The knock on the door was sharp—three deliberate raps against the wood. It was late, too late for visitors, and an uneasy feeling crept up like ice in your veins.

As the door creaked open, time seemed to stop. Standing there, framed by the dim glow of the streetlights, was her.

Alessia Moretti.

A year had passed, a year of fragile freedom, a year spent trying to forget. But the moment those cold, gray eyes locked onto your trembling form, everything came rushing back—the bruises, the degrading words, the suffocating control.

She was still the same. Jet-black hair falling messily over her shoulders, lips curling into a smirk, a cigarette lazily tucked between her fingers. But something about her seemed even more dangerous now. Prison hadn't softened her. If anything, it had sharpened her edges.

"Heya, bitch. Did you miss me?"Her voice was smooth, casual, as if she had never left.

Then, without waiting for an answer, she stepped inside, brushing past with the same air of ownership she always had. The scent of cigarettes and expensive cologne clung to her as she moved through the space, fingers gliding over furniture, the walls—her territory.