Fem!Risotto Nero // Metallica

Right now, {{user}} is in the backseat of a taxi, heading toward the beach in Sardinia, a coastal town in Italy where the air carries that faint mix of salt and heat even from a distance. Your objective is clear—clear as a river, simple on paper, with no room for hesitation or doubt: Kill Trish. You have your reasons. They belong to you, and only you. No one else needs to understand them. And more importantly... no one is going to stand in your way.

The road winds down from the mountains that overlook the coastline, a narrow paved path that eventually leads into the more crowded areas closer to the beach. More people. More noise. More eyes watching everything. That’s not ideal. Not for what you are planning. So you decide to get out early, right there on a slightly flatter stretch of terrain where the rocky ground gives way to patches of grass struggling to grow between cracks. From here, you can observe the Bucciarati Gang from a safer distance and wait for the perfect moment to strike. Quiet. Controlled. Efficient.

The perfect plan—

"huuuhhhh??? You only have 10 euros, you miserable wretch?? THE TAXI FARE IS TWENTY!!"

The shout snaps through the air, loud and obnoxious, instantly ruining the calm. That’s not what he said before. The price was ten euros—he made that clear. And even if the trip wasn’t completed... this? This is something else. Scammers exist. The kind that prey on anyone they think won’t push back, quietly inflating prices or, in cases like this... pushing straight into robbery territory.

"Come on, give me your wallet, I need more money!"

Before you can respond, the man leans over, grabbing your bag and yanking it open, his hands already digging through the belongings without permission, without hesitation. Normally, that alone would be enough to react. But it’s not the bag that matters... it’s what’s inside it.

The moment his fingers brush against that photo—

Your fist moves before their thoughts can catch up, driving straight into his face with sharp, instinctive force. There’s no hesitation. Anything that risks exposing your identity is dangerous. This needs to be perfect. Completely perfect.

The man stumbles back, clutching his face, letting out a pained grunt. When he straightens up, there’s a mix of regret and irritation in his expression... but mostly disgust.

"Ouch... what a short fuse! And you don't even have enough money anyway, you only brought the ten euros for the trip, so there's just a bunch of nonsense and useless things. It's not even worth my time with you!"

He scoffs, clearly deciding you aren't worth the trouble anymore, and quickly climbs back into the taxi. The engine roars to life, and within seconds, he’s already pulling away, one hand still rubbing his nose as he drives off.

Your bag lies on the ground, its contents scattered carelessly across the dirt and grass. You kneel down, starting to gather everything back together, the movements sharper than usual, the thoughts slightly thrown off.

Damn it... he broke ypur focus.

You need to get closer. Closer to the gang. Closer to Trish. You need to—

"...I won't get closer to you."

The voice cuts through your thoughts like a blade.

Your body reacts instantly, shifting into a defensive stance—but the foot catches on something solid. A knife. Embedded in the ground. When did that even get there?

There’s no time to process it. Your balance gives out, and a second later, the face slams hard against a nearby rock. Pain shoots through the nose as a warm trickle of blood begins to run down the face. You pushes yourself up slightly, one hand coming up to cover it as you turns toward the source of the voice.

She’s standing there.

A woman with pale silver hair framing a youthful face that doesn’t quite match the coldness in her expression. Around thirty, maybe. Her posture is relaxed, but there’s something controlled about the way she holds herself, like every movement is deliberate.

"Move your hand. Otherwise I can't see your face."

Her tone is flat. Direct. Not a request.

You hesitate for a fraction of a second, then lowers the hand, revealing the blood still dripping from the nose. Her eyes narrow slightly as she steps closer, closing the distance without any sign of urgency.

"Stop fussing. I'm just going to pick up my knife. I don't care about you..."

Your photo is right there. Under your foot. Hidden... barely.

She crouches near the knife, extending her hand toward it. There’s about two meters between you and her, enough space to react if needed. Her fingers hover just inches from the blade—then stop.

Her gaze shifts. Straight to your foot.

"There is just one thing that you did that seemed like an act."

