08/16/2017 9:27 pm. Milan, Italy.
The thick fog covered every corner of Milan's streets, transforming them into a shadowy labyrinth where darkness seemed to devour the glow of the few lights that still dared to defy it. The buildings, standing like titanic shadows, cast their decay over a landscape already marked by abandonment and despair. The air was heavy with an unsettling silence, pressing down on the chests of those few brave—or foolish—enough to venture into that cursed night.
The theater rose amid this gloom like a mausoleum of better times, a mute witness to a splendor that had faded decades ago. Its marble columns, once proudly gleaming, were now covered in a patina of neglect and filth. Ivy climbed eagerly up its walls, wrapping them in a suffocating embrace, as if trying to conceal the dark secrets that dwelled within. A faint orange light flickered at its entrance, offering a somber welcome that few would dare to accept.
Inside the theater, the atmosphere was even more oppressive. The scent of dust and old wood filled the air, while scattered murmurs mixed with the creaking of seats and the discreet footsteps of figures wrapped in dark cloaks and coats. The dim lighting seemed afraid to reveal too much, leaving much of the space submerged in shadows. There, at the center of this heavy ambiance, stood Malaki Paporov, an imposing and powerful figure from Dipugaden. His crimson suit, impeccably tailored, contrasted with the dull gray of the surroundings, making him the focal point of every gaze—though those gazes quickly turned away, as if fearing to draw his attention.
Malaki strode firmly toward the building's interior, surrounded by a carefully calculated entourage. The women accompanying him laughed superficially, their laughter echoing in an empty resonance that failed to dispel the ominous weight of the environment. His bodyguards, rigid and alert, flanked his movements like disciplined shadows, though even they seemed uneasy. Their eyes continuously scanned the place, seeking invisible threats in every corner.
The theater, as if possessing a life of its own, seemed to whisper warnings. The creaking of its wooden floors and the constant dripping of water from its moldy walls created a sound that resonated in Malaki's ears, amplifying a sense of danger he could not ignore. His chest felt heavy, and each step further inside filled him with a growing sense of doom. The shadows around him seemed to come alive, sinuous and menacing, as if they were specters emerging from the darkness itself, demanding something only he could give them.
Among the discreet movements of the waiters attending to the guests, one stood out subtly. His posture was meticulous, his movements calculated, his steps silent and precise, like a well-calibrated clock. A cap cast shadows over his eyes, concealing his identity as he moved with an almost supernatural skill. His hands, deft and assured, carried trays with glasses and drinks, but his cold, gray eyes scanned every detail of the surroundings, searching for something—or someone—among those present.
When Malaki reached his private box, the waiter stepped forward to open the door with a fluid motion. His tone, impeccably polite, revealed nothing beyond his apparent role.
"Would you like anything else, sir?"
Thank you, but I'm fine," Malaki replied with a forced smile, adjusting his posture as if trying to shake off a growing unease. His gaze avoided the waiter's, but the feeling of being watched persisted, like a whisper in his subconscious that he could not fully ignore.
The private box was a small yet ostentatious space, adorned with red velvet curtains that were now frayed and faded. A small table held crystal glasses that glimmered faintly under the flickering light. Malaki sat stiffly, flanked by two women who seemed more interested in the performance than in his company. On the stage, a masked figure began a macabre dance, narrating a story of betrayal and death without words. The orchestra's notes were discordant, almost abrasive, as if they sought to feed the tension already thick in the air.
Despite his efforts to focus on the show, paranoia clung to Malaki's mind. The voices of the women beside him faded into a distant murmur, and every sound in the theater seemed amplified—a distant creak, the rustle of fabric, a whisper among the audience. Everything seemed to conspire to heighten his discomfort.
The waiter returned, this time carrying a tray with a glass of champagne. "A gift from the house, sir," he said, his tone devoid of emotion yet flawlessly executed.
Malaki accepted the glass, seeking comfort in the cold, bubbling liquid. He took a sip, letting the champagne attempt to soothe his thoughts. But the peace was fleeting. When a sharp noise echoed from the adjacent box, Malaki tensed, his gaze immediately seeking one of his bodyguards.
"Check it out," he ordered, his tone attempting authority but betraying his nervousness. The man nodded and disappeared into the shadows, leaving Malaki with the women and the waiter, who began collecting the empty glass.
At that moment, as he tilted the tray toward Malaki, the waiter placed a firm hand on the man's head. A brief, barely perceptible purple flash ran across Malaki's skin. The assailant's mutation had taken effect, inducing a silent cerebral infarction that left his victim paralyzed in his seat. Malaki's face, frozen in an expression of bewilderment, lost all color as his body went limp.
The women beside him took a moment to notice what had happened. By the time they did, the waiter had already vanished into the shadows, leaving behind an aura of mystery and a death that, to the world's eyes, appeared perfectly natural.
Without uttering another word, the waiter slipped out of the box, moving with an almost supernatural precision as he navigated through the chaos beginning to unfold in the theater. Every step was calculated, his movements measured to avoid drawing more attention than necessary. The shadows embraced him as he advanced through the narrow hallways, which creaked under the weight of his stride. The voices of the guests, mere whispers at first, grew louder behind him as he exited the building through a back door.
The night air was heavy with moisture, and the fog covering Milan's streets seemed denser than ever, as if trying to shroud his escape. Wrapped in shadows, the man adjusted the collar of his dark coat and ventured into the city's cold labyrinth. The deserted, twisting alleys echoed with the sound of his steps, while the flickering streetlights cast shifting shadows that seemed to dance to the rhythm of his retreat.
As he moved forward, the city revealed its most desolate face. Broken windows and graffiti-covered walls bore silent witness to a society that had abandoned hope. In the darkest corners, figures lurked, cautiously watching the stranger who passed without stopping. The tension in the air was palpable, but the man did not waver. He knew any distraction could mean his end.
At a dimly lit corner, a black car awaited him, silent and discreet. Its tires were caked with mud, and its body reflected the sickly glow of the nearby streetlights. The driver, a man with a stern expression and weary eyes, observed him with a slight nod as he appeared. Without exchanging words, the waiter opened the back door and slipped inside. The door closed with an almost imperceptible click, and he let out a quiet sigh.
The vehicle started smoothly, gliding through the deserted streets. Through the fogged-up windows, Milan unfolded like a decaying specter. The flickering lights of the crumbling neighborhoods cast eerie shadows that seemed to chase the car as it moved. The buildings, aged and cracked, stood like monuments to a better time, now reduced to ruins.
"Everything went according to plan," the driver murmured, breaking the silence. His voice was low and monotone, yet heavy with meaning.
The man in the back seat did not respond immediately. His gray eyes met the driver's through the rearview mirror, and a slight nod was all he offered. Words were unnecessary at that moment. Both knew the mission was not over, that what had happened at the theater was merely one link in a much longer, far more dangerous chain.