Ringing.
That was the first thing Aquila became aware of. A high-pitched whine that seemed to come from inside his skull.
Then pain; his shoulder, his ribs, something warm and wet running down his face.
Blood. It was blood.
He forced his eyes open. The world swam into focus in pieces: a spiderweb crack in the windshield in front of him, steam rising from the crumpled hood, people gathering at a distance like muttering nervous animals.
Some were filming with their phones. In the distance, sirens.
"Shit," he groaned.
His door was jammed. Aquila kicked it twice before it gave, spilling him out onto the pavement. He stayed on his hands and knees for a moment, head spinning, trying to remember how to breathe.
The other vehicle was worse; the SUV's front end was completely caved in, the hood crumpled like paper. No one could have survived that.
Except the door opened.
Giorno Totti slid out of the driver's seat like death itself. His white overcoat was torn and stained with blood, the black shirt underneath ripped at the shoulder.
Blood ran from his nose and mouth. The raven tattoo on his neck stood out starkly against his pale skin. His eyes opened as he shook his head.
The crowd gasped, realization spreading through them like electricity. They understood now. This wasn't an accident. This was family business; one that was well known in the city.
The stepbrothers stared at each other across the wreckage. Aquila saw Giorno's hand move toward his coat pocket.
He ran.
The crowd became his cover. He shoved through them, ignoring their shouts and protests. His legs didn't want to work properly; everything felt distant, wrapped in cotton….but his survival instincts kept him moving even as his vision started to blur at the edges.
Behind him, he heard Giorno following. The younger man was taller, stronger, but he was injured too.
'That had to count for something,' Aquila thought.
Aquila turned down a side street, then another, putting distance between himself and the sirens. The streets here were older, narrower, less maintained. Fewer people. That was good.
He stumbled and caught himself against a street lamp, the old metal cold under his palm. His breath came in ragged gasps.
Footsteps behind him.
Aquila turned just as Giorno emerged from the corner, a pistol already in his hand.
The shot was deafening in the narrow street. The bullet struck the lamp above Aquila's head, sending sparks raining down.
"Oh c'mon!!" Aquila yelled at he pushed off and ran again.
"Stop running!" Giorno's voice echoed off the buildings, rough with pain and anger.
"Stop shooting!" Aquila yelled back over his shoulder. Another shot rang out, striking the pavement to his left. "You're hurt, idiot! Get to a hospital!"
"Only one of us is going to the hospital!" Giorno's voice was closer now.
"Stupid brat," Aquila muttered, his vision swimming worse now. Everything was taking on a dreamy quality, edges softening.
An apartment building loomed ahead. Aquila half-ran, half-fell against the door, leaning his weight into it.
Then Giorno was there, slamming into him with his shoulder. The door burst inward with a crack of splintering wood, and they both tumbled into a dim hallway.
Giorno grabbed Aquila's shirt at the neck, using him as leverage to pull himself up. His fist connected with Aquila's face….once…..twice.
Stars exploded across Aquila's vision.
Through the haze, he could see Giorno clearly now. The younger man's nose was obviously broken, bent at an angle, blood streaming down his chin and soaking into his torn shirt. His usually perfect hair hung in bloody, sweat-soaked waves.
Aquila planted his good hand against Giorno's chest and shoved, then kicked out hard, his boot connecting with Giorno's ruined nose.
Giorno screamed; a raw, primal sound and staggered back, cursing.
Aquila forced himself up and lurched toward the stairs. His legs felt like they were made of lead.
"Can't die," he muttered to himself, climbing. Each step was a mountain. "Not like this. This is too much of a pain-in-the-ass."
His thoughts were fragmenting, becoming disconnected. "Can't die yet. Haven't watched Titanic. Haven't done fellatio. Haven't seen a jaguar yet..."
A fist connected with the back of his head.
The world tilted. Aquila stumbled through a doorway. The impact drove what little air he had left from his lungs.
"Who the hell…." A man's voice, indignant and afraid.
Aquila tried to focus. A civilian. Middle-aged, wearing a bathrobe.
He groaned. Unlucky chap. Wrong place, wrong time.
"Get out." Giorno's voice, cold and flat.
The man looked affronted. "This is my house!"
A gunshot. The sharp crack of it brought Aquila's consciousness swimming back into focus. The man crumpled, a neat hole between his eyes. He hit the floor with a sound like a sack of meat.
"That was my last bullet," Giorno said, his voice carrying a note of regret. "It was meant for you."
Aquila felt hands grab his shirt, dragging him. His back hit a wall,; thin, he could feel it flex slightly. Giorno positioned him carefully, like arranging a mannequin.
"The hard way it is," Giorno said softly.
The first punch snapped Aquila's head to the side.
The second made his teeth cut the inside of his cheek.
The third and fourth blended together into one continuous explosion of pain. Blood filled his mouth, warm and copper-tasting.
Aquila's vision was going bloody at the edges, a tunnel narrowing around Giorno's bloody face. His stepbrother drew back for another punch.
With the last dregs of his strength, Aquila spat; a spray of blood directly into Giorno's eyes.
"Cazzo!" Giorno reeled back, clawing at his face.
Aquila moved on pure instinct. He grabbed Giorno's waist as the younger man's back turned to him, planted his feet, and lifted.
The suplex drove them both backward through the paper-thin wall.
They hit the floor on the other side in a shower of plaster and wood splinters. Aquila's dislocated shoulder screamed. Everything screamed. But he was conscious enough to register what he was seeing.
Three men. Young, maybe early twenties, dressed in what looked like medieval robes.
One held a piece of chalk in one hand and a lantern in the other, a small wooden bowl at his feet.
The other two just stood there, mouths hanging open in perfect synchronization.
Beneath them, drawn on the floor; a hexagon. It was massive, taking up most of the room, drawn in what looked like chalk and... something else. Something dark and still wet.
On the wall behind them, the wall Aquila and Giorno had just crashed through, more symbols. Intricate patterns that seemed to writhe in the lamplight.
"Is this..." Aquila's voice came out as a painful croak. "Some sort of ritual?"
The man with the chalk grabbed his head in both hands, a gesture of pure despair. "What the hell do you think you are doing…."
Golden light erupted from the hole in the wall.
It was not a normal light.
It pulsed, alive, and with it came a sound; a deep thrumming that Aquila felt in his bones more than heard. The air itself seemed to tear.
Then came the pull.
It started as a gentle tug, like standing too close to a train as it passed. Then it became irresistible; a force that grabbed everything in the room and dragged it toward the light.
The wooden bowl skittered across the floor. A huge book went flying. One of the robed men screamed as his feet left the ground.
Aquila tried to grab something, anything, but his dislocated arm was useless and his good hand found nothing. The force pulled him quickly into the strange light.
In the chaos, he saw Giorno. His stepbrother was being pulled too; toward the other side of the light.
He tumbled through the air, blood trailing from his nose like a red banner. His hands trying to hold on to the disintegrating wall
Their eyes met.
Even through the pain, through the blood and the impossible light and the screaming, Giorno's eyes were clear. Dark and determined and full of promise.
'You're not getting away from me,' those eyes said. 'Not even after whatever hell this is.'
Then the light swallowed the entire room and the last thing Aquila saw was the deep darkness inside the light.