The pictures of the confrontation sites tell their own story. Near the Spanish Steps, where Team Bravo made their stand, tactical gear and the bodies of the three-man team lies shredded on the ground, specialized weapons bent and broken. Their eyes gaze empty up at the person taking their last photo.
The fountain in the small piazza still bears scorch marks from GUIDE-issue incendiary rounds, but that’s all that’s left behind. I kneel down and touch the mark, respectfully taking a moment for my fallen comrades.
"Three very experienced agents," Ghost murmurs, examining more of the photos. "How the hell do we fight something that did this?"
“Very carefully,” I answer. “Let’s take a look where the other team encountered the beast. Maybe there’s something forensics missed.”
The second site, where Team Delta was ambushed, is even worse. An entire section of ancient stone wall has been reduced to rubble and shows blood spatter—red and silver.
"They wounded it," I note, examining a patch of silvery residue. "But it had help by then." I point to the multiple sets of chalk-outlined prints in the mud off the side of the road.
"The second creature," Sherlock agrees. "The reports from witnesses mention only one attacker at Bellini's and Vitelli's apartments. But by the time Delta engaged, there were reports of two."
I crouch, studying the blood patterns. The footprints lead south, deeper into the city. And they’re not running. These creatures are on a mission.
"They're moving methodically," I say, standing. "They’re hunting something else. Someone else."
Sherlock pulls up a map on his tablet, marking the attack points. "Hunting. Fuck. Who else lives here?" He taps at the tablet frantically.
"There's a third," he says suddenly, fingers flying across his tablet. "Antonio Rossi. Retired GUIDE agent, 65, lives in the Testaccio district. Specialized in—" His eyes widen slightly. "Entity containment."
"Current location?" I'm already moving, Ghost falling in beside me.
"Apartment on Via Marmorata. Twenty minutes from here. There’s no way we’ll beat them. This happened yesterday. Rossi’s dead."
"Make it ten," I order, breaking into a run. “We don’t know that.”
We sprint back to our GUIDE vehicle, the cobblestones slick with evening dew beneath our boots. Ghost takes the wheel, engine roaring to life as Sherlock uploads Rossi's location to our tactical display. The vehicle lurches forward, tires squealing against ancient streets never designed for modern speeds.
Rome blurs past our windows. The golden glow of centuries-old streetlamps, tourists oblivious to the hunt unfolding around them, late-night cafés where patrons linger over espresso. Ghost weaves through traffic with surgical precision, taking shortcuts through narrow alleys where our side mirrors nearly scrape the walls. Each second stretches as I mentally calculate our route against the creatures' likely path.
"Two minutes out," Sherlock announces, checking his weapon. "Thermal satellites show elevated heat signatures inside the building. Something's definitely in there."
I tighten my grip on my katanas. "If they're following the same pattern as the other attacks, they'll go for a quick kill. No witnesses, no evidence."
The vehicle skids to a halt two blocks from our destination. "On foot from here," I whisper. "Silent approach."
Via Marmorata appears ahead, a tree-lined street of modest apartment buildings. My pulse quickens as we abandon our vehicle, approaching the rest of the way on foot to avoid alerting our prey.
Over a decade of hunting, and finally I might face the creature that killed my father. I tap the handle of the katanas over my right shoulder, a nervous habit from years of combat, a strange mix of anticipation and dread coiling in my stomach. This could be it—the moment that justifies everything I've sacrificed, every lie I've told.
"Rossi's place," Sherlock whispers as we approach a modest ground-floor apartment in an older building. "No movement visible from the windows right now."
The street is deserted at this hour, moonlight casting long shadows across the cobblestones. I study the apartment's facade—heavy security shutters drawn over the windows, reinforced door frame. Not standard protection for a retiree unless that retiree spent decades making powerful enemies.
"Thermal scan?" I ask, drawing my katanas.
Ghost adjusts his specialized goggles. "Some kind of interference... wait." He turns toward the far side of the apartment. "Two large heat signatures. Moving inside. And a third, smaller one, separated from them. That one has to be Rossi."
Two creatures. My heart pounds against my ribs, adrenaline flooding my system. Could both be the same species that killed my father? I swallow hard, forcing my training to override the sudden, violent hope that surges through me. I'm finally going to look into the eyes of the monster that destroyed my family.
"Rossi," I say. "Is he moving?"
"Yes, and hiding," Sherlock adds, examining the building schematic on his tablet. "This layout shows a reinforced safe room off the main bedroom. This guy was prepared."
"Too bad the other two retired agents weren’t as paranoid," I say bitterly. "We go in now. They are not getting him."
The door is already damaged—claw marks scoring the heavy wood, lock mechanism half-destroyed. We crawl through the mostly open door, weapons ready, careful not to make any sound.