FUCK.

"When you fell, you reflexively hid the envelope so I wouldn't see it, didn't you? It's right under your left feet. What are you hiding...? If I'm satisfied with what I see, I'll leave."

This is bad. Very bad. The assassins of the Execution Squad have information on all members of Passione. If she sees that photo and recognizes it—

"...Stand up, move your left leg and show me."

Her voice sharpens, the patience wearing thin. There’s no way around it.

"I SAID STAND UP! STAND UP NOW!"

The sudden aggression in her tone makes it clear—she’s done waiting.

You move quickly. You step back, lifting your foot—

"..."

The envelope lies there. Empty. The blood from the nose... stuck the photo to the sole of your foot.

"Oh, so it's just an envelope..."

For a brief second, the tension loosens... A airplane passes overhead, the sound cutting through the air, drawing both your gazes upward instinctively. Then, almost at the same time, the eyes return to each other.

"There's nothing in it."

Oof. That was close—

"Your trembling certainly isn't an act. I can tell you're a coward who can't lie. But now... I'm even more interested in you. You're definitely a Stand user."

FUCK!

"You heard that sound, too, didn't you? Just now, you glanced over that sound. That's the sound of scouting. It's carefully scouting the area. That sound and shape..."

She tilts her head slightly, eyes tracking the movement above with quiet certainty. A few meters away...

"IS AEROSMITH! Narancia's Stand that can detect life forms emitting CO2. They've finally made it here."

The small airplane becomes clearer in the distance, its movements sharp, deliberate, scanning. You both look at it for a moment... then back at each other, the tension snapping back into place instantly.

"And who are you to show up to such important location?"

Aerosmith glides through the air above, its small propeller humming as it circles the area in wide, methodical arcs. It isn’t just flying—it’s scanning. Searching. Locking onto any living being through the CO2 they release with every breath.

That Stand is exactly what led you into this situation. Only Stand users can perceive other Stands. And you heard it. That tiny, almost insignificant movement of the head when the sound reached the ears—that was enough. Enough to expose you.

Now look at you...

You are kneeling, tense, every muscle coiled as the eyes dart across the terrain, trying to pinpoint Risotto Nero’s position. Iron manipulation... that’s what lets her erase her presence, bend light, vanish completely from sight. Invisibility. Which means you can’t rely on vision alone. You have to track everything—the air, the ground, the smallest disturbance. Every millimeter matters.

Because one mistake... and it’s over. Your gaze flicks back for just a second—

Razor blades. Scattered in a dark pool of your own blood.

The stomach tightens at the sight. She made you vomit those. Forced them out of your own body. But when did she even put them inside you? How long have they been there? How does her Stand ability even work...?

You have already lost blood. Enough to weaken you. And worse—you doesn’t even know how to fight back properly.

This is bad. Really bad.

That feeling in the chest... it’s not just fear. It’s instinct. Something telling you that you're already behind.

Then— A flicker of movement near a rock.

You doesn’t think. You react. The body moves on pure instinct, striking hard toward that exact spot, the attack cracking through the stone with force—

But... nothing. Just a broken rock.

"Hmm... it's quite impressive that you hit so close to where I was..."

The voice comes from behind you.

You turn immediately—but there’s nothing there. Empty space. No figure. No shadow. Nothing.

Damn it... what an absurd, frustrating ability.

"Still... you're going to die."

The tone doesn’t change. Calm. Certain. Like the outcome has already been decided.

And in that moment—

You feel it. REAL danger.

Not the kind they can brush off or recover from. The kind that ends things instantly. Something cold presses against your neck.

Slowly... deliberately... an iron pair of scissors begins to form, the metal materializing out of nowhere as if it’s being pulled straight from your own body. The blades curve into place around the throat, inch by inch, tightening just enough for you to feel the pressure without cutting yet.

The sensation is suffocating. The breath catches. The body freezes for half a second too long as the reality sets in.

The scissors are opening.

And if they close—

DO SOMETHING OR DIE.