The cliffs looked different at night. They weren't just stone and salt—they were teeth, ancient and waiting to bite. The sea below roared like something alive, a beast hungry for secrets.
Marco's boots crunched against gravel as he approached the clearing. The air tasted metallic, storm-heavy. Lightning cracked somewhere beyond the horizon, painting the world white for half a breath—just enough to reveal the shape standing ahead.
Matteo.
Alive.Real.And utterly unchanged, except for the darkness that had deepened in his eyes.
He stood with his hands in his pockets, the kind of stillness that didn't belong to the living. "You came," Matteo said, his voice smooth as a blade sliding from its sheath.
"I always do," Marco replied.
"Still predictable." A smile ghosted across Matteo's mouth—cold, knowing. "You used to be smarter."
Marco's fists clenched. "You used to be dead."
"That's the thing about ghosts," Matteo said softly. "We linger where we're not wanted."
The wind howled between them, carrying salt, grief, and the ghosts of a hundred unspoken words. Marco could feel the old wound pulsing beneath his ribs—the one Matteo had left there the night everything burned.
"You killed our father," Marco said, the words slicing through the air.
Matteo tilted his head, almost amused. "Did I? Or did he just finally choke on the poison he fed us all?"
Lightning struck again, and for an instant Marco saw him clearly—wet hair clinging to his forehead, the same scar tugging at the corner of his mouth. The same brother who used to pull him from the water when they were boys. The same brother who'd vanished into blood and smoke.
"You could've come back," Marco said. "You didn't have to turn into this."
Matteo's laugh was sharp, brittle. "Turn into what, brother? The monster you made me? The one who watched everything you loved survive while I was buried alive?"
"Buried alive?" Marco took a step forward. "You chose this path."
"And you chose her," Matteo spat. "The girl with the wide eyes and the trembling hands—what's her name again? Isabella?"
Marco's jaw tightened. "Don't say her name."
Matteo smiled, slow and venomous. "Ah. There it is. The soft spot." He took a step closer. "You've always needed something to save, Marco. But tell me—when she looks at you, does she know what you've done? What you left me to become?"
Marco didn't answer. The silence between them stretched thin, trembling. The storm rolled closer, thunder crawling across the sea.
Matteo's expression flickered—grief, rage, something hollow and human buried deep. "You were supposed to die that night," he said. "Not me."
"Maybe we both did," Marco whispered.
For a moment, the two brothers stood there—two ruins carved from the same foundation, cracked in different places.
Then Matteo drew the gun.
It gleamed dully in the lightning flash, a cruel little punctuation mark at the end of a long sentence.
"You walked right into my grave," Matteo said. "How fitting you'll stay here."
Marco didn't move. "If this is about vengeance, then do it. But leave her out of it."
Matteo's hand trembled. "You don't get to ask me for mercy."
"I'm not," Marco said. "I'm asking you to be the brother I lost."
Something broke in Matteo's expression—barely visible, but enough. His voice cracked when he whispered, "That brother's gone."
The gun fired.
A single flash tore the night apart.