While Dante was carving his name into the city with a bloody scalpel, Anna was descending into a different kind of madness in the penthouse.
The luxury was stifling. Every meal was a five-course masterpiece. Every garment was silk or cashmere. But she had no one to talk to. The guards were stone statues. The only "person" she interacted with was the blue light of the cameras.
She found herself talking to the air, her voice sounding strange to her own ears.
"Did you kill them all yet?" she asked the kitchen camera as she poured a glass of wine. "Are you sitting on your throne of bones, Dante? Do you feel powerful?"
She hated him. She told herself that every morning. But at night, when the city lights flickered and the wind howled against the glass, she found herself curled up on the rug in the living room, right where she knew the camera's blind spot *wasn't*.
She wanted him to see her. She wanted him to see how she was breaking.
