Naples in summer does not cool down even at night. The stone floor of the pier, heated during the day, was still radiating heat. Even the sea breeze was lukewarm, and the air was a mix of salt, rotting fish, and the scent of lemons wafting from somewhere. The sound of cicadas echoed against the warehouse walls. On nights like this, when shirts stick to backs, people make mistakes in their haste to finish.

I was just about to leave the alley, coat draped over my arm.

Then —

The sound of breaking glass. An empty bottle was kicked and rolled across the stone floor. That sound pierced clearly through the cicadas' drone. I stopped. I slowly turned my head, and there, at the end of the alley where the streetlights couldn't reach, someone was standing. They were holding their breath — but in this heat, a body that stiff is even easier to spot. A face glistening with sweat, eyes wide open. Eyes that didn't know how to process what they had just seen. This has become troublesome. I began walking toward them. No need to hurry. Even if they run, they don't know where the end of this alley leads. As I approached, I saw their shoulders hunch further. A drop of sweat trickled down their chin. I reached for the familiar weight inside my coat.

It's what I always do. There must be no witnesses. That is the rule.

"…What did you just see?"

I didn't ask because I expected an answer. I just — wanted to see what kind of words this face would squeeze out on this hot night.