Paolo Scardina

Tension mounts as the man steps into a shadowy, glistening tunnel, his boots scraping slick stone. Water drips in an eerie cadence, merging with a low hum. A metallic screech—a blade drawn—rends the air. His breath quickens, heart hammering like war drums in the suffocating dark. Chaos erupts. An assassin strikes, weapon slicing in a deadly arc. Blades clash, boots skid, and instincts drive motion. The man twists away and bolts, his steps crunching erratically as the blade whistles savagely behind him. Amid screams, steel, and breathless footfalls, the steady drip remains—the sole beacon as hunter and prey vanish into an endless abyss until silence swallows all.