The hospital never truly slept.
Even in the early hours of the morning, when the city outside fell quiet, the corridors of Grigioporto Central Hospital remained alive with muted sounds. Shoes squeaked against polished floors. A cart rattled past an open door. Machines hummed with mechanical patience, indifferent to human loss.
Ethan Cole opened his eyes to white light.
For a moment, he did not understand where he was. The ceiling above him was unfamiliar, too clean, too bright. The smell in the air was sharp and sterile, cutting through his senses like a blade. His body felt heavy, distant, as if it belonged to someone else.
Then the pain arrived.
It did not explode. It crept in slowly, a deep, burning pressure spreading from his left shoulder down his arm. His jaw tightened as he tried to shift, only to feel resistance from muscles that refused to cooperate.
"Easy."
The voice came from his right. Calm. Professional.
A nurse stood beside the bed, clipboard in hand. She looked at him with the practiced neutrality of someone who had seen too much suffering to react emotionally to any of it.
"You were shot," she said. "The bullet passed through soft tissue. You're lucky."
Lucky.
The word landed wrong.
Ethan swallowed. His throat was dry. "My family."
The nurse hesitated for half a second. Not long enough to be obvious, but long enough for him to notice.
"Your sister survived," she said carefully. "She's in another room. Under observation."
Ethan closed his eyes.
Relief came, thin and sharp, cutting through the numbness. It was followed immediately by something heavier. Something that pressed down on his chest harder than the pain in his shoulder.
"What about my parents?" he asked.
The nurse did not answer right away. She lowered her clipboard.
"I'm sorry."
That was all she said.
Ethan did not scream. He did not cry. He simply lay there, staring at the ceiling, listening to the steady rhythm of the heart monitor beside him. Each beep confirmed what he already knew.
He was still alive.
Hours passed without meaning.
At some point, two men entered the room. They wore plain jackets, their expressions serious but restrained. One of them carried a thin folder. The other stood slightly behind, watching Ethan closely.
"Ethan Cole?" the man with the folder asked.
"Yes."
"We're with the Polizia di Stato," he said, flashing his badge briefly. "We need to ask you a few questions."
Ethan nodded.
They asked about the night. About the knock on the door. About the men who entered the house. How many there were. Whether he recognized their voices. Their faces. Their weapons.
Ethan answered slowly, choosing his words carefully. He described what he saw, not what he felt. He told them there were four men. That they moved with coordination. That they did not steal anything. That they did not hesitate.
"They weren't amateurs," he said.
The man with the folder exchanged a glance with his partner.
"Did your parents have any enemies?" he asked. "Debts? Business disputes?"
"No," Ethan replied.
"Are you sure?"
"My father worked a normal job," Ethan said. "So did my mother."
The officer nodded, writing something down.
"We'll investigate," he said. "But cases like this… they take time."
"How much time?" Ethan asked.
The officer did not answer directly. "We'll be in touch."
When they left, the room felt emptier than before.
Later that day, Ethan was allowed to see Lina.
She sat on a narrow hospital bed, knees pulled to her chest, her arms wrapped around herself. A blanket rested over her shoulders, but she did not seem to notice it. Her eyes were open, fixed on a spot near the window, unblinking.
Ethan sat beside her.
"It's me," he said quietly.
No reaction.
He reached for her hand. Her fingers were cold, but she did not pull away.
"I'm here," he said. "You're safe."
Lina blinked once. Slowly. Her gaze shifted, focusing on him as if she were seeing him through water.
"They're gone," she whispered.
Ethan tightened his grip on her hand. "I know."
"They killed them," she said, her voice flat. "They didn't say anything."
"I know."
For a moment, it seemed like she might break. Her lips trembled. Her shoulders shook. Then she went still again, retreating somewhere Ethan could not follow.
He stayed with her until visiting hours ended.
Two days later, they left the hospital.
There was no home to return to.
The house in Quartiere Nord had been sealed off, then released. The blood had been cleaned, but the walls remembered. The neighbors watched from behind curtains, curiosity mixing with unease. Some offered quiet condolences. Others avoided eye contact entirely.
Ethan stood across the street, a sling supporting his injured arm, and looked at the place where his family had lived.
It felt smaller than he remembered.
A temporary housing unit was arranged for them on the outskirts of the district. One room. Thin walls. Other displaced families nearby. The kind of place meant to be forgotten.
That night, Lina fell asleep from exhaustion rather than peace. Ethan sat on the floor beside her bed, back against the wall, listening to her breathing.
When he was sure she was asleep, he pulled out his phone.
No messages. No missed calls.
He opened his photo gallery.
His parents smiled back at him from the screen. Birthdays. Holidays. Ordinary moments that now felt unreal. He turned the phone off.
Waiting would not bring answers.
Three days later, Ethan returned to the house alone.
The door creaked as he pushed it open. The air inside was stale, heavy with memories. Sunlight filtered through boarded windows, casting uneven shadows across the floor.
He moved slowly, carefully.
In the kitchen, behind a partially shifted cabinet, he noticed something the police had missed. Scratches on the floor. Subtle, but deliberate. As if something heavy had been dragged out in a hurry.
Not a body.
Something else.
Ethan crouched, running his fingers along the marks. His heart beat faster.
Someone had taken something from this house.
When he stepped back outside, a man stood across the street.
He leaned against a lamppost, smoking. His jacket was worn. His posture relaxed in a way that felt practiced.
"You shouldn't be here," the man said without looking directly at Ethan.
Ethan stopped. "Who are you?"
"Just someone who pays attention," the man replied. "This place wasn't hit randomly."
Ethan's eyes narrowed. "You know something."
The man took another drag from his cigarette. "I know that people who ask too many questions tend to disappear."
"Then why are you talking to me?"
The man finally looked at him. His gaze was sharp, measuring.
"Because you're still breathing," he said. "And because this city doesn't like loose ends."
He dropped the cigarette, crushed it under his shoe, and walked away.
Ethan watched him disappear down the street.
That night, something shifted inside him.
It wasn't anger. Not yet.
It was clarity.
The police would not save him. Time would not heal him. Silence would only protect those who benefited from it.
If answers existed, they would not be found in offices or reports.
They would be found in places people avoided.
In the shadows of Grigioporto, where rules were written in blood and erased just as easily.
Ethan stood by the window of the temporary housing unit, watching the city lights flicker in the distance.
He did not know where to begin.
But he knew he would not stop.
And somewhere, far above the streets he stood on, people who had never learned his name began to take notice.
Not because he was important.
But because something that should have stayed buried had begun to move.