The morning light over Florence was paler than usual, streaked with the tired blues of a sky not yet warmed by the sun. Aurelia's steps felt heavier than the day before, her body aching with the reminder of her relentless work the past few days.

She had been doing minimal work since her Pheonix painting, experimenting and helping paint small, easy peices, but even though they were small she couldn't believe the price tag that had been on all her paintings, like there was more than just the art they were paying for, perhaps the experience to just be in the building or to meet Lucas Moretti.

Now, as she pushed through the glass doors of Aurum Arte, she blinked against the brightness of the lobby lights. The air smelled like lemon polish and espresso beans. Her eyes stung, her limbs dragging slightly, but there was a thread of pride stitched tightly into her exhaustion.

Bianca was waiting, perched near the welcome desk with two tiny paper cups and a white pastry bag in her hands. Her expression was unreadable at first, caught between a smile and something more guarded.

"You still look like a painting that's been left out in the rain," Bianca said with a lopsided grin, offering one of the cups.

Aurelia managed a breathy laugh. "Thanks. That good, huh?"

"You didn't go home until after midnight the other night, and you've been working hard the past week," Bianca replied, her tone softer than before. She handed over the bag next. "Espresso and sfogliatella."

Aurelia took them gratefully, sipping the espresso as they walked through the quiet hallway toward the art department. Something felt different in Bianca's manner-her words were the same, but the rhythm was off, like a melody played half a beat too slow, and less sarcasm.

"Everything okay?" Aurelia asked cautiously.

Bianca shrugged, brushing a lock of dark hair behind her ear. "You made quite the impression the other day. Not many people impress Lucas Moretti or the top tier clients who bought your peice."

"That's a good thing, right?"

"It's... something," Bianca said with a cryptic smile.

They turned the familiar corner, past the sleek walls of the chemical department and the leather working division, where muted sounds of tools and machines echoed faintly. As they reached Aurelia's corner in the studio, Bianca paused.

"Your next big commission is already waiting on your desk," she said, her hand briefly touching the door handle. "And if you need anything-anything-you come find me."

Aurelia nodded, unsure why her chest suddenly felt tighter. "Thanks, Bianca."

Inside, the art studio was bathed in the cool white light of early morning. On the long wooden table, set precisely in the center, was a cream-colored envelope with her name written in bold black ink. The smell of fresh paper and paint lingered in the air.

She set her breakfast down, peeled back the flap of the envelope, and pulled out the new assignment.

Another commission. Another challenge. But this time, she felt the pressure press down on her shoulders more sharply, as though unseen eyes were already judging her next move.

Outside, the city stretched into a new day, but within these walls, something had shifted. Aurelia could feel it, an invisible current winding its way between her, Lucas, and this place that had already begun to reshape her world.

Aurelia sat on the couch, the morning light filtering in through the tall windows. The espresso in her hand was growing cold, but she barely noticed. Her eyes were fixed on the commission letter laid across her worktable. The bold seal of Aurum Arte was stamped across the top, but it was the request itself that made her stomach twist.

She scanned the page again and again, heart thudding.

"A 3D ceiling installation painting. Interactive under black light. Must invoke a theme of transcendence."

That was it. No dimensions, no layout, no description of the space or color preferences. Just that.

Aurelia exhaled slowly, her fingers tightening around the handle of her cup.

She had never done anything like this before. Ceiling work was completely new territory-let alone in three dimensions, let alone something that had to react to black light. Her stomach churned with nervous energy. The last project had taken everything out of her, and now they were expecting something entirely different. She had hoped to find her footing here first, maybe ease into the big requests. But that hope had vanished with the ink on this commission.

She turned and paced a few steps, sipping the lukewarm espresso in a desperate attempt to ground herself. Her brain was already firing with ideas and problems. The logistics alone were mind-bending. She would need lightweight materials, something flexible enough to curve against a ceiling but sturdy enough to hold 3D shapes. She'd also need specific UV-reactive compounds. Where would she even begin?

With a sigh, she set the letter down and grabbed her notebook, scribbling a frantic list of materials she thought might work. Her script became messier with each item. Foam board. UV-reactive pigment. Mesh backing. Wireframe supports. Adhesives. Black light testers. Her head was spinning.

