At the stroke of midnight, the sky over Italy split like parchment under divine flame.
From Turin to Palermo, a single bell—ancient, rusted, and long-silenced—trembled to life. It rang with no rope, no hand, no priest. The sound rippled across mountains, through catacombs and opera houses, vibrating in the bones of the forgotten and the flesh of the damned.
The world did not know it yet, but the First Veil had cracked.
And seven souls stirred.
In Genoa, atop a crumbling bell tower where seagulls screamed and the wind smelled of salt and rust, Tralalero Tralala awoke in a cold sweat.She had been dreaming of flames licking stained glass, of songs older than language sung by a mouth that wasn't hers.
The bell rang again, and she clutched her throat.
No scars. No notes.
But deep within her chest, an aria hummed like a curse."I've sung this before," she whispered, trembling. "In another world."
She looked to the sea, where the waves seemed to move with purpose, as if being conducted.
In Naples, beneath the floor of an ancient poetry bar, a man jolted upright in a pile of red velvet cushions and discarded wine bottles.
Bombombini Gusini, the poet-turned-pyromaniac, blinked rapidly.
His hands were glowing.
Not metaphorically.
Literally burning.
He laughed. A loud, glorious, heretical sound."Finalmente," he muttered, gripping his flaming hands like they were old friends. "The fire knows me again."
The bell toll reached him through brick and stone and dream.
He stood. "Something wicked sings."
In Vatican City, deep in the labyrinthine vaults beneath Saint Peter's, Capuchino Assassino stood before a sealed iron door. His gloves were off. His mouth—firm, dry, bitter—twitched at the corners.
The door began to bleed.
"Protocol: Lapsus Dei," he whispered.
Behind him, Vatican clergy fell to their knees, praying to a God who was not listening.
Inside the door, a beast stirred.
In Florence, on the cracked stage of an abandoned ballet school, a girl danced alone under moonlight. Her name was Ballerina Cappuccina, though no one had spoken it aloud in years.
Her feet bled, but she did not stop.
Because if she did, the ghosts in the mirror would scream again.
When the bell rang, she stumbled. The world paused for half a heartbeat—and in that silence, her reflection blinked.But she hadn't.
"È cominciato," she breathed.
In Milan, dressed in a tuxedo stolen from a corpse, Bombardiro Crocodillo emerged from a marble crypt, chewing lazily on a human thigh bone.He cracked his neck. "They really buried me in Armani. How thoughtful."
Above him, angels carved in stone wept blood.
The bell rang. He looked up.
"Ah. Dinner's ready."
In Venice, where water crept through the marble veins of the city, Lirilì Larilà walked barefoot across the flooded piazza. Her white dress dragged in the tide. In her hands: a cracked hand mirror.
She stared into it and saw nothing.
"Six will fall in love," she whispered to herself. "One will destroy them all."
Her voice echoed twice.
Once from her lips.And once from a woman long dead.
And in Bologna, atop a rooftop banana stand, Chimpanzini Bananini performed an interpretive dance for pigeons. A banana balanced on his head. One eye twitched as the bell toll struck him like lightning.
"Ohhh, eccolo," he sang, eyes gleaming with madness. "The beginning of the end, or the end of the beginning!"
He peeled the banana. Took a bite.
"Time to ruin everything."
All across Italy, the sky churned.
Seven souls, scattered across marble cities and dying chapels, stood breathless—some confused, some laughing, some already remembering things they had no right to.
And as the last echo of the bell faded into silence…
…the first crack appeared in the stars.