he looked perpetually unimpressed with existence itself.
*BEEP*
*BEEP*
A car horn blared behind him, sharp and impatient. But Ciris didn't even flinch.
"Ciris!"
The voice belonged to his older brother, Alessio, leaning out of his Alfa Romeo, cigarette glowing like a signal flare in the dark.
Ciris sighed, exhaling something close to annoyance but too tired to qualify. He turned, walked to the car, and slid into the passenger seat.
Alessio gave him that sideways glance. "You look like hell."
"I'm flattered you noticed," Ciris said, voice dry. "I was going for 'walking corpse.'"
Alessio ignored his comment and took a drag, the embers of his cigarette lighting his features, highlighting his sharp cheekbones. Eyes like bottled stormwater, and a mouth that looked perpetually ready to argue. His uniform jacket was unbuttoned as his badge clipped loose on the dash.
"Have you eaten?"
Ciris leaned his head against the window, eyelids half-lowered. "Define eaten."
"Food. Real food. Not whatever sludge they serve in your hospital cafeteria."
"That's a bold assumption. You think I had time to eat."
Alessio released a tired sigh with slight irritation. "You can't keep doing this, Ciris. You'll burn out."
"I already am," Ciris muttered, turning his face toward the glass.
Outside, Naples slid past in fractured reflections—streetlights on wet asphalt, a woman closing her shutters, a dog darting across an alley like a shadow that lost its owner.
Alessio drove in silence for a while, the cigarette now just a dead stub between his fingers. Then, inevitably, he started again. "You could at least take a few days off. Come to the coast. There's a villa near—"
"Alessio," Ciris cut in, tone sharp but not angry. "You nag worse than Ma did."
That made Alessio snort, smoke curling from his nose. "You wish I nagged less. Someone has to make sure you remember you're human."
"Oh I remember," Ciris said, eyes still on the passing lights. "Every time I cut one open."
Alessio grimaced. "Jesus. You know, for someone who saves lives, you have a talent for sounding like a sociopath."
"It's a gift."
They shared a silence that wasn't quite comfortable but wasn't hostile either—the kind that only exists between siblings who've spent years surviving the same ghosts.
Alessio broke it again, because of course he did. "You've been taking the long way home lately."
"Traffic," Ciris said without conviction.
"You hate driving."
"I hate people more."
Alessio gave a low chuckle. "You ever hear yourself? You sound like an eighty-year-old man who's outlived everyone worth talking to."
"I have," Ciris said, half under his breath.
Alessio rolled his eyes. "You're impossible."
"And yet you still wait for me like a stalker. Who's the real idiot here?"
That earned him a sharp look. Alessio's hand tightened on the wheel, but his voice softened just slightly. "You know why I check on you."
Ciris didn't answer. He didn't need to. The air inside the car was already thick with this brother's concern— dense, suffocating, like the summer humidity that clung to Naples even after midnight.
Alessio had a way of worrying that never switched off. It's like he was programmed to do so. The same way discipline and duty were. Even now, his hand gripped the steering wheel to tight, thumb brushing the service pistol holstered beside his thigh out of habit more than intent. It was muscle memory from too many years in service. Too many nights leading raids and writing reports that ended with names instead of numbers.
Even if he's not in duty, it never left him. Chief of police or not, Alessio still scanned every side street like a threat might crawl out of it.
And Ciris? Oh he knows but he didn't worry. He treats it like any other thing— quietly, clinically. As if acknowledging it would make it worse. He listens and nods at Alessio's constant reminders about the city's "hidden dangers", and let the words roll off like rain on stone.
If you ask him yourself, he didn't ask to be protected. He didn't want to know about the latest operation or even the names behind the gunfire, or the families that never made the morning news. It wasn't his business and he knew his brother would never tell him. Not that he cares. But still, he doesn't want his overprotectiveness. He doesn't want to be treated like a kid. He knows how to handle himself.
And in all honesty, he had enough blood on his hands from his own line of work.
*WHOOSH*
As they drove through the outskirts of the city, Ciris leaned his head back against the window, watching the streetlights flicker across his reflection.
"You sure about this shortcut?" he asked, half-lidded.
Alessio gave a small grunt. "It's faster. Less traffic."
