The witness

The rain fell steadily between them, blurring the narrow Roman street into streaks of silver and black.

The young man stood frozen.

His pulse thundered in his ears as the woman watched him from beneath the dim glow of a streetlamp. She remained perfectly still, her long black coat swaying gently in the wind. The guards behind her waited in disciplined silence, as though no one would move until she decided what happened next.

He had never believed a person could command a room—or an entire street—without raising their voice.

Yet she did.

Every instinct screamed at him to run.

He took one slow step backward.

"So," she said quietly, her voice almost lost beneath the rain, "you're the witness."

"I didn't see anything," he replied too quickly.

One corner of her lips lifted in the faintest hint of amusement.

"People who truly see nothing rarely feel the need to say it."

His throat tightened.

She wasn't shouting.

She wasn't threatening him.

That calmness unsettled him more than anger ever could.

A suited man approached her and spoke in a low voice.

"Boss, shall we take him?"

She didn't answer immediately.

Instead, her eyes remained fixed on the frightened stranger before her.

"He doesn't look like a spy," another guard muttered.

"Looks can be manufactured."

Silence settled again.

The witness's mind raced.

If he surrendered, what would happen?

If he ran, could he possibly escape?

His gaze shifted toward a narrow alley branching off to the left.

One chance.

That was all he needed.

Without another thought, he spun around and sprinted.

"Stop him!" one of the guards shouted.

Footsteps exploded behind him.

Rain splashed beneath his shoes as he raced through twisting streets lined with centuries-old buildings. His lungs burned within seconds, but fear kept his legs moving.

He darted through an open marketplace, weaving between empty stalls covered with soaked canvas sheets.

Behind him, the guards spread out instead of chasing in a single line.

They were trained.

They were trying to cut off every escape.

He turned sharply into another alley.

Dead end.

His heart sank.

A weathered brick wall towered before him.

No exit.

He turned just as the first guard reached the entrance.

Another blocked the opposite side.

Within moments, four men surrounded him.

They didn't need to.

One stepped forward.

"It's over."

The witness backed against the wall.

"I've done nothing wrong."

"We know."

"Then why are you chasing me?"

The guard looked at him almost sympathetically.

"Because you were in the wrong place."

Heavy footsteps echoed behind them.

The men immediately straightened.

She had arrived.

The woman walked through the narrow passage with the same composed confidence as before. Rain clung to the strands of dark hair escaping from behind her collar, yet her expression remained unreadable.

She stopped only a few feet away.

The witness forced himself to meet her eyes.

"You could kill me," he said, trying to keep his voice steady, "but that won't erase what I saw."

For the first time that night, something changed in her expression.

Not anger.

Interest.

She studied him for several silent seconds.

"You speak honestly."

"I always do."

"That can be dangerous."

"So can silence."

Several guards exchanged surprised glances.

No one usually answered her like that.

The woman folded her gloved hands behind her back.

"What do you study?"

The question caught him completely off guard.

"...Criminology."

One eyebrow rose slightly.

"Interesting."

"You think this is funny?"

"I think fate has an unusual sense of humor."

Lightning flashed overhead.

For an instant, the entire alley was illuminated.

Then darkness returned.

One of her men stepped closer.

"Boss... we can't leave him."

"I know."

"He knows too much."

Again, she remained silent.

The witness couldn't understand her.

One moment she seemed ready to order his death.

The next, she questioned him as though she were interviewing him.

Finally, she spoke.

"Search him."

A guard carefully removed the camera from his shoulder.

Another searched his pockets.

Wallet.

Student identification.

Notebook.

A nearly dead phone.

Nothing else.

The guard opened the notebook.

Most of the pages contained sketches of buildings, observations about crime scenes, and handwritten notes.

"He really is a student."

The woman held out her hand.

The notebook was passed to her.

She flipped through several pages.

Neat handwriting.

Detailed observations.

Curiosity.

No coded messages.

No hidden documents.

No sign that he worked for a rival family.

She closed the notebook.

"What is your name?"

He hesitated.

Every instinct warned him not to answer.

But refusing seemed even more dangerous.

"...Adrian."

She repeated it softly.

"Adrian."

It was the first time anyone there had spoken his name.

Yet she offered none of her own.

She handed the notebook back.

The guards looked confused.

"Weren't we taking him?" one asked.

The woman didn't answer immediately.

Instead, she looked toward Adrian one final time.

Then she gave an order that surprised everyone.

"Bring him."

Not to prison.

Not to the police.

Simply...

"Bring him."

The guards exchanged uncertain glances but obeyed without question.

As Adrian was escorted toward one of the waiting black cars, he looked back at the rain-soaked street where his ordinary life had ended less than an hour earlier.

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