The storm came without warning, shrouding the cobbled streets of Florence in a curtain of silver. The city's usual hum faded under the drumming rain. Sera Devlin tightened her coat around her and quickened her pace, boots splashing through puddles as lightning carved the sky in two.
She should have stayed in. She hated the rain, hated what it reminded her of—her father's lies, her mother's silence, the home she had left behind in a whirlwind of disappointment. But tonight, she had a meeting. A mysterious tip about a secret exhibit tucked inside a gallery that wasn't listed on any map. It was the kind of lead she lived for as a travel writer—off the grid, underground, forbidden.
And maybe, if she was being honest with herself, she didn't want to go back to her empty apartment just yet.
She turned a corner and collided—hard—into someone.
"Oh—I'm so sorry!" Sera gasped, stumbling back.
The man barely flinched. Tall, dressed in black from collar to boots, he looked as if the night had sculpted him. Dark hair fell over his forehead, and when he looked at her, his eyes—gray, stormy—locked onto hers with unsettling stillness.
"No harm done," he said, voice low and smooth like smoke.
Sera hesitated. She didn't usually flinch around strangers. But there was something about him—something unreadable. Dangerous, maybe. Or broken.
"You're American," he added, his lips quirking slightly.
She nodded slowly. "And you're… observant."
That made him smile. Just a little. "The rain doesn't like you."
"What gave it away? My soaked coat or my frizzy hair?"
He glanced toward the alley behind her. "You shouldn't be out here alone. Especially not tonight."
A chill slid down her spine.
"I'm meeting someone," she lied.
"No, you're not."
She blinked. "Excuse me?"
He stepped closer—not threateningly, but close enough that she caught a faint trace of something expensive on him. Not cologne. Oil paint? Smoke?
"There's no exhibit. No gallery. Just someone who knew you'd come looking for something... secret."
Her throat tightened. "How do you know that?"
The man didn't answer. He looked up at the rain, then back down at her. "Because I told them."
He turned to leave.
"Wait," she said, her voice shaking now. "Who are you?"
He paused but didn't look back. "No one. Not really."
And then he vanished into the rain, as if the night itself had claimed him.
Sera stood frozen, heart pounding in her ears. What the hell just happened?
She had come to Florence looking for stories. But this... this wasn't just a story. It was a warning.
Or maybe, she feared, it was the beginning of something far more dangerous.
Something she wouldn't be able to walk away from.
Sera stood frozen in the narrow alley, rain curling down her temples and slipping under her collar. The stranger's final words echoed louder than the thunder cracking above her.
"Names are just masks."
It felt like more than a cryptic remark—it felt like a warning.
She stared down at the ink-streaked map in her hand, its once-clear lines now smeared into meaningless shapes. Whoever he was, he knew her. And not in the superficial way a stranger might guess your occupation or origin. No—he had looked right through her. Into the pieces she hadn't let anyone see in years.
With a shaky breath, she turned toward the door of the gallery. The windows were fogged and dark. No light. No sign of life. She pushed it open anyway.
The scent of old paint, dust, and something faintly metallic greeted her. She stepped inside.
Despite the storm outside, the silence here was complete—too complete. The gallery was long and narrow, lined with canvases hung under dim spotlights. Each painting was eerily lifelike, though faded, like memories trying to claw their way back into reality. Faces blurred at the edges. Eyes painted with such realism they felt as if they watched her every move.
Her boots echoed softly on the wooden floor. No music. No receptionist. Just the slow tap of rain dripping from her coat onto the floor.
She paused in front of one painting— a woman, her back turned to the viewer, standing at the edge of a crumbling cliff. Her red scarf fluttered in the wind, and though her face was hidden, the sadness in the brush strokes made Sera's chest tighten.
Under the frame, someone had written a title in spidery ink: "The Ones Who Wait."
A chill slid down her spine.
"This place isn't on any map for a reason," a voice said behind her.
She spun around.
The stranger was back, leaning in the doorway like he'd never left. His coat was dry. His expression unreadable.
"You followed me," she said.
"No. You followed the truth." His eyes dropped to the painting. "You always do. It's what makes you dangerous."
Sera frowned. "Do I know you?"
"Not yet." He stepped forward, slowly. "But you will."
She studied him carefully now. He was around thirty, maybe a year or two older than her. Olive-toned skin, a slight scar above his brow. Clean-shaven. His hands were tucked into his coat pockets, but there was something tense in his posture—like a man used to hiding things. Or used to running from them.
"I don't have time for riddles," she snapped, trying to cover the fear rising in her throat. "Who are you, really?"
"I go by Elias," he said finally, after a long pause. "But like I said… names lie."
Sera narrowed her eyes. "So what do you want from me, Elias?"
He didn't answer right away. Instead, he moved past her, stopping at a second painting: a young girl standing beside a figure with no face.
"You asked once, years ago, why your sister disappeared without a trace," he said quietly, not looking at her. "Didn't you?"
Her breath hitched.
"No one knew that," she whispered. "That wasn't in the papers."
He turned his head just slightly, just enough to let her see the solemn truth behind his expression.
"Exactly."
Sera stepped back.
"Who are you?"
"I'm the last person who saw her," Elias said. "And the only one who knows the truth about what happened that night."
Lightning lit up the gallery, casting flickering shadows across the painted faces. And suddenly, everything around her felt like part of something larger. The rain. The gallery. The stranger with haunted eyes.
"Why now?" she whispered. "Why tell me now?"
He looked at her then, really looked at her, as if weighing every word before speaking.
"Because someone's watching you, Sera. And I don't know how long I can keep them from finding you first."