Rain beat a rhythmic tattoo against the stained-glass transom of Caffè Bellini. Steam hissed from the copper espresso machine, wrapping around Isabelle's wrists like warm silk. Milan's morning rush hummed through the small space, a steady drone of clinking porcelain and rapid-fire Italian dialect. Behind the counter, her hands moved with practiced, quiet efficiency. "Isabelle, you're grinding those beans too fine," Mateo's voice cut through the noise, dripping with that familiar, heavy-handed concern. He stepped into her space, his tall, broad-shouldered frame blocking the narrow passage between the counter and the pastry display. His hand reached out, gently but firmly taking the metal tamper from her fingers. "Go sit down. You've been on your feet since six." Sighing softly, she pulled her apron tighter around her waist. "I am fine, Mateo. Truly. It's just coffee." "It is never just coffee when you look this pale," he insisted, brushing a stray dark lock behind her ear. His touch was warm, a solid reminder of the family that had kept her safe in this bright, bustling city. Yet, his protective nature felt like a velvet cage. Mateo, Victor, Sandro, Danye—her four older brothers treated her like a fragile glass doll. They built walls of money, status, and influence around her, sheltering her from a world they thought she couldn't handle. Victor handled the family's shipping logistics, an empire built on imports and exports that crossed oceans. Sandro spent his nights in dark gyms or managing the high-end security details for Milan's elite. Danye, with his sharp suits and sharper tongue, navigated the political waters of the city hall like a shark. Mateo was the anchor, running this quiet café while keeping a watchful eye on their little sister. They had taken her in when she was just a small, traumatized girl found in the wreckage of a tragic fire. She had no memories, only a deep-seated panic that flared whenever she was left alone. Because of that, they never let her out of their sight. But they didn't know the truth. Deep down, a silent voice whispered that she didn't belong in their pristine, gilded world. Her real family, her bloodline, was a void of forgotten ash and whispered nightmares. Fear of abandonment kept her silent, forcing her to play the role of the perfect, helpless little sister. If they knew what she really was, would they still look at her with such fierce devotion? Would they cast her out into the cold Milanese streets? She couldn't risk it. Losing them would destroy her. "Drink some water," Mateo ordered, his dark eyes scanning her face for any sign of weakness. "I will," she murmured, stepping back to let him take over the espresso pull. Outside, the gray Milanese rain began to patter against the leaded glass windows. Streetlights flickered to life against the premature gloom. Customers hurried inside, shaking out their umbrellas and stamping their wet leather shoes. Among them, a man in a tailored charcoal coat slid onto a stool at the far end of the mahogany bar. He didn't look up, his chin tucked deep into his collar. Something about his posture made the hairs on the back of Isabelle's neck stand on end. Cold air seemed to roll off him, cutting through the warm aroma of roasted chicory and steamed milk. "Serve him, but then you take a break," Mateo muttered, gesturing toward the newcomer as he steamed a pitcher of milk. Nodding, she grabbed a clean ceramic cup and a saucer. Her heart hammered against her ribs for no logical reason. Step by step, she approached the dark-coated man. "Good morning," she said, her voice a quiet ripple in the noisy room. "What can I get started for you?" Silence stretched between them, heavy and suffocating. Slowly, the man raised his head. Isabelle's breath hitched, freezing in her throat. Underneath the shadow of his brimmed hat, his skin was not skin at all. It was a pale, shifting membrane, bubbling and peeling back like burning plastic. Multiple wet, yellow eyes bubbled up from his cheeks, twitching in unison. A wet, clicking sound echoed from somewhere inside his throat. She gasped, dropping the ceramic saucer. It shattered against the tiled floor, sending sharp white shards flying across the ground. "Isabelle!" Mateo's voice barked from the other end of the counter. "Did you cut yourself?" She couldn't answer. Her gaze was locked onto the shifting nightmare in front of her. None of the other patrons turned to look at the monster. Nobody screamed. Even Mateo, who was