Cold mist clung to the gothic spires of the Duomo, tasting of copper and heavy rain. Isabelle pressed her back against the wet stone wall, her heart hammering a frantic rhythm against her ribs. She could hear the muffled sounds of the bustling Milan piazza just a street away, but here, the air was dead and freezing.
Scurrying sounds echoed from the shadows ahead, drawing her deeper into the labyrinth of alleys behind the cathedral. She had to keep moving. She had to ensure that whatever was wearing the skin of that wealthy patron stayed far away from the cafe where Mateo was sitting. Her oldest brother was completely blind to the monster that had just walked past his table.
Inside her head, a violent heat throbbed behind her left eye, burning like a drop of liquid fire. Every time she blinked, her vision fractured, then sharpened into hyper-detailed focus. The world stopped being a blur of gray fog and instead became a grid of absolute precision. She could see individual droplets of condensation sliding down the stone blocks, and she could trace the invisible currents of wind cutting through the narrow alleyway. This was the legendary ocular power of her dead clan—the Sharingan.
Running felt different now. Her legs moved with a strange, fluid grace she had never possessed before. Her breath came in even, measured gasps, despite the terror clawing at her throat. She knew what this meant. The stories her mother had whispered in the dark before the fire consumed their home were true. She was not just a quiet, fragile girl shielded by wealthy Italian brothers. She was the last heir of a lineage of monsters and gods.
Ahead, a shape detached itself from the gloom. The creature no longer resembled the refined gentleman who had been sipping espresso moments ago. Its expensive tailored suit was shredded, hanging in tatters around a distended, skeletal torso that seemed to have too many joints. Pale, elongated arms ended in curved, obsidian claws that sliced through the damp air with a sickening hiss. Red, insect-like eyes stared back at her from a face split by a jagged maw.
Behind the ancient stone arches, the demon hissed, a sound like dry autumn leaves scraping over a tombstone. It lunged. The sheer speed of its attack would have been invisible to a normal human eye.
Suddenly, a claw swiped at her face. Instinct, ancient and raw, took over before she could even process the threat. In her left eye, a single comma-shaped tomoe spun wildly against a field of brilliant crimson. The demon’s lightning-fast strike slowed down to a crawl in her perception. She saw the exact trajectory of the descending claws, the slight shift in its weight, and the tremor in its deformed muscles before the strike even landed.
Pivoting on her heel, she dipped her shoulder. The claws missed her neck by a fraction of an inch, shearing through the heavy fabric of her coat instead. The wind of the strike whipped her dark hair across her face, stinging her cheeks. She rolled across the wet stones, her palms scraping against the rough ground, but the rush of adrenaline blocked out the pain. Her senses were dialed to an impossible frequency.
Desperation fueled her next move. The demon recovered with terrifying speed, its limbs clicking like shears as it scrambled up the brick wall. It clung to the vertical surface, its head snapping one hundred and eighty degrees to glare down at her. Drool, thick and acidic, dripped from its jaws, sizzling as it hit the fabric of her discarded scarf. Isabelle scrambled backward, her spine hitting the rough brick of the opposite wall. There was no escape, no help coming.
Red light flared in her vision as the monster screeched in frustration. It spun around, its milky, pupilless eyes locking onto her with predatory hunger. Isabelle felt the familiar, suffocating fear of her own vulnerability creeping up, threatening to paralyze her. She was alone in this darkness, hiding a truth so monstrous it would destroy her family if they ever found out.
Love, fierce and violent, drowned out her terror. She couldn't let them die. She wouldn't allow the unseen horrors of this world to tear away the only family she had left. If she had to become a monster herself to keep them safe, she would do it gladly. Her brothers had protected her for years, sheltering her from the harsh realities of their high-society rivalries. Now, it was her turn to protect them from the literal demons lurking in the dark.
Her mind raced, searching for any scrap of knowledge she had inherited. Her mother had spoken of the chakra network, the river of energy that flowed through every living soul but was mastered only by a chosen few. To tap into it, one needed absolute focus or a surge of extreme emotion. As the demon coiled its muscular legs to spring from the wall, Isabelle pictured Mateo's face. She pictured Victor's protective, warm smile. She pictured Sandro's laughter and Danye's quiet presence.
Muscle memory she didn't know she possessed guided her hands. A strange, warm energy flared deep within her gut, rushing upward through her veins like boiling liquid. It was chakra, a power she had only read about in the burnt remnants of her clan's scrolls. Desperate for leverage as the beast lunged again, her hand shot out, grasping the base of a heavy stone gargoyle that had fallen from the roof days ago.
