The first man Elara Romano ever killed was already dead by the time she understood what she had done.
She was eleven years old.
She sat on a wooden chair that was too tall for her legs, her feet swinging above the cold marble floor of the courtroom. The microphone smelled like metal and dust. Someone had tied her hair too tightly that morning, and her scalp burned.
"Translate exactly," the man beside her whispered.
His voice was calm. Professional. Like this was just another school test.
Elara nodded.
She didn't know the man in chains across the room was going to die because of her voice.
The prosecutor spoke in Italian. Fast. Sharp. Angry.
Elara swallowed and translated into English, her small fingers clenched in her lap.
Sentence after sentence passed without issue—until one line.
Just one.
The words were old, written in a dialect she had learned only recently. Her teacher had said close enough is acceptable.
So she chose the closest meaning.
She didn't notice the pause.
Didn't understand why the air shifted.
Didn't see the way the man in chains—tall, dark-haired, proud even on his knees—lifted his head slowly and stared straight at her.
Not with hatred.
With disbelief.
The judge spoke.
The gavel struck.
And that was it.
Years later, Elara would learn the truth.
She hadn't translated orders were discussed.
She had translated orders were given.
One word.
One difference.
One death sentence.
Eleven years later.
Elara jolted awake with a sharp breath, her hand flying to her throat as if she could still feel the courtroom air choking her lungs.
The dream clung to her like smoke.
She lay still, staring at the cracked ceiling of her apartment, listening to the hum of traffic outside and the neighbor's television murmuring through thin walls.
It took her a moment to remember where she was.
Rome.
A rented apartment.
A different name on the mailbox.
Alive.
She pushed herself up slowly, rubbing her face. Her palms were damp. They always were after that dream.
Some sins never slept.
Elara swung her legs over the bed and stood, ignoring the faint ache in her knees. She moved quietly, like she always did, as if noise itself could expose her.
In the bathroom mirror, a stranger stared back.
Dark hair pulled into a loose knot. Pale skin. Eyes too calm for someone who never felt safe.
She looked ordinary.
That was the point.
At the hospital, the smell of antiseptic wrapped around her like armor.
Here, she had rules. Schedules. Clear instructions. Pain she could fix with her hands.
Here, she was useful.
"Elara," a nurse called. "ER needs you."
She nodded and moved without hesitation.
The shift passed in a blur of blood and breath and shouted orders. Somewhere between sutures and heart monitors, the dream loosened its grip.
Until a man was wheeled in.
Gunshot wound. Chest. Close range.
Her hands stilled for half a second.
The room felt… wrong.
Not chaotic like usual emergencies. Not frantic.
Controlled.
The man on the gurney wasn't screaming. Wasn't unconscious either.
He was watching.
Elara felt it before she looked up.
Dark eyes met hers.
Something ancient stirred in her chest—an instinct older than logic.
Danger.
The man's face was calm, pale beneath the harsh lights. A bullet had torn through his shoulder, staining his shirt black with blood, but his jaw was set, his breathing steady.
Like pain was an inconvenience.
"Vitals?" the doctor asked.
"Stable," someone replied.
The man's gaze never left her.
Elara forced herself to focus on her task, gloved hands pressing gauze against the wound. She refused to let her pulse betray her.
She had learned long ago that fear invited attention.
"You," the man said quietly.
His voice was low. Italian. Smooth.
Elara froze.
"I know you," he continued.
Her heart slammed hard against her ribs.
Slowly, she lifted her eyes to meet his again.
"No," she said quietly. "You don't."
It was a lie.
Not because she remembered him.
But because the way he looked at her was too certain. Too personal.
A man like this didn't mistake faces.
His lips curved—not into a smile.
Recognition.
"You got older," he said. "But you still choose your words carefully."
The room disappeared.
The smell of antiseptic turned into dust.
Marble floor.
A wooden chair.
A cold metal microphone.
Her memories rushed back all at once.
Elara's hands began to shake.
She looked away from him and whispered, "I don't know what you're talking about."
At her words, the man laughed—loud and sharp.
Something inside her snapped.
Fear clawed up her chest.
Without thinking, Elara turned and ran toward the exit.
Seeing her run, the man shouted after her, his voice echoing through the room.
"This time, you won't escape!"
The doctor quickly stepped between them.
"Sir, you need to remain calm."
The man ignored him.
Ignored everyone.
His eyes stayed locked on Elara.
"Eleven years ago," he said loudly.
Elara stopped mid-step.
Her feet felt glued to the floor.
Seeing her reaction, a slow smile spread across his face.
He continued, his voice steady,
"You spoke one sentence."
Her entire body began to tremble.
"That sentence," he went on, even as blood soaked through his clothes, "killed my father."
The words hit her harder than a slap.
Her vision blurred.
"That's enough," the doctor snapped. "Sedate him—"
"No," the man said sharply.
The room fell silent.
It wasn't anger in his eyes when he looked at Elara again.
It was patience.
"I've been looking for you for a very long time," he said calmly.
"And now that I've found you…"
His gaze dropped briefly to her shaking hands.
"…you're not allowed to disappear again."
Terror flooded her.
Elara turned and ran.
The man tried to follow.
He took two steps—
Then his legs gave out.
His body hit the floor with a dull sound.
The doctors moved quickly.
Orders were shouted.
Machines were rolled in.
A team rushed forward and pushed the gurney toward the ICU.
As they wheeled him away, the man turned his head slightly.
His eyes found Elara one last time.
Before sleep claimed him, he murmured softly—so quietly that only she heard it.
"You will pay for your sins."
Elara ran as fast as she.
She didn't stop until she reached the storage room.
Her hands shook as she slammed the door shut and locked it.
"No… no…" she whispered.
Her legs gave out.
She slid down the door and sat on the floor, pulling her knees to her chest. She buried her face between them.
Her body trembled.
Tears slipped down her cheeks, one after another. She tried to stop them, but she couldn't. Fear tightened around her throat.
She stayed there.
Frozen.
Waiting.
Five hours passed.
Midnight came quietly.
Elara woke with a sharp gasp, her body stiff and aching from the cold floor.
The hospital was silent now.
Too silent.
She slowly unlocked the door and stepped out of the storage room. The lights were dim. The halls were empty.
Night shift.
Her heart raced.
She hurried to her locker, grabbed her bag, and didn't look back.
She needed to leave.
Now.
Elara rushed out of the hospital doors and stepped into the night air.
Relief barely touched her—
When a white van suddenly stopped in front of her.
Before she could react, the door slid open.
Strong hands grabbed her.
She screamed—but the sound died in her throat as she was dragged inside.
The door slammed shut.
Darkness swallowed her. The inside smelled of metal and oil.