POV: Emilia Conti
The location pin led me underground.
Not literally—no tunnels or basements—but into one of those spaces the city pretended was neutral. Private. Temporary. Designed so no one lingered long enough to ask who else had passed through before them.
A members-only conference floor above a closed hotel. No signage. No branding. No security visible.
That was intentional.
Alessio waited in the car.
Not because he couldn't come.
Because they wanted to see what I did alone.
I took the elevator up.
No music. No mirror. Just a soft hum and a floor indicator that stopped at thirteen without superstition or apology.
The doors opened to glass.
Too much of it.
Walls, tables, even the dividers—transparent without being revealing. You could see movement without detail. Shapes without faces.
Observation without accountability.
The woman from the hospital stood at the far end of the room, speaking quietly with a man whose posture told me everything before his face did.
