The first scream split the festival air like a jagged knife.
Amadeo's head snapped toward the source, his fingers instinctively curling into fists. A moment ago, the lively chatter of the crowd, the scent of spiced wine and burning torches, had wrapped the night in deceptive warmth. Now, it was chaos.
A gunshot. Then another.
People scattered, screaming, trampling over each other in their desperation to escape. Banners torn down. Stalls overturned. And in the midst of it all—Elle was gone. So was the man...
Amadeo's heart lurched. He'd just seen her. She'd been standing near the fountain, her dark eyes sharp, calculating. But now, she had vanished as if swallowed by the night.Amadeo couldn't figure out the situation. What happened to Elle? Nothing was clear.
And Cecil…
Amadeo turned sharply. His breath caught in his throat.
Cecil was on the ground, blood blooming across his shirt like a grotesque flower. His face was twisted in pain, his fingers clenching weakly as the medics rushed toward him.
"Move!" someone shouted. Hands grabbed at Amadeo, pulling him back, but his gaze was locked onto Cecil's paling face. His friend, his ever-smiling, ever-taunting friend—reduced to a gasping mess on the cobblestone. He felt as if he's the most helpless person in this world.
Then, his phone buzzed.
A single message.Blocked number.
Come alone. You have five minutes.
A location pin followed. An abandoned warehouse at the edge of the city.
Amadeo didn't hesitate. He turned and ran.
The warehouse loomed in the distance, rusted and forgotten. Shadows curled around its edges like watching eyes. He stepped inside, muscles tensed, breath shallow.
Dim light flickered overhead. The scent of damp concrete and something metallic—blood?—coiled around him. Then, his stomach dropped.
Cecil.
Alive.
Sitting on a chair in the middle of the room, completely unharmed.
Amadeo froze. His fingers hovered near the knife tucked inside his jacket. "What the hell is this?"
Cecil smiled. That same, infuriating smile.
"Oh, Amadeo," he murmured, voice silk-smooth. "You're late."
Amadeo's blood ran cold. He'd seen Cecil bleeding out, being carried away by medics. People had screamed his name. They had seen him die.
Hadn't they?
And then—
Something shifted in the shadows.
A figure. Slumped against the wall.
Black hair.
Elle.
She was unconscious, her wrists bound, a thin cut trailing down her cheek. Amadeo's breath hitched.
"What did you do to her?"
Cecil didn't answer. He simply leaned back in his chair, the dim light flickering over his too-calm face.
"She's alive and she didn't shoot me , you know."
Amadeo's fingers tightened around the knife. "What?"
Cecil tilted his head. "The gunshot. The 'attempt on my life.' It wasn't real." His lips curled. "It was never meant to be."
Amadeo took a slow step forward, his pulse roaring in his ears. "Then why the hell did you fake it?"
Cecil chuckled. A slow, almost delighted sound.
The air felt suffocating. Amadeo's gaze flickered back to Elle. The blood on her face, the unconscious slump of her body. The rising bile in his throat.
He'd been played.
And he wasn't even sure by whom.
Then, Cecil's smile faltered—just for a second.
Because the door behind Amadeo creaked open.
And a voice—low, rasping, unfamiliar—whispered, "Not all heroes survive their stories."
The lights went out.
And the real nightmare began.