Without a word, I step past my two companions and retrieve the weapon left aside. I position myself again in front of the mannequins, mentally preparing.

I begin by aiming at Isabella. As soon as I meet her glossy paper gaze, her nasal voice echoes in my mind. The memories of her manipulative exchanges with Paola, and the way she used her, resurface, intensifying my hatred for her. When the memory of Isabella coldly killing Valentina emerges, I take a deep breath. Calming my racing heart, I aim at the mannequin bearing her likeness and fire directly at the heart, then at the head. I struggle to control myself, resisting the urge to riddle her resin silhouette with bullets, and then lower my weapon, exhaling, realizing I hadn't been breathing.

I pause for a few seconds to calm down and regain control of my emotions, not wanting to fail in front of Raphael.

Even though I know it isn't really him, the thought of giving him an imaginary victory is out of the question. He has dominated me too many times, treating me like nothing. I want nothing more than to tear his mannequin apart.

I know I'm taking this training far more seriously and personally than I should, viewing this exercise as the precursor to my eventual revenge against him.

If I can manage to kill him here, then when the moment comes, and we are truly face to face, I will know I can pull the trigger and settle the score forever.

This is more than just a mannequin; it is the key to my success in the future.

I assume a firing stance and aim straight between his eyes. Without warning, the memory of our heated argument over Orfeo's ashes comes to life. The distress I felt at that moment begins to creep through my body, causing me to waver slightly, but I steady myself.

My pulse quickens, and anger surges through my veins. My hands tremble with the fury boiling inside me, so I lower my weapon. I close my eyes to regain control, taking deep breaths to calm my pounding heart.

It takes longer than expected.

Memories of my encounters with Raphael throughout my relationship with Ezio clash and collide, paralyzing my quest for calm. The image of Raphael's triumphant smile instantly dispels my tormented thoughts. I regain control, driven solely by the desire to defeat him and bring him down.

I raise the weapon again, aim, and fire. This time, I lose control and empty the magazine into his head. As I continue to fire, I step forward, shouting to release my rage at him. I don't stop until the magazine is empty and the barrel is pressed against Raphael's false head. Out of breath, I look at my handiwork, lying at my feet after the onslaught of bullets, and smile at my victory.

"Rot in hell, you piece of filth !"

Satisfied and calm, I hear Andy's voice pierce the silence that had fallen.

"Woohoo ! Bravo, you really messed up that son of a bitch's face !"

I turn to her and flash a triumphant smile, which quickly fades when I see Andrea with his head down, one hand covering his face, fingers massaging his forehead.

"Andrea, is there a problem ?" I ask, dreading the answer.

"It's not exactly a problem. First of all, it's great that you managed to control your emotions, well done, but avoid emptying your magazine on one of your enemies. For one, if you encounter other enemies afterward, you're screwed. And two, all your self-control is wasted. If you get into this state outside of training, you become vulnerable. The time it takes for you to recover from your emotions, whether satisfying or tormenting, will allow other enemies, if there are any, to find your weakness and exploit it before you can regain your composure. That's very dangerous for you. It may feel exhilarating now, but in a real battle, it could be fatal. You must keep your cool and maintain control at all times, in every situation. This is just a reminder, but aside from that, congratulations, because you've brilliantly managed to master yourself. You must stay on this path to excel."

Torn between pride and reprimand, I give him a tight smile and then bend down to set the mannequin back in place.

I retrace my steps and stand beside Andrea, facing the army of resin figures.

"You're doing very well, May. I just have to be demanding and meticulous to push you toward excellence, that's all," he reassures me, placing a comforting hand on my shoulder.

"Thank you, I know you mean well," I reply with a smile.

I refocus on the mannequins. Before me, three figures who mattered in my life. The choice is difficult, but I cannot bring myself to start with Ezio or Nonna. So by default, I concentrate on Paola.

A swarm of memories floods my mind, like birds darkening the sky with their passage. At first, the good ones—our laughter during our outings, us dancing and singing at the top of our lungs during Andy's birthday party, her comfort and support during Ezio's recovery, our friendship that no one would have bet on but which became one of the most beautiful I have known.

Then slowly, the bad memories stain the beautiful canvas that had just formed, like ink spilled and spreading across a pristine white sheet. Her life, which she could never live to the fullest because of her father, the puppet she became because of Isabella, and the tragic end she met because of me. The memory of her lifeless body on the kitchen floor comes back to me, chilling my blood. Despite the words she left after her death, my guilt never leaves me, growing stronger as these memories resurface. This time, my rage is directed at myself. I hate myself for causing Paola's death, and I will never forgive myself.

My fury and guilt consume me, making me unravel. Mechanically, without thinking, I raise the gun to my temple. I can no longer bear the turmoil that grips me with every face and every memory that resurfaces. I don't feel deserving of being alive after all the harm I've caused around me.