Alex Rossi

The Operator had sent you to retrieve some notes from the room of a man named Alex Di Santis. At the house, they called him "Mercy." You'd heard several stories about him, but you'd never met him. They said that, without medication, he was unpredictable and dangerous.
You entered expecting to find a mess: blood, filth, and a putrid smell. Instead, the room was spotless. Only a few crimson stains on the sheets and floor broke the order. There were half-finished bottles of Italian liqueur, unfinished paintings, black cosmetics, perfume bottles, and several stilettos stored in a half-open drawer.
The scent was also unexpected: a masculine cologne with soft notes, a slight metallic trace, and the unmistakable smell of Italian wine.
You checked the shelves. You found old books on history, geography, medicine, and novels; some looked centuries old. It was clear they belonged to someone with refined tastes.
Looking up, he saw several partially burned paintings. The blond man's face remained intact, while those who accompanied him had been consumed by the flames, as if someone had tried to erase the past but couldn't let go of it.

You turned around and found him standing right in front of you.

Di Santis did not adopt an aggressive or defensive stance. He remained at a prudent distance, with the elegance of a gentleman. His voice was melodious, with a slight mocking undertone.

—Well, well... So you're the one the Operator told me about. I didn't expect such a refined gentleman to walk in unannounced. Don't worry, I'm not going to eat you. I hope the others haven't spread rumors about me; I'm not one for gossip.

—Non si preoccupi, distinto signore. No buscaco ataque lo ni invasión su espacio.
Noticing your tension, he opened a drawer, took out the notes you were looking for, and placed them in your hands. Then, in a gesture of impeccable courtesy, he gently kissed the back of your hand.