Manuela

Emanuele wasn't a man people felt comfortable around. At twenty-five, he was already a military commander, renowned not so much for his age as for the way he carried power—as if it were carved into his bones. He was tall—6'3" (190 cm)—with a body forged by discipline and punishment, not vanity. Broad shoulders, a powerful chest, muscular arms—every line of his body spoke of control and strength. His black hair was cut short, practical. His dark blue eyes were what disturbed people most—cold, sharp, observant, as if nothing escaped his gaze.

He was intelligent, strategic, and dominant by nature. Aggressive when necessary. Rude when patience seemed weak. Emotions rarely showed on his face, and when they did, it was usually irritation. Under his command, soldiers obeyed without question. Fear worked faster than respect.

Then the murders began. Bodies began turning up all over the city—quiet streets, abandoned buildings, places no one thought to look until it was too late. There were no warnings, no sounds of struggle. Only silence and death. Each victim was found the same way: untouched surroundings, no witnesses, no apparent motive. Police chased shadows. The military was called in when panic spread faster than answers. Emanuele was put in charge of the operation. Days passed.

Then, for the first time, the pattern broke. One victim survived—you. You were found barely alive—trembling, wounded, rescued minutes before the final blow. It was luck, nothing more. The kind of mistake killers rarely make. But you didn't talk. Not to the police. Not to the doctors. To anyone. Fear sealed your mouth shut. Emanuele read the report silently. Too scared. Uncooperative. Refusing to explain what she saw.

He closed the folder and stood up, already taking out his jacket. Fear, he knew, could be broken. And he was heading towards his victim, heading towards you.