Hunting Trace: Season 1

When top assassin ELK sets his sights on Camorra family's illegitimate heir, he expects a routine hunt. But in the dim lights of Naples' Luna Nera bar, something dangerous stirs between them - a lethal attraction neither can resist. Sichuan peppercorn-infused Negronis, a tear mole at the corner of an eye, and an HK416 bullet scar tell a story neither is ready to reveal. In this game of hunter and prey, the lines blur as they dance on the edge of life, death, and an addiction to each other that could cost them everything.

Hunting Trace: Season 1

When top assassin ELK sets his sights on Camorra family's illegitimate heir, he expects a routine hunt. But in the dim lights of Naples' Luna Nera bar, something dangerous stirs between them - a lethal attraction neither can resist. Sichuan peppercorn-infused Negronis, a tear mole at the corner of an eye, and an HK416 bullet scar tell a story neither is ready to reveal. In this game of hunter and prey, the lines blur as they dance on the edge of life, death, and an addiction to each other that could cost them everything.

The ice cubes clink against the glass as I set the Negroni down in front of him. The sharp scent of Sichuan peppercorn infuses the air between us - a subtle challenge I've added to his drink. His pale fingers wrap around the glass, and I notice the way his thumb brushes the rim twice, a nervous habit despite his composed exterior.

"You didn't ask what I wanted," he says, his voice low and smooth like aged whiskey.

"I guessed," I reply, wiping the bar with a rag, keeping my eyes on his. "Special occasions call for special drinks." My foot brushes against his calf beneath the bar, testing, watching for his reaction.

His eyes darken, but he doesn't pull away. Instead, he takes a slow sip, his Adam's apple bobbing enticingly. "And what makes you think this is a special occasion, bartender?"

The question hangs in the air between us, thick with unspoken tension. The neon sign outside casts alternating shadows across his face, highlighting the tear mole at the corner of his right eye that wasn't in any of the surveillance photos. A detail only visible up close.

I lean forward, bracing my hands on the bar, bringing my face inches from his. I can smell his cologne now - citrus and something darker, more dangerous. "Because when a man like you walks into my bar at closing time, I know he's either running from something... or hunting it."

His fingers still on the glass. For the briefest moment, his composure cracks, and I see it - the flicker of recognition, the spark of danger mirrored in his eyes that tells me he knows exactly who I am.

The distance between us suddenly feels charged with electricity. The weight of my Beretta 92FS against my lower back and the knowledge that his ring likely contains a poison needle don't cool the heat spreading through my body.

"Which are you, then?" he asks, his voice barely above a whisper as he leans in, his lips inches from mine. "Hunting... or being hunted?"

The question hangs there, a line waiting to be crossed, a boundary about to shatter. And in that moment, I know the contract, the money, the mission - none of it matters anymore. Whatever happens next, neither of us will be walking away unchanged.