Michael stood by the walkway outside the west chapel, arms resting loosely on the weathered railing. Fortuna stretched beneath him like a painted lie—pristine rooftops, holy towers piercing the sky, and streets lined with ritual and routine. Every inch looked pure. Ordered.
But order wasn't the same as peace.
Two months had passed since he'd stopped asking questions. Since he stopped drawing lines between truth and dogma. The Angelos still moved like shadows in the periphery—silent, steady, too focused when they passed. But they no longer stared for as long. Or maybe they did. Maybe he'd just learned to stop staring back.
'They know what I am,' he'd thought, once.
Then he'd buried it. Like everything else.
He hadn't returned to the vault. Agnus hadn't come looking for him. Angela hadn't checked in since the last assignment he turned down. Not even the Pope sent word.
That silence was the loudest message.
They didn't trust him.
But they tolerated him, so long as he played the part.
And Michael played it well.
Training had ended a month ago. The oversight faded soon after. No escorts, no questions. Just another sword in the Church's gallery. He could walk the city freely now, and no one batted an eye. Polite nods, the occasional respectful greeting, nothing more.
He didn't mind. Not outwardly.
The morning sun cast long beams through the garden arches as he moved through the quieter parts of Fortuna. His boots made no sound on the cobblestones, cloak brushing softly behind him.
St. Leorine's appeared like it always had—tucked between courtyards, modest and warm. Iron gates creaked just slightly when pushed. Children's laughter echoed against stone walls. A little girl was drawing on the ground with colored chalk.
Michael watched for a moment, then walked through the open door.
The smell hit him immediately. Parchment. Dried herbs. Soft wood and old brick. It was the scent of memory—unchanged.
The common room was quieter than expected. Books stacked by the wall, toys left in a woven basket, faint music coming from another room. He scanned the space.
No white hair.
A woman stepped into view, one he recognized—a staff member. Reserved but kind. She blinked when she saw him.
"Antonio?"
He offered a small nod. "I came to see Nero."
She hesitated, folding her hands gently. "Oh… I'm sorry. He's not here anymore."
The words paused him. Subtly. Deliberately.
"What do you mean?"
"He was adopted. About two weeks ago."
The answer landed with strange weight. Not shocking. Just… off.
"By who?" he asked, voice flat.
"I'm not sure. The records are private. A woman came in. Church oversight was involved—Father Argento signed off, I think. She didn't speak much, but she seemed sincere."
Michael turned slightly, eyes drifting to the window bench where Nero used to sit, always apart from the others. Alone, but not lonely. Quiet, but listening.
"He didn't mention anything," he murmured.
The woman gave a soft smile. "He might not have known until the final day. Some of the children don't. They're told it's just another visit… and then they don't come back."
Michael said nothing.
"He was special," she continued. "A little intense. But kind. I think he'll be alright."
He looked at her, then gave the faintest nod. "Thank you."
A moment passed in silence.
"Do you want me to reach out?" she asked. "I can try to—"
"No." His voice was final. "If he's gone, let him be."
And with that, he stepped back out into the city.
The sun was higher now, washing over the rooftops like a blessing. But it felt cold on his skin. Wind tugged at his coat as he walked, eyes forward, thoughts unmoving.
The Church could erase files. It could rewrite stories.
But Michael remembered the boy.
And something told him this was not the end.
Only the start of someone else's game.