He stood in front of the safehouse. It looked like it hadn't been lived in for years. Paint peeling off the walls, one dull bulb above the front door that didn't close properly.
Lucas stepped over a broken tile and knocked once, sharp. No answer. He walked in anyway.
Inside, the place smelled like boiled cabbage and old blood. The fan in the corner wheezed like it was about to give up on life.
Giorgio lay on a couch that had probably seen better days. His face was sunken, eyes yellowed. He had a bucket beside him filled with red-stained tissues.
Next to him stood a girl—couldn't have been older than fifteen. She wore oversized slippers and an old Juventus hoodie, her hair in a messy ponytail. Quiet, alert.
"You look rough," Lucas said, setting his coat down on the dusty armrest.
Giorgio coughed, long and violent. "Our inevitable end."
Lucas sat across from him, elbows on his knees. "You know I didn't come here for small talk. Give me what I want."