"Famous last words."
"Relax," Alessio said, smirking. "What's the worst that could happen?"
And just like that, it's as if the universe just gave him an answer.
*WHOOSH*
Something darted across the road—a shape, fast and dark. Alessio swore and slammed the brakes. The tires screeched and the car jerked to a halt. The smell of burnt rubber mixing with the salt and diesel.
*HISSSSS*
For a moment, there was only the hiss of the cooling engine and a thump of heartbeat.
"Christ!" Alessio shouted.
Ciris blinked, unbuckled, and stepped out into the cold night. "You hit something."
He crouched low. Not something. Someone.
A man lay sprawled on the asphalt, dressed in black, blood already pooling beneath him. The man's breath left Ciris in a small cloud. "Through, and through," he mumbled, voice gone brisk and professional. "Entry right upper quadrant, exit posterior flank. Looks like a nime-mil. No major arterial bleed yet, but he's losing volume fast."
His hands moved without hesitation—checking airway, palpitating the neck, fingers slick with blood as he looked for a radial pulse. "Pulse thready, about ninety-five." He then moved to his eyes. "Pupils reactive. He's shocky, but salvageable if we stop the bleeding in ten minutes."
Alessio hovered behind him, pistol drawn but eyes darting between the shadows and the body. "What the hell? Ciris—get back in the car."
But Ciris didn't move. "He'll bleed out."
"Exactly." Alessio's voice dropped, low and tense. "We don't know who he is, or who's going to come looking. You can't just play Florence Nightingale on a deserted road."
"I'm not playing anything. He's still alive. And as a doctor, it's my job to save lives whether I'm inside or outside."
He didn't even spare another second looking at his brother's expression as he immedietaly reached into his coat, looking for small trauma pack he carried everywhere.
*KASHIKKK*
He tore open a pressure dressing, and pressed it hard against the entry wound.
*UCK*
The man's breath hitched as a wet rattling sound left through his lips.
"Why do you have to make everything so hard, Ciris." Alessio swore under his breath and swept his gaze over the dark stretch of the road.
He gazed down to his brother. "Look, if you wanna save him step aside so I can bring him to the car." Ciris looked at him with a look of silent gratitude. Just as Alessio was going to pick the man up, a distant growl of engines, low and synchronized echoed through the silent night. Headlights off and tires whispering on wet asphalt.
*VROOM*
*VROOM*
The darkness thicked as moments later, the quiet air exploded in white light as three black cars swung around the bend and blocked both lanes with its engines rumbling.
*CLACK*
Doors opened in perfect rhythm as men in dark suits stepped out. Their movements efficient, faces hidden beneath the the angle of the lights as the night smelled of gun oil and expensive cologne.
Alessio reacted first, snapping his pistol up, backing towards the Alfa Romeo. "Stay behind me," he hissed.
Ciris straightened slowly, the pressure dressing still clutched in his hand, and raised his eyes to the sudden half-circle of gun barrels trained on them. "Great," he muttered. "You just had to take the shortcut."
The suited men fanned out with military precision.
"Doctor Romano."
Alessio stiffened, his movement was abrupt, almost violent. His gun wavered, finger tightening on the trigger. Ciris caught the flicker of panic on his brother's face and frowned.
"They know me?"
Alessio didn't answer as his were flexed, knuckles whitening around the grip of his pistol. The pulse in his neck jumped once, hard.
"Who are you!" And what do you want with my brother?" Suddenly a tall, lean man took a step forward. The shadow that were cast on his figure were seen. His face was sharp-boned, almost elegant, eyes pale gray under the glare of the headlights. A silver ring, heavy and carved, caught the light as he lifted his hand. His black shirt open at the throat only to reveal a tattoo curling up his neck—an ornate letter M shaped like a blade tip, inked in deep charcoal.
"Mortani..." When Alessio saw the mark, his eyes went sharp. Like a switch that was flipped.
"Good evening to you too, Chief." The Mortani man's tone was smooth, almost pleasant. Though the smile didn't reach his eyes.
Alessio's stance shifted, weight balanced like he was back on duty. "Didn't realize rats were taking midnight strolls these days, Elias"
The man that was identified as "Elias" lifted his brow slightly, unfazed by the light jab. "Rats? No, no. We're the ones who keep this city clean." He glanced at the gun in Alessio's hand. "But you—you make such a mess of things when you come crawling through our streets."