Squeezing the solid granite, she expected her fingers to break. Instead, the stone crumbled like dry clay. Under the raw pressure of her chakra-infused grip, the heavy ornament shattered into fine dust and jagged fragments. With a sharp twist of her torso, she flung the remaining chunk of stone straight at the beast's chest. The impact carried the force of a speeding truck.
Screaming, the thing was thrown backward by the sheer force of the blow. The impact sent the demon crashing into the brick wall, a wet crunch echoing through the alley. Black, smoking fluid erupted from its chest, sizzling as it dripped onto the cold cobblestones and dissolved the moss growing between them. It thrashed, its limbs twitching as it dissolved into a heap of foul-smelling liquid. Within seconds, nothing was left but a dark, bubbling pool.
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Dust choked the narrow passage, mixing with the heavy fog. Isabelle collapsed against the wall, gasping for air as the fire in her left eye began to recede. Her muscles trembled from the sudden exertion, the heavy thrum of chakra slowly fading back into her core. She looked down at her hands, still covered in stone dust and microscopic traces of the creature's black blood. The reality of what she had just done pressed down on her chest like a physical weight.
How could she ever go back to being the quiet, delicate sister after this? How could she sit at their dinner table, pretending her biggest worry was her university classes, while these things walked the streets of Milan? The illusion of her normal life was cracking, and she was the one holding the pieces together.
"Isabelle!" a deep, commanding voice called out from the mouth of the alley.
Panic seized her. It was Victor. Her second-oldest brother, the stoic protector who ran their family's security operations with ruthless, military efficiency. If he saw her like this—with her left eye glowing a brilliant, unnatural red and the remnants of a shattered stone statue at her feet—her secrets would be laid bare. He would ask questions she couldn't answer. He would try to protect her from a world he couldn't possibly understand, placing himself directly in the line of fire.
Shaking, she quickly pulled her long, dark bangs over the left side of her face, letting the thick strands drape over her glowing eye. She forced her breathing to slow, desperate to suppress the chakra humming under her skin. The crimson light faded slightly, but she could still feel the phantom heat of the Sharingan burning behind her eyelid, demanding to be used. She pressed her hand over her eye, praying the glow wouldn't seep through her fingers.
Victor burst through the fog, his hand already reaching inside his tailored wool coat for the firearm he always carried. His sharp, calculating eyes scanned the dark alley, landing on his sister huddled on the ground. He rushed to her side, his heavy boots clicking loudly on the wet pavement. He looked like an avenging angel, his jaw clenched and his shoulders broad.
"What happened?" he demanded, his voice tight with a mixture of anger and panic. He gripped her shoulders, lifting her up to inspect her for injuries. "I heard a noise. Mateo said you ran off after some customer, and then I heard a crash. Why did you run down here?"
Victor's eyes scanned the narrow alley with professional intensity. He was a man trained to spot anomalies, to read a scene like a book. He noticed the shattered remains of the granite gargoyle scattered across the cobblestones, his brow furrowing as he stepped closer to the debris. He kicked a piece of the broken stone, his boots making a heavy, metallic sound in the quiet alley. For a second, Isabelle’s heart stopped. She held her breath, terrified he would ask how a young woman could have pulverized solid stone.
"This gargoyle must have fallen from the roof," Victor muttered, his voice echoing in the damp space. He looked up at the gothic cornices of the Duomo, lost in the thick fog. "The city council needs to maintain these historical structures. It could have crushed you, Isabelle. You're lucky you weren't standing directly under it."
"Yes," she whispered, her voice barely audible. "It fell right after the dog ran off. It scared me to death."
Lying came easily when survival was on the line. "A dog," Isabelle whispered, her voice shaking realistically. She squeezed her eyes shut, letting the tears of adrenaline flow naturally. "A massive, rabid stray. It cornered me. I... I threw a rock at it, and it ran away into the sewer grate over there. I was so scared, Victor."
Looking at her, Victor's expression softened slightly, though his posture remained rigid and alert. He brushed a stray strand of hair away from her right cheek, his thumb warm against her cold skin. "You shouldn't have run off. You know how dangerous these streets can be at night. Let's get you back to the car. Mateo is losing his mind."
Victor steps past her, his boots splashing in a puddle of black, smoking ichor that he seemingly cannot see, while he holds up a torn piece of Isabelle's dress stained with the same unnatural fluid.