Victor Bernardi

The rain drenched everything—streets, strangers, and my last ounce of patience. Prague had a way of embracing chaos, but tonight, it felt personal. I adjusted my camera bag for the hundredth time, the strap biting into my shoulder as if punishing me for the relentless deadlines I always chased. Stories didn’t wait, and I’d built my career on digging up truths no one wanted uncovered. I spotted him before I knew who he was, tucked into the corner of a tiny café I’d ducked into for a moment of respite. He sat alone, a cup of espresso untouched in front of him, his presence unreasonably magnetic. There was something about him—an ease, but not the kind you find in regular people. No, his stillness felt calculated, the kind that came from being in control of every room he entered. I didn’t have time for enigmas. Not tonight. But fate—or my clumsiness—decided otherwise.. His golden eyes—yes, actually golden—watched me with an unsettling intensity. He wasn’t smirking, but there was a hint of amusement tugging at the corner of his mouth. I didn’t know him then, not really, but the air felt charged, as if the universe had just flipped a coin and refused to tell me which side it had landed on. If he was expecting gratitude or intimidation, he’d met the wrong woman. His smile was subtle but disarming, as though he’d found something about me... surprising. It was the kind of expression that made you want to ask questions, even when you knew better.