The sun over Naples was aggressive, but for the first time, it didn't feel like it was beating down on me. It felt like it was trying to introduce itself.

  As I chewed the st crust of the Margherita, the world started to flicker. It wasn't my vision failing; it was the "Weight" in my chest expanding, pushing against the boundaries of my sight. I looked at the bustling crowd in the Piazza del Plebiscito, and I didn't just see tourists and pigeons anymore.

  I saw Strings.

  Faint, translucent threads of vibrating light were tethered to the chests of every person walking by. Some were thick and golden, leading toward family members; others were frayed and grey, trailing off into the shadows of the alleyways. It was the "Script" the Seraph had talked about—the visible Law of Fate, tying everyone to a pre-written end.

  I looked at Hades. He didn't have a string. He was a bck hole in the tapestry, a static-filled void that the threads avoided. Then I looked at my own chest.

  Nothing. Not a single tether. I wasn't just off the script; I was a bnk page.

  "Stop staring," Hades grumbled, wiping tomato sauce from his lip with a napkin that looked far too delicate for his hands. "You're doing it again. You’re looking at the Is instead of the What."

  "I can see them, Hades. The strings." I leaned back, my chair scraping harshly against the cobblestones. "Is that what I 'ate' back there? The ability to see the leash everyone is on?"

  Hades paused, his eyes darkening into twin pits of ink. "It’s not a leash. It’s a path. Usually, only the Nornir or the Moirai are permitted to see the weaving. If you’re seeing it now, it means your 'Existence' is starting to overp with the 'Order' of the world. You’re becoming a sensor, Zany. A cosmic radar."

  I scanned the pza, the gold light in my eyes humming. Most of the strings were mundane—work, lunch, sleep. But then, near a fountain shaped like a weeping nymph, I saw a string vibrating so violently it was turning the color of arterial blood.

  It was attached to a man in a beige trench coat. He looked normal, maybe a bit twitchy, but the air around him was warped. People didn't just walk past him; they gave him a wide, unconscious berth. They looked pale, their eyes darting around in sudden, irrational fear.

  "That one," I whispered, nodding toward the man. "He’s vibrating. The air feels like a panic attack."

  Hades didn't even turn his head. He just took a slow sip of his wine. "That would be Pavor. A minor god of the Roman fold. He’s the personification of Panic. Usually, he’s harmless, just feeding off the anxiety of crowded cities. But look at his string, boy. See where it leads."

  I focused. The red string didn't go up toward the heavens or back toward a home. It was tangled. It was being pulled by something much rger, hidden in the shadows of the San Francesco di Pao basilica across the square.

  Something massive was fishing, and Pavor was the bait.

  "He’s terrified," I realized. The "God of Panic" was sweating, his eyes wide as he scanned the crowd. He wasn't causing the fear; he was radiating it because he was being hunted.

  Suddenly, Pavor’s eyes locked onto ours. He didn't see a tourist and an old man in a suit. He saw the "Mediator"—a sun-bright anomaly—and the King of the Dead.

  He didn't run away. He ran toward us.

  "Save me!" he shrieked, his voice cracking like breaking gss. The strings of a dozen nearby tourists snapped like dry twigs as he lunged for our table, knocking over a bottle of wine. "The Hunter! He’s here! He’s tracing the ripple from the Underworld!"

  Hades stood up, his chair dissolving into shadow beneath him. "Too te, Zany. It seems the 'Hunter' I mentioned didn't wait for the paperwork."

  The shadows in the pza didn't just grow; they stood up. The sun was still shining, but the light felt cold and sterile. The tourists froze mid-step, their strings turning a dull, lifeless grey as time itself seemed to sludge into a halt.

  From the darkness of the basilica’s arches, a figure stepped out. He was draped in the pelt of a celestial leopard, carrying a bow carved from white, unpolished bone. He didn't have a face—just a mask of polished silver that reflected nothing but the void.

  "The Error," the Hunter spoke. His voice sounded like a thousand arrows hitting a single shield. "And the Traitor King. The Script demands a correction."

  I stood up next to Hades, my hands steady. I felt a weirdly calm sensation. No more shaking. No more jokes to hide the hollow parts of my mind. Just the Weight.

  "I just finished my pizza," I said, the gold veins in my neck beginning to glow with a steady, dangerous heat. "You’ve got terrible timing."