Alessio's jaw flexed, the muscle tickling once more. "Watch your mouth."
"I'd rather not," Elias replied, polite as ever. "It's where the fun is."
Ciris's gaze moved between them, the exchange sharp and quiet as a knife sliding out of its sheath. He didn't know the full story, bu the way his brother's eyes had gone cold told him enough—whoever these men were, they were trouble.
Elias's silver ring caught the light again as he adjusted his cuff. "Now," he said softly. "Let's not waste more time. We have someone who requires... medical attention."
Ciris's brow arched, unimpressed. "Ah, so you just noticed? Took you long enough."
Elias's eyes flickered to him, amused. "Ah, so the doctor does talk."
Ciris sighed through his nose. "Only when those people state the obvious."
Alessio's mouth twitched as well as the one corner of Elias's mouth—not quite a smile, more like a test. "Blunt. No wonder they said you were difficult."
"They'?" Ciris echoed, tone flat.
"You're rather well known, Doctor Romano. Hard to find. Especially with your brother shadowing you every night. It was rather... Fortunate, finding you first."
Ciris blinked once, expression unreadable. "I'm guessing this isn't about my winning personality."
Elias chuckled, quiet and unamused. "No. Though I admit, your timing is impeccable."
Ciris's tone flattened. "Right. Because hitting a man with my car is usually the highlight of my night."
Elias's gaze flicked to the wounded body on the asphalt, then back to Ciris. His pale gray eyes looked unreadable, with the kind of calm that made the air colder just by existing. "You could call it fate."
"Fate," Ciris repeated dryly. "That's one way to put it."
He felt Alessio's irritaton running thin as he shifted beside him, the subtle click of the safety on his gun breaking the stillness. His voice cam low and tense. "What do you want from my brother, Elias?"
The question hung in the air like static.
The said man turned his head lazily towards Alessio. His tone stayed polite, but there was something sharp beneath it, like a smile that knew too much.
"From him? Nothing. Not at first," He said. "But since your doctor brother seems to have a talent for being at the wrong place at the right time... I'd say we're simply taking advantage of circumstance."
Alessio's grip on his gun tightened. "Circumstances doesn't involve armed men and blocked roads."
Elias's expression didn't change. "You think too much like a cop, Chief. Sometimes things just happen."
"Not with people like you," Alessio shot back.
Elias smiled faintly, titling his head. "People like me?"
"You know exactly what I mean."
Ciris glanced between them, already exhausted. "If you two are done flirting with violence, maybe we can focus on the bleeding man before he dies and stains the street with more drama."
The two broke eye contact as Elias's eyes returned to him. "I take it you'll help him."
Ciris gave a shallow shrug. "You think I came out here for the nightlife?"
That earned him a small, quiet hum of approval— the kind that didn't sound humanly warm. "Good," Elias said. "Then let's not waste any more time."
*BARK*
*BARK*
Elias's words hung in the air for a moment, quiet and deliberate. Somewhere beyond the circle of headlights, a dog barked once, then went silent again.
Alessio shifted his stance, gun still raised but trembling slightly from the strain of holding it steady. "He's not going anywhere with you," he said. His voice didn't rise. Instead it dropped, thick with warning.
Elias didn't flinch. "You misunderstand, Chief. He's already involved."
Ciris let out a short breath— a sound halfway between a sigh and a laugh. "I keep hearing that, and yet, I don't remember signing any contracts."
That earned a faint chuckle from Elias—the kind that didn't reach his eyes. "You stepped in the moment you stopped your car."
"I didn't exactly have a choice," Ciris sad dryly. "Your friend was bleeding all over the road."
"Then I suppose we should be grateful you came along." Elias's gaze flicked down to the wounded man, then back up, deliberate and calm. "Fate can be merciful when it wants to be."
Ciris straightened slightly, his voice flat. "What do you really want from me?"
That question—simple, level—landed heavier than a threat.
Elias smiled as though amused by Ciris's tone. "Nothing unreasonable. A life for a life, Doctor Romano."
