The evening air outside the University of Bologna was warm, scented faintly with espresso and blooming jasmine from nearby terraces. Scarlett returned to her studio, exhausted yet resolute. The whispers, the accusations, the sudden technical review — it all hovered around her like a storm cloud she couldn't shake.
She dropped her bag and sank into her chair, sketchbook open, trying to focus. Every line she drew felt heavier than the last, weighed down by the invisible eyes of Alisa Meng. She could almost hear the soft laughter, the cold calculation, the sense of inevitability Alisa radiated.
Meanwhile, far across town, Alisa Meng's suite of ivory and gold in the Meng estate was silent, save for the faint tapping of manicured fingers against polished marble. Joanna hovered nervously by her side, a glass of wine shaking slightly in her hand.
"They're serious about this audit," Joanna whispered, voice tight. "If the professors dig too deep…"
Alisa didn't look at her. She stared at the map of the university pinned on the wall, tiny sticky notes marking classrooms, labs, and potential weak points in Scarlett's schedule. "If the professors dig too deep, Joanna… then we make it uncomfortable. Fear is subtle, but effective." Her smile was a knife wrapped in silk. "Scarlett Rose has talent. Too much talent for her own good. And Nicolas… he looks at her. That complicates everything."
Joanna swallowed, lips dry. "You really think he's… involved? That he cares?"
Alisa's gaze sharpened. "Care? Maybe. But he obeys rules, bloodlines, expectations. He isn't here to stop me. He won't intervene unless necessary. And if he does… well, that's something I will have to account for." She traced a finger along a sticky note, labeling Scarlett's upcoming classes and deadlines. "We attack the rhythm. Make her second-guess every step. Turn friends into observers. Turn observers into critics. The whispers, the doubts, the tiniest mistakes — we magnify them."
Back at the studio, Scarlett's thoughts were interrupted by a soft knock. She glanced up, and there he was — Nicolas Volkov, standing in the doorway, coat draped over his arm, expression calm but unreadable.
"May I?" he asked quietly, eyes flicking to the scattered sketches.
Scarlett nodded, almost breathless. "Of course."
He stepped inside, gaze scanning her model and sketches. His presence was commanding yet unobtrusive, as if he were both observer and shield. "They're planning more than just an audit," he said quietly, almost to himself. "The whispers, the setup, the timing… Alisa won't stop at suspicion."
Scarlett leaned back, jaw tight. "I know. I can feel it. But what can they do that I can't survive?"
Nicolas's eyes softened for the briefest moment. "Survive? Perhaps. But don't just survive. You need to be ready. They'll use every shadow, every rumor, every whisper. And they'll expect you to crumble."
She met his gaze, determination rising like fire. "I won't. I'll show them that the truth isn't fragile. My work, my effort… it speaks for itself."
He nodded, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. "Good. Because Alisa will strike soon, and Joanna will do her bidding. Watch carefully, stay precise, and never let them see fear."
Later that night, Scarlett sat at her workstation, eyes scanning her model with renewed scrutiny. Every sensor, every line of code, every adaptive response was tested, strengthened. She annotated, backed up, and documented everything — meticulous evidence ready for the impending battle.
Outside, the city slept under a soft blanket of light and shadow, unaware of the quiet war brewing in a small studio. Somewhere, Alisa Meng plotted her next move, her mind as sharp as the knives she wielded in whispers.
Scarlett pressed a hand to the cool glass of her model, whispering softly, "Do your worst."
And somewhere in the shadows, Nicolas watched, a silent sentinel. His loyalty was unreadable, his intentions cloaked, but the faintest glimmer in his eyes promised that he, at least, wasn't letting her fight entirely alone.
The stage was set. The whispers would become a roar. The stakes were higher than ever. And in the heart of Bologna's cobblestone streets, a quiet storm of ambition, jealousy, and raw talent was about to collide.