It's Monday. And that alone would be enough.
I open my eyes at the sound of yet another phone alarm, staring at the pale ceiling washed in the light leaking through the shutters.
I stumble out of bed, eyes half-shut, and drag myself toward the fan that's been buzzing all night, trying—and failing—to stir up a bit of air in Padua's summer heat.

I shuffle into the bathroom, and when I reach the sink, I finally lift my gaze to the mirror.

Staring back at me is a Milo who's definitely seen better days.
My olive-toned face, shadowed with the hint of morning stubble, is puffy. Between the slightly hooked nose—thank you, Mediterranean genes—two round emerald-green eyes stand out, underlined with dark purple bags worthy of an all-nighter at the club.
My short brown hair is a disaster, strands sticking out in random directions like they're plotting against the laws of physics.

"Milo, my man, you'd better take a shower."

I crank on the cold water and step under the spray with a shiver.
On Saturday, I nearly died climbing.
The thought hits me with a clarity not even ten ice-cold showers could match.

Like a proper millennial, I wear no-show socks and I've been climbing pretty consistently for a couple of years now, partly — okay, mostly — because of a certain beefy instructor.
Yeah, I know. It's kinda sad to work out just to drool over a hot teacher. But really, is it such a crime to enjoy a little eye candy while sweating?
In summer, I often climb outdoors, and this was my first real accident.
I'm no pro, don't compete or anything, but I get by. I usually climb alone without issues; worst case, I ask some random climber for a hand.
Hot instructor aside, bouldering's a perfect fit for me. I'm a cynical introvert, the kind of guy who's perfectly happy talking only to the rocks.
When you're climbing, nobody expects you to socialise, beyond a polite "Allez" here and there.

I've never been one of the popular kids—not in school, not anywhere else.
To be fair, being the only kid without parents in a small-town school in Veneto in the early 2000s pretty much killed my social skills before they even had a chance to sprout.
I spent most of my childhood on my own, drawing, ignoring the rest of the world.
By the time I got to high school… well, let's just say I was never anyone's first pick for the volleyball team in gym class.
And whenever some jerk classmates threw insults my way, I'd fire back with sarcasm and wit—a trait that quickly earned me the reputation of "that guy who spares no one, impossible to approach."
That armour kept me out of trouble. But really, it was just a way to avoid getting hurt.
The result? I became a loner with a heart on lockdown.
Add to that the fact that it took me a while to figure out I was into willies, not flowers, so yeah—let's just say I didn't rack up many friends in my first twenty years.
It wasn't until I met Romina that I finally had my first real friend.

My phone buzzes on the bathroom counter—probably her, telling me to get my ass moving.

Romina and I work side by side at Dynamo Design, a marketing agency with a fancy name that, in reality, cranks out discount-store flyers and promo catalogues stuffed with ugly gradients and Comic Sans fonts, because apparently "it looks more cheerful that way."
Back in university at DAMS*, we used to discuss semiotics and dream of changing the world through art. Now we're stuck in an open-plan office with neon lights bright enough to melt even the most stubborn ambitions.

An office I won't reach on time today if I don't get out of this shower.

So I lather up, rinse off, then step out with one towel around my waist and another on my head, rubbing my hair in the hope that at least a few strands give up the fight. I shove down a couple of cookies, slam my usual espresso, get dressed, and head out.

My apartment's on the top floor of Condominio Girasole, an old apartment block on the outskirts of Padua. The view's the usual: antennas, more buildings, and the same sociopathic pigeon giving me the side-eye, hoping I'll toss it a crumb.

On the stairwell, my neighbour's TV is blasting the morning news.
With half an ear, I catch something about another missing person, this time near Belluno.
I stop, straining to listen.
The journalist's voice—heavy, muffled through the walls—echoes:

"Missing person cases have now reached ten in the last four months, all under still unclear circumstances, spread across several provinces in Veneto. Investigators are now looking for possible connections, even outside the region. The president of the region has called—"

A shiver runs down my spine, like the cold water from the shower still clinging to me.
Shaking off the unease, I head down to the ground floor. At the entrance, I glance into the condo's front office.

"Looking for me?" Uncle Bruno's warm voice comes from behind.

"Yeah, I'm heading out. Just wanted to say hi…"I turn, smiling at him—genuinely happy to see him. Then my grin twists into a grimace when I notice him wiping his black-stained hands on a rag that's begging for retirement.

"Ew, that rag's disgusting, uncle. Need a new one? I'll grab it for you. What are you even working on?"

Bruno's the doorman here. When he's not collecting mail or checking who comes in, he keeps busy with little maintenance jobs.

"I'm fixing the Belmonte girl's bike. The chain came off," he says with a smile under his thick moustache, pushing up his glasses with the back of his hand.

"And no, really, don't worry about it. You're already running late! But I'm expecting you for dinner tonight, okay?"

"Alright! I might be late, but I'll text you if that happens. See you later!"

I say goodbye, hop on my bike parked in the garden, and start pedalling toward the office—completely unaware of the figure watching me from a short distance.

*DAMS: Short for "Discipline delle Arti, della Musica e dello Spettacolo," a university program in Italy focusing on arts, music, and performing arts studies. Similar to a liberal arts program with a strong emphasis on creative and cultural subjects.