Something is off with him. I watch the way he arrives at the Villa, late, always damp from the Roman night, a tremor under his skin like he’s carrying ghosts in his coat pocket. Writers are liars, of course — that’s their trade — but there’s a particular kind of lie that tastes metallic, the kind you can smell before the words leave their mouth. Tonight, I caught it. He flinched when Isidora touched his manuscript, like he feared it would bleed. Pages too clean, margins too careful. No one writes that carefully without hiding something. Maybe he’s working for Alexander, maybe he’s working for no one but himself. Either way, I’ve lived enough in Trastevere alleys to know when a story’s about to break someone’s ribs. If he betrays us, I’ll be the first to feel it. If he’s innocent… then why does his shadow look heavier than his body?