Creaking floorboards and the faint rattle of objects were the only sounds William could hear as he stepped into the attic—though it was just the second floor.
The inn had only one level for customers, offering two so-called "best" rooms. They came with cold water and sheets torn beyond repair, stained with god-knows-what. This place was for the desperate—no, for the hopeless.
Half-open trunks lay scattered. Mice scurried in every direction, as if disturbed by the unwelcome intruder in their claimed territory.
Freedom—what a price it demanded. But for what? Money? Fame? Happiness? Was it all of these? No, it didn't seem like it.
Love?
That had been lost long ago.
Lost in thought, William absentmindedly rummaged through the trunks. Old picture frames, tattered bedding, a few pieces of dull jewelry—the usual attic junk. But then, something caught his eye.
A blinking red light.
Faint—so faint you could almost miss it. A broken toy? An old electronic? No, it was too steady. If this were anywhere else, he'd assume it was a camera. But who would place a secret camera in an attic buried in inches of dust?
And yet, the light was still on.
Someone had been here. Recently.
A sudden chill crept up his spine.
William turned toward the blinking light but stopped himself just as his foot shifted forward.
A trap?
But who?
Forcing himself to stay calm, he resumed digging through the trunks, pretending to search for bedding. His hands trembled slightly, and his mind raced. It couldn't be a coincidence. Someone had left it here. Someone had been watching.
Finally, he pulled out a ragged comforter, barely enough to cover half his body. He gathered more scraps, arranging them into a makeshift nest—his pathetic excuse for a fort. Something to shield him, even if only in his mind. The floor groaned beneath his weight, making him freeze. But the mice darting around his feet kept him moving.
Lying down, he tried to get comfortable. But the floor was too hard. The comforter too scratchy. The noises too loud.
For someone used to heated flooring, this was a nightmare. But he had chosen this.
Maybe I should go back.
Maybe he'll take me back if I can be obedient enough.
Should I go back and apologize? Admit I was just a pathetic teenager drowning in emotions?
Or—
Maybe I just need to survive this night.
Maybe I can live.
A life.
_________________________________________________________________________________
Tidying up his wrinkled clothes and roughly fixing his disheveled hair after the worst night's sleep on a cold, unforgiving floorboard, William sets to work, cleaning up the makeshift fort of blankets and pillows. The mice had been kind enough to stay out of his business for the night.
But that light—it was still blinking.
Grabbing the comforter, he walks toward it, careful not to seem suspicious. Casually, he places the bedding down—his foot "accidentally" landing on the blinking light.
The moment his shoe presses down, the blinking stops.
Frowning, William removes his shoe and picks up the small device. A mini camera.
There's a faint engraving on its surface. Apex Ventures.
The name tugs at his memory, familiar but distant—like a song he once heard but couldn't quite place. Was it paranoia? A coincidence? No. That light was blinking. Someone was watching.
Uneasy, he tucks the camera into his pocket and heads downstairs. He needs answers.
The innkeeper barely looks up as William approaches.
"Your kindness last night made me grateful, sir. I will remember our deal and return to repay it. You have my word."
The innkeeper's lips curl into something between a smirk and a sneer.
"Leaving?" His voice is flat. Unamused. "Who said you could leave?"
"You owe me."
William stiffens.
"Anything but a life."
The innkeeper chuckles, a low, rasping sound. "Of course." He turns, rummaging through a dusty, rusted cupboard, filled with half-torn papers, ink faded with time.
Then he pulls out a box.
It is ornate, far too extravagant for a place this shabby. Even through the dust and the cracks, it gleams—intricate carvings etched into its wooden surface. It doesn't belong here.
Just like William.
The innkeeper blows off the dust like some dramatic scene in an old film, then unlocks the latch and pulls out an envelope.
A red envelope.
Deep, rich crimson. The color of fresh blood. The same shade as in his dreams.
The girl.
His.
His pulse hammers in his ears as the innkeeper places the envelope in his hands.
"Take this," the old man says. "Go to the address inside and hand it to the man in the merlot suit."
William swallows. "Then what?"
"He'll guide you."
"For what?"
The innkeeper's expression darkens. "No more questions, lad."
William wants to argue, but the old man turns his back, signaling the conversation is over.
As he steps out of the inn, clutching the crimson envelope, uncertainty knots in his chest.
Does he go?
Or is this a trap?
A trap set by the blinking red light.
He could leave, abandon the bargain. But where would he go? He had already left home. The streets wouldn't welcome him either.
And maybe—just maybe—freedom waited at the end of this dark tunnel.
The only way to find out… was to step inside.
William opens the envelope as he wanders the narrow streets of Portofino.
Hotel Belmond Splendido. The name tugs at something in his memory. Had he heard it before? He isn't sure. Shaking off the thought, he stops a passerby and asks for the hotel's address.
Minutes later, he stands before it—an opulent palace of wealth and indulgence, its grandeur almost suffocating. Gilded balconies, towering arches, and the scent of luxury wafting through the air. A world away from what he had left behind. Filthy money. Blood money. His money. Her blood.
He steps toward the entrance, only to be halted by a burly guard.
"And where do you think you're going, you piece of filth?"
"I'm a guest," William mutters, gripping the envelope.
The guard scoffs. "With that attire? Right."
"Look, this letter—"
"I. Don't. Fucking. Care." The guard leans in, his voice dripping with disdain. "Now get lost before your stench ruins our guests' evening. We have a reputation to uphold."
William's jaw tightens, fingers curling around the envelope. He turns away, but at the last second, lunges for the door—only for the guards to catch him with practiced ease. They throw him to the ground like a stray dog.
His next attempt is through the back, but the towering walls prove merciless. His hands are raw, his feet torn from failed attempts to climb. Each fall leaves him more battered, more broken.
With no other choice, he limps back to the dimly lit inn, hoping the innkeeper will have a solution.