THE CITY OF MASKS

Venice, Italy - Three Days Later

The city shimmered like a lie wrapped in gold.

Amira stepped off the boat taxi, her heels clicking sharply against the ancient stone dock. Venice looked exactly like she remembered it beautiful, theatrical, drowning slowly in its own secrets.

She wasn't here as a tourist.

She was here chasing a ghost.

A ghost named Elira Vale.

11:12 a.m. Campo Santa Maria Formosa

Amira's first lead came from a name in Celeste's journal, a gallery Elira once interned at before she vanished.

The Galleria Formosa looked harmless. Elegant arches. Walls hung with surrealist paintings. A woman at the reception desk greeted her with a strained smile.

"I'm looking for someone," Amira said, sliding the photo of Elira across the desk. "Elira Vale. She worked here years ago."

The woman's face paled slightly.

"I remember her," she said. "But she left... abruptly."

"Do you know why?"

"She had an argument. With a man. American, I think."

"Zion Carter?"

The receptionist paused too long.

"I can't say. I was told to forget she existed."

1:05 p.m. Café Fenice

Rosalie's call came just as Amira was watching the gondolas glide past like shadows on water.

"She's not in any system," Rosalie said. "No passport renewals, no travel records. It's like Elira Vale stopped breathing six years ago."

Amira sipped her espresso. "Or someone's scrubbing her trail."

"There's more," Rosalie said. "I found a name linked to her final gallery submission, Kai Renault. He's an underground artist. Her last known contact."

"Where is he?"

"He owns a studio above the Church of San Moisè."

"Perfect," Amira said. "Because I'm done waiting for answers."

3:22 p.m. Kai's Studio, Upstairs from San Moisè

The building smelled of paint, sweat, and something older like time itself was bleeding out through the walls.

Kai Renault answered the door shirtless, a streak of crimson paint down his chest, eyes bloodshot but sharp.

"You're Fontaine's sister," he said before she could speak. "I was wondering when you'd come."

Amira froze. "You knew Celeste?"

Kai stepped aside. "Everyone in the scene knew her. She was light... until someone convinced her she was a burden."

Inside, canvases lined the walls portraits of women screaming, crying, burning.

And in the center?

A painting of Elira.

But not young.

Not dead.

Alive.

Older. Hardened. Staring at the viewer like she could reach through the canvas and strangle you.

"When did you paint this?" Amira whispered.

"Three months ago," Kai said. "She paid me to."

Amira turned sharply. "She's alive?"

Kai lit a cigarette. "Barely. She's hiding. Always hiding. But I think she wants to be found now."

Amira swallowed. "Why?"

"Because she's tired of watching you walk straight into the trap she ran from."

7:45 p.m. Amira's Hotel Room

Her phone buzzed.

UNKNOWN NUMBER

"Leave Venice. Or we'll bury you with her."

She stared at the screen.

Then smiled.

Too late.

Because now she wasn't chasing Elira anymore.

She was becoming her.

On the other side of Venice, in a candlelit studio hidden in a flooded alley, a woman with stormy eyes paints furiously her hair darker now, her accent sharper. Her canvas?

A woman in red.

A woman who looks like Amira.

She steps back from her painting and whispers:

"She's not ready for the truth."