Rain fell over Provincia di Grigioporto like a quiet sentence that refused to end.
It wasn't a storm. There was no thunder, no dramatic warning from the sky. Just a steady, patient rain that soaked the narrow streets, clung to stone walls, and pooled along the edges of old sidewalks. Streetlights cast yellow reflections across wet cobblestones, stretching and breaking as passing cars rolled through the darkness.
It was an ordinary night in a place built on ordinary routines.
That was what made it lethal.
At the northern edge of Grigioporto, beyond the old tram lines and faded apartment blocks, a small house sat quietly between two others. Its windows glowed warm against the rain. Inside, life continued without urgency, unaware of how fragile it truly was.
Ethan Cole sat at the dining table, his jacket folded over the back of a wooden chair. He had come home later than planned, work dragging longer than it should have, but nothing about the day felt worth remembering. He was tired in a familiar way, the kind that came from repetition, not danger.
His mother set a bowl of soup in front of him. The scent was simple, comforting. Steam rose slowly, curling into the overhead light.
Across the table, his father, Daniel Cole, scrolled through the news on a tablet. His brow tightened slightly as he read, the same expression he always wore when headlines spoke of corruption, arrests, or violence that never seemed far from Grigioporto's streets.
Lina sat beside Ethan, her feet barely touching the floor. She talked nonstop, words spilling out without pause. School gossip. A teacher she disliked. A test she was convinced she had failed. Her world was still small enough that these things mattered.
Ethan listened with half his attention. He nodded when appropriate, smiled when she looked at him for approval. He told himself he would listen better tomorrow. There would always be tomorrow.
The house felt safe. Predictable.
Too predictable.
"Will you be home early tomorrow?" his mother asked as she sat down.
"I'll try," Ethan replied.
It was an honest answer, even if it meant nothing.
The clock on the wall ticked steadily, marking time without judgment. Outside, rain continued to fall, washing the streets clean of nothing at all.
Then came a knock at the front door.
Not hesitant.
Not rushed.
Firm. Controlled.
The sound cut through the room with surgical precision.
Conversation died instantly.
"At this hour?" his mother murmured, glancing toward the hallway.
Daniel stood up. There was no fear in his movement, only confusion. The reaction of a man who still believed that rules existed and that doors were knocked on for reasonable reasons. He walked toward the door, steps unhurried, and reached for the handle.
The door exploded inward.
Wood shattered. The lock tore free. The impact echoed through the house as four figures surged inside.
Dark clothing. Purposeful motion. Faces partially concealed.
Guns already raised.
The first shot slammed into the wall, sending fragments of plaster and wood into the air. Lina screamed. The bowl of soup slid from the table and shattered against the floor, ceramic and liquid scattering across the tiles.
Daniel reacted without thought. He stepped forward, arms spreading instinctively, as if his body alone could stop what was coming.
The second shot struck him in the chest.
The force hurled him backward. He hit the floor hard, the tablet skidding away across the room. His body lay still, unnatural in its silence.
Time fractured.
Ethan did not remember deciding to move. His body acted before his mind caught up. He grabbed Lina and pulled her down, forcing her behind the overturned table as another shot tore through a kitchen cabinet. Wood splintered. Dust filled the air.
His mother screamed. Her voice broke as she begged, pleaded, promised anything they wanted. Her words came fast and desperate, meaningless against men who had not come to negotiate.
One of them shoved her aside with a boot.
There were no demands.
No questions.
No hesitation.
This was not a robbery.
It was an execution.
"Check the rest," one of the men said calmly, his tone flat, professional.
Footsteps moved closer.
Ethan stood up before his thoughts could stop him.
The gun fired.
Pain tore through his left shoulder, sharp and immediate, like fire ripping through muscle and bone. His legs failed him. He crashed to the floor, vision blurring as warmth spread rapidly across his chest and arm.
He heard his mother scream his name.
The sound ended with a single shot.
Silence followed.
Heavy. Absolute.
Black shoes stopped inches from his face. Ethan could see droplets of rain clinging to the leather, could hear water dripping softly from a coat onto the floor.
"This one?" a voice asked.
"Not the target," another replied. "Leave him."
No second glance. No doubt.
They turned and walked away.
The front door slammed open again. Cold air and rain rushed back into the house, erasing their presence as if they had never existed.
Ethan lay on the floor, barely conscious. Every breath scraped through his chest, shallow and painful. He dragged himself forward, fingers slipping in blood until they touched something cold.
His father's hand.
It did not move.
His mother lay near the kitchen, eyes open and empty, her body twisted at an angle that made Ethan look away.
Behind the table, Lina was still alive. She trembled silently, staring into nothing, her face drained of color.
Ethan pulled her into his arms. Blood smeared across her clothes as he held her tightly, as if letting go would make her disappear. His throat burned, but no sound came out.
Sirens wailed in the distance.
Too far. Too late.
Under the smell of gunpowder and rain, Ethan stared at the cracked ceiling and understood something with terrifying clarity.
This was not random.
This was not a mistake.
Someone had decided this house needed to be silent.
Someone had chosen his family.
And on that night, something inside Ethan Cole died with them.
What remained was quieter. Colder. Sharper.
Something that would endure.
Something that would wait.
Something that would remember.
Somewhere beyond Grigioporto, far above the streets and the rain, a decision had been made long before the first shot was fired.
And now, its trace was written in blood.