Alessio took a step forward, blocking his brother. "You're not touching him."
Elias raised one brow, almost curious. "You protect him like family."
"He is my family," Alessio snapped.
For the first time, Elias's expression shifted— not anger, not surprise, but recognition. His gaze dropped briefly to the gun Alessio held, then to the badge half hidden by his jacket. "Of course," he said softly. "Naples's golden Chief himself. The man who swore the streets would be clean again."
"Funny," Alessio said, his jaw locked, "You don't looked very clean to me."
That made Elias smile— slow, deliberate, and utterly cold. "Clean hands rarely build empires."
The silence that followed was taut, electric.
*RUMBLE*
Then Alessio moved.
He swung first, sharp and efficient, disarming the nearest man with a twist that made the gun clatter onto the asphalt. Another came from his left as Alessio pivoted, elbow connecting with the man's throat, then ducked as a shot cracked too close to his ear.
Ciris flinched at the sound, more annoyed than afraid. He crouched beside the bleeding man on the ground again, muttering under his breath, "You better be worth the trouble."
Elias hadn't moved. He watched with the detachment of someone observing an animal in a cage. His men adjusted formation, tightening the semicircle.
Alessio fired once, dropping one of them to the pavement, then another— but there were too many. He caught a strike across his ribs, stumbled, recovered, and fired again. Every motion was methodical, trained, but the math was against him.
"Alessio!"
*RUMBLE*
*PITTER*
*PATTER*
Ciris barked, tone clipped, the way he did when an intern ignored instructions in the OR. "Stop trying to be a hero. You're outnumbered."
"Get back!" Alessio snapped. He blocked another hit, his coat sleeve tearing in the struggle. "They're not taking you!"
Ciris stood, hands raised half in surrender, half in resignation. His tone was flat, almost weary. "Then they'll shoot you. And then I'll have to patch you up too, and honestly, I don't have the patience for that tonight."
Elias's eyes flicked toward him, amused. "Pragmatic. I can appreciate that."
Ciris met his gaze coolly. "Appreciate it quietly."
Alessio lunged at one of the men, slamming him against the hood of their car. Another caught his shoulder with the butt of a gun, sending him staggering. The fight had turned desperate— Alesso's movements slowing, blood darkening his sleeve.
Ciris exhaled through his nose. "Enough," he muttered, stepping forward.
"Ciris—"
But Ciris was already moving, pushing past the gun aimed at his side, coat brushing against a man's arm. His tone was calm, detached, surgical. "I'll go," he said. "But you don't touch him."
That quieted everything. Even the rain seemed to hesitate.
Elias tilted his head slightly, appraising him. "You're making this easier than I expected."
"Don't flatter yourself," Ciris replied. "You have a patient. I have a conscience. That's all."
Elias's mouth curved. "And yet you came willingly."
"Willingly implies I had a choice."
Elias let out a soft hum— amusement, maybe admiration. Then he nodded.
Two men stepped forward.
Ciris's eyes flicked once toward Alessio—his brother had managed to get to his knees, blood trickling down the side of his face, still trying to reach him. One of the men raised a pistol but was cut off when Ciris's voice came sharp and fast.
"You lay one finger on him," he said, tone as precise as a scalpel, "and I swear, I'll open you from sternum to pelvis and make you watch me label every organ."
The men hesitated. Even Elias's brows lifted a fraction.
"Charming," he murmured.
"Occupational hazard."
Elias nodded at them once, and before Alessio could react, the butt of a gun connected sharply with his temple. He crumpled, silent.
Ciris didn't flinch—just watched, his jaw tightening until the muscles twitched.
They tied Alessio's wrists and left him by the roadside like a discarded thought.
Then Elias gestured toward the car. "After you, Doctor."
Ciris looked at his brother for a long moment—the faint rise and fall of his chest, the quiet in his face—and something unreadable crossed his eyes.
He turned to Elias, voice low, measured. "If he dies, I'll kill you."
Elias smiled faintly. "With what? A scalpel?"
Ciris stepped closer until the rain hit his lashes. "No," he said. "With precision."
Then he got into the car.
*SLAM*
The door slammed as engines growled to life.
And as the convoy rolled into the darkness, the rain came down harder—washing the street clean of blood.