Espresso in hand, she slipped out of the studio and down the hallway, heading toward the materials room. The building was quieter this early in the day. Most people were still in their offices or workshops, and the occasional tap of shoes on marble echoed around her. The silence was both calming and eerie, giving her thoughts room to spiral.

She turned the corner into the main corridor, still staring at her notes, and didn't see the figure until she collided directly with them.

Her cup jolted in her hand, sloshing warm espresso onto her fingers.

"Oh! Scusa!" she gasped, stumbling back, surprised that the Italian word had escaped her lips without thinking. Her notebook fluttered to the floor.

The man she'd walked into blinked down at her, just as surprised. He was tall, dressed in dark slacks and a crisp black shirt, sleeves rolled up to the elbows. His hair was an effortless wave of charcoal, and his expression was more amused than annoyed. Something about him seemed familiar, but she didn't know what.

"You, okay?" he asked in a smooth Italian accent, though his English was perfect.

Aurelia nodded quickly, already crouching to scoop up her notebook, trying to shake off the embarrassment.

"Yeah, I'm-sorry, I wasn't watching where I was going. I've got a lot in my head this morning."

He gave a small smile and knelt to help her. "No harm done. You're the new artist, right? The one who turned Lucas Moretti into a statue yesterday."

She flushed instantly. "Word travels fast, huh?"

"Around here? It flies."

He handed her the notebook and straightened. She noticed now that he had red paint smudged on his hands. An artist.

"Matteo," he said, offering his hand.

"Aurelia."

"Nice to meet you, Aurelia. Good luck surviving your first week." He winked. "You'll need it."

With that, he turned and disappeared down another hallway, whistling some unidentifiable tune. Aurelia stood there a moment longer, lips twitching in mild disbelief, she rung her hands anxiously before continuing toward the materials room.

She needed all the luck she could get.

Aurelia balanced the supplies in her arms, the lingering warmth of espresso still comforting her throat. Her stomach buzzed with anxiety and caffeine as she returned to her corner. The letter with the ceiling commission still clung to her mind like static, making her skin prickle. A 3D painting. For a ceiling. No guidelines. No examples. No help. Just her.

She exhaled a shaky breath and set the materials down on a nearby table. After a few moments of stillness, her fingers twitched to life. She could feel the paint pulsing in her chest like a second heartbeat. The room quieted around her, swallowed by the heaviness of anticipation.

She began by combining two base chemicals she'd used before-both stable on their own but volatile when interacting with heat. She carefully stirred in a third ingredient, a thickener she had discovered during one of her late-night experimental spells. The reaction was slow but precise, expanding into a moldable, clay-like substance. It shimmered faintly, pliable like dough but with a luminous sheen.

Aurelia tested a small strand of the mixture by applying a low-heat blowtorch to it. The form hardened instantly, becoming solid and lightweight, retaining the texture of what she had shaped. Her eyes lit up. This was it. This was how she'd lift her idea from theory to ceiling.

She mixed more, dyeing half of the batch with a special compound that would remain invisible under normal light but glow with violent reds, oranges, and purples under blacklight. The rest, she colored in natural hues-soft moss greens, gentle lavenders, and pale pinks-to make them blend in innocently in the daylight.

Starting from the farthest corner of the ceiling canvas, she sculpted thick, winding vines, curling them into natural spirals and looping shapes. Flowers bloomed from their tangles-some large, bulbous, and full of weight; others slender, sharp, and strange. It looked romantic, dreamy. But under the influence of blacklight, the hidden pigments would awaken, revealing serpentine shadows beneath the flora, the vines shifting in color to resemble fiery snakes slithering through a deadly garden.

The work was slow, methodical. She paused only to drink more water and adjust the torch. Her arms ached from reaching and shaping above her head, but the vision was beginning to take form. The gentle floral design looked deceptively sweet in the golden late-afternoon light streaming through the high windows.

Just as she was starting on another batch of the reactive compound, a soft knock on the door made her flinch.

Lucas stepped inside.

He looked as put together as ever—black button-up shirt, sleeves casually rolled, collar slightly askew like he hadn’t had the patience to fix it. His expression was taut. Not unreadable this time, but sharp in a different way. Like a storm that hadn’t decided where to strike yet.

