IN ITALY...
The night was quiet and dark.
The Diabolo estate stood tall in the darkness, surrounded by mist and heavy silence as usual. Guards patrolled lazily outside, unaware of the intruders slipping through the security like ghosts.
Inside, the old man Diabolo had already retired to his bedroom. He fetched a glass of water from the nightstand, gulping it all down in one go. He sighed deeply, bones aching, eyes heavy from exhaustion.
What he didn't know was that the water had been drugged.
Minutes passed.
He sat on the edge of the bed, rubbing his temple, but his body slowly caved in. His vision blurred. Muscles slackened.
Instinct kicked in immediately... he knew he had been drugged. He tried to stand and his hand ached more.
"Philip!" He yelled. He tried to call the name again and... without a sound, he slumped back onto the mattress, unconscious.
At that exact moment, the side door of the mansion creaked open.
A familiar figure stepped inside.
Marcello.