already marching over with a broom, was looking right past the bubbling, multi-eyed horror. "Mateo..." she whispered, her voice trembling. "Do you... do you see him?" "See who? Signor Rossi?" Mateo asked, glancing at the empty stool next to the man. "Isabelle, you're white as a sheet." Needle-thin teeth exposed as its lips peeled away, its face bubbling further. Black fluid leaked from its twitching sockets, dripping onto the clean mahogany counter. Liquid hissed as it touched the wood, leaving scorched, bubbling trails. Air grew thick with the stench of ozone and rotting copper. She felt her stomach churn, a wave of nausea hitting her like a physical blow. Why was the entire world so blind to the rot festering right in front of them? Terror, raw and primal, surged through her veins. It wasn't just fear; it was an ancient, dormant trigger snapping awake inside her. Deep within her skull, a hot, searing spike of pain drove straight through her right eye. She choked back a scream, clutching her temple as her vision fractured. Everything turned a violent, blood-red hue. Slowing to a sickening crawl, the room around her warped. She could see the individual dust motes suspended in the air. Tracing the exact trajectory of a falling drop of espresso became effortless. Observing the kinetic energy radiating from Mateo's hand as he reached for her became a surreal horror. Inside her right eye, something shifted, spinning like a heavy iron gear. A single, black pinwheel—a tomoe—crystallized in her burning red iris. Agony was blinding, a hot needle piercing her optic nerve. Warm, copper-tasting liquid began to leak from her eye, tracing a slow line down her cheek. She was bleeding. Her own anatomy felt foreign, monstrous, and terrifying. This wasn't the body of a normal Italian girl. Born of a violent, forgotten bloodline, she was something else entirely. Whispered stories of the Uchiha, heard in her earliest childhood dreams, were real. Red eyes, the power to see through the world's illusions, had awakened. But the cost was her sanity, her peace, and the fragile life she had built. She was the last heir of a slaughtered clan, hiding in plain sight. And the monsters were already here. "Isabelle!" Mateo's hand gripped her shoulder, his voice laced with sudden panic. He was trying to turn her toward him. If he saw her eye—if he saw the bleeding, crimson iris with its unnatural black mark—her secret would be dead. Desperate, she squeezed her eyes shut and forced her knees to buckle. "I'm dizzy," she gasped, letting herself slump against the wooden counter. She buried her face in her hands, pressing her palm hard against her right eye to smear away the blood. "Hey, hey, I've got you," Mateo swore, catching her before she hit the floor. He lifted her easily, his strong arms wrapping around her waist as he pulled her behind the counter. "I told you to rest. Damn it, Isabelle." His voice was thick with guilt and terror. "Keep your eyes closed," he muttered, gently resting her head against his shoulder. "Just a dizzy spell," she whispered, her voice muffled against his chest. She used his apron to quickly wipe the remaining blood from her cheek. Her right eye throbbed with a dull, heavy pulse, the red vision slowly fading back to normal. "I'm calling Dr. Bianchi," Mateo said, his chest rising and falling rapidly. He laid her down on the cushioned bench in the back booth. "Don't move. I'll be right back." He turned his back, pulling his phone from his pocket as he stepped toward the kitchen. His frantic whispers echoed off the tiled walls as he dialed the doctor. Isabelle lay on the leather booth, her heart hammering like a trapped bird. Every breath felt like swallowing glass. Heat in her right eye refused to cool completely, a steady, pulsing reminder of the door she had just kicked open. She had spent years pretending to be normal. Forcing herself to forget the shadows that stretched too long, she had buried her memories. But the illusion was shattered now. Her eyes had seen the truth, and there was no going back to the quiet, protected life her brothers had built for her. Normalcy returned to her surroundings, save for the lingering heat in her right eye. Yet, the creature remained. It slid off the stool, moving with an unnatural, jointless grace. Leaning over the counter, it pressed inches from where she lay. Its jaw split open, revealing a yawning chasm of rot, to whisper in a dead language: "We found you, little crow."

Through the Bleeding Glass