He didn’t say anything at first. Just stood there, eyes scanning the ceiling with practiced calculation. The longer he looked, the more Aurelia’s pulse stuttered.

She wiped her palms on her apron. “I didn’t know if I was supposed to stop or keep going,” she said quickly, gesturing toward the half-finished ceiling. “I haven’t used this method before. It’s experimental. It’s—”

Lucas cut her off with a motion of his hand, but this time it wasn’t gentle.

“It’s not the method I care about.”

Aurelia blinked, taken aback. “Then what do you—?”

He stepped closer, jaw tightening. “You were supposed to be resting.”

Her confusion deepened. “What are you talking about?”

“The other day when you were out in the city the other day,” he said, voice sharper now. “After I told you to rest.”

Her stomach sank. “That was 4 days ago. We talked about it after...I thought—”

“You thought wrong.”

The words landed like a slap. His tone was harsher than she’d ever heard it.

“I was just walking,” she said quietly. “I needed air. I didn’t know it was a crime.”

“It’s not,” Lucas snapped. “But it was reckless. And for someone who supposedly values her life, you’ve got a funny way of showing it.”

Aurelia’s spine stiffened. “I didn’t realize fresh air was a security risk.”

His eyes locked on hers, hard and unyielding. “You don’t understand the kinds of people who move in this city’s shadows. You think you do, but you don’t. And your timing? Couldn’t be worse.”

Something inside him frayed with those last words, like a tightrope snapping. He turned his back to her for a moment, running a hand through his hair. When he faced her again, there was steel behind his voice.

“The work is good.”

She hesitated, thrown by the sudden pivot. “Seriously?”

“It’s more than good. It’s alive. There’s something about it—dangerous, yet beautiful.”

His gaze hovered over the vines she’d etched. But the compliment came wrapped in a warning.

Lucas approached the work table and picked up the commission letter she’d left beside her tools. His fingers curled around the paper tightly.

“But none of that matters if you don’t make it to the deadline.”

Aurelia swallowed hard. “What happened? Was the deadline changed?”

He didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he flicked a glance to the window as though expecting someone to be watching. When he finally spoke, it was low and tired. “Those men on the street were not locals. One of them crossed a line.”

She took a step toward him. “Did-did they come after you?”

That question made him pause. Just briefly. Enough to let something flicker in his eyes—rage, pain, something she couldn’t name. But when he looked at her again, it was gone.

“No,” he said. “Of course not. But they will. And they’ll use whoever’s easiest to reach.”

He placed a granola bar on the table. The gesture was curt, but deliberate.

“Eat. Rest. Come back tomorrow. And if I hear you were anywhere near that alley again, we’re going to have a very different kind of conversation.”

Aurelia stared at the wrapper. “You could try sounding like you care, you know.”

“I don’t,” Lucas snapped, the words flaring sharp as broken glass. “But I will not stand by while you stumble blindly into danger like it’s some kind of romantic daydream. This isn’t a painting you can fix with a new brushstroke, Aurelia. This is real.”

His voice rose, sharp and sudden. “You don’t get it. You don’t get what it means when people start watching. When they notice. You think the city’s just shadows and stories—but I’ve seen what happens when someone like you wanders too close. And I’m not cleaning up another disaster because you can’t follow simple instructions.”

His hands were clenched now, breathing unsteady. “I don’t have the luxury to care about anyone but myself. But if something happened to you, if someone dragged you into something you couldn’t crawl back out of, I'm going to be the one they come to. I’d be the one left standing in the wreckage. And I’m tired of burying the consequences of other people’s choices.”

Lucas took a breath, chest heaving, before snapping, “So do us both a favor. Don’t get killed trying to prove how fearless you are. And don’t you dare bring the mess back here if you do. Because I swear, I will slam the door in your face the next time you decide to play brave in a world you don’t understand.”

The door slammed shut behind him.

She stood frozen, her jaw tight, her breath caught somewhere between fury and disbelief.

But when she turned back to the ceiling, its golden hue washed over her again. The vines curled softly across the plaster like they were still growing, still reaching.

Beautiful. Alive. Just a little dangerous.

Maybe that was the point.

The walk home was unusually quiet—the kind of silence that makes you realize just how loud the world usually is. Aurelia's boots echoed on the cobbled streets of Florence as she tugged her coat tighter around herself. The night air bit at her cheeks, but she welcomed it. It helped keep her awake… and helped her forget how much her hands were still trembling.

Every part of her body ached from the long day in the studio. Her fingers were stained with color, and her arms were sore from holding up the clay-substance she’d forged into art. But her mind? That was louder than anything else.

Lucas’s voice still rang in her ears, raw and unfiltered. She’d never seen him like that. Never heard him spit out words like he regretted ever meeting her. It wasn’t just anger—it was fear, too, laced with something she couldn’t name. Something that left her feeling exposed and foolish and far too small.

And it reminded her—far too vividly—of the last time her father had yelled at her. She must have been eleven, maybe twelve. She’d tracked paint across the living room carpet after staying up late working on a birthday card for him. He hadn’t cared about the drawing—only the mess. His voice had filled the house, loud and sharp and full of things she didn’t understand until much later. That was the first time she’d truly learned that love, when paired with pressure, could turn volatile.

Lucas hadn’t looked at her like a person, not at the end. He’d looked at her like a liability.

She clenched her fists as she walked, trying to will the sting out of her chest. Her palms still held the warmth of the torch, but her heart felt hollow.

She couldn't stop replaying the moment he walked in, his gaze catching on the way her painting transformed beneath the blacklight. That flicker of awe—real, unguarded—had surfaced for the briefest moment before he snapped back into the cold, controlled version of himself. He’d told her not to overwork herself. To rest. To go home.

And then he’d torn her down with the precision of someone who knew exactly where her soft spots were.

Still, she had stayed. Not because she wanted to prove anything to him, but because the vines twisting across the ceiling wouldn’t let her go. They reached out like they were alive, like they needed to be finished. Like maybe she needed them, too. Like they understood.

The phantom glow of serpentine illusions still danced behind her eyes. She could feel the memory of the torch in her grip, the sting of the formula as it scorched into place. But now there was something else beneath her skin—a tension, a warning. Something in Lucas’s voice hadn’t just been about art or deadlines.

He was trying to protect something. Or someone.

And for the first time since arriving in Florence, Aurelia wasn’t sure she was safe.

Not from the city.

Not from the shadows.

And definitely not from Lucas.

The streetlamps above flickered gently as she passed beneath them, casting soft halos on the wet stone path. The quiet hum of a scooter in the distance was the only other sound. Her mind wandered again, this time to Matteo. He'd helped her carry some of the heavier materials earlier, smiling in that easy way that made her feel safe. He'd even complimented her mixture-"That looks like it belongs in the Uffizi," he'd joked, leaning against the doorframe. Aurelia hadn't laughed, but she had smiled.

She blinked hard, her vision swimming slightly. Maybe it was the hunger. Or the exhaustion. Or the espresso hitting back harder than expected. The shadows around her started to feel strange, like they were moving-no, breathing. She stumbled to the left, catching herself on a building wall.

Her heart thudded harder now.

She looked up at the dark windows above her, the architecture looming overhead like watchful eyes. A breath escaped her lips in a cloud of mist. Her head felt heavier by the second. She tried to keep walking, willing her feet to move, but it was as if the cobblestones had turned to sand beneath her boots.

Something wasn't right.

The world tilted.

A sharp pain stabbed behind her eyes, and suddenly, everything tunneled.

Darkness swallowed her before she could cry out.

___________________________________

Aurelia woke up with a jolt.

The familiar scent of her room filled her nose-linen sheets, worn books, the faint sweetness of the dried lavender she'd tucked into the corner of the window. Her eyes darted to the ceiling, then to the window where golden sunlight streamed in.

She sat up slowly, clutching her head.

Her coat was draped over the chair. Her boots neatly placed beside the door. A half-empty glass of water sat on her nightstand.

Had she walked home?

She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to grasp the hazy blur of memory. The strange shadows. The fall. The cold. The headache.

"It was just a dream," she whispered to herself. "Just a really weird dream."

She reached over, pulled her blanket tighter, and let her head rest back against the pillow.

Outside, Florence moved on as always. But inside Aurelia's mind, a quiet unease lingered.

And somewhere, buried deep in the shadows of memory, something was waiting to be remembered.

She closed her eyes.

And slept.