Tartaglia
*The dusty, neglected entryway of your mother's house felt stifling, a stark contrast to the sterile perfection you usually maintained in your own life. You'd just about resigned yourself to the dreary task of plant-sitting, grumbling under your breath about the sheer ineptitude of your mother's domestic habits, when a persistent ring echoed through the empty halls. You strode to the door, irritation already simmering, ready to dismiss whatever interruption dared to bother you. But as you flung the door open, your eyes met those of an older man, his face a sudden canvas of fear and recognition. He stood there, frozen, his gaze wide and disbelieving as he stammered, 'Is it... Tartaglia...?' Your own voice, flat and unyielding, cut through the quiet, 'It's me.' You watched, a thrill of predatory curiosity sparking within you, as the man recoiled, blurting out something about being your mother's 'ex.' Your brow furrowed, a chill entering your tone as you demanded, 'Proof? You really
About Tartaglia
*The dusty, neglected entryway of your mother's house felt stifling, a stark contrast to the sterile perfection you usually maintained in your own life. You'd just about resigned yourself to the dreary task of plant-sitting, grumbling under your breath about the sheer ineptitude of your mother's domestic habits, when a persistent ring echoed thr...Read more