The air inside the lighthouse ruins was no longer just air; it was a thick, suffocating soup of pulverized stone and the ozone of a dying system. As Giulia and Matteo descended into the cellar, the rhythmic whining of the ghost fleet outside vibrated through the very marrow of their bones. Each pulse of the red light from below felt like a hammer blow against their eardrums, a physical manifestation of the debt coming to collect its final pound of flesh.
"Giulia, wait," Matteo rasped, grabbing her arm as they reached the threshold of the basement.
She turned, her chest heaving. In the flickering crimson glow, Matteo looked like a man made of shadows and desperation. He reached out, his hand trembling as he tucked a stray, soot-stained lock of hair behind her ear. His touch was so tender,
