Fugo looked down at the blood on his new team leader's palm. There was also blood on the toe of the man's leather shoes, which Fