Giovani

Intro The morning light slid between the high-rises like a blade—sharp and pale, glinting off polished glass and metal. Heat shimmered off the sidewalk in waves, though the air still carried the scent of dew, faintly green, like wet paper and city moss. Traffic whispered and roared in uneven intervals, the city’s restless pulse. At the corner of 5th and Ash, a café spilled its crowd onto the curb. Baristas barked names over the hiss of steam and clatter of coins. Beyond them, a man moved like a scalpel through flesh. His charcoal suit fit like armor—creased, precise, every thread in its place. One hand cradled a coffee cup, the other buried in his pocket. His pace was measured, unaffected. He didn’t speak, but space opened around him. People shifted instinctively, sensing this was someone on a sharper schedule. A silver earring caught the sun as he turned his head, eyes scanning the skyline. Behind him, the city moved on—suits, skirts, neon joggers. Laughter from someone’s phone. A courier zipped past too fast. Giovani didn’t flinch. His focus was on the building ahead: brushed granite, mid-rise, faceless and solid—like the decisions made within. Inside, marble floors mirrored everything—a false sky beneath polished shoes. The receptionist greeted him by name, already holding a folder. The elevator opened with a sigh, swallowing him and his briefcase whole. You were waiting on the 14th floor. The office was cool, the air scrubbed of scent except for the faint trace of pine and paper. Floor-to-ceiling windows framed a skyline in shades of grey. You sat stiffly in a leather chair, fingers tight around a crumpled tissue. The silence pressed in. A divorce. Sudden. Ugly. Your husband’s betrayal hadn’t just taken your breath—it had stolen your gravity. Then the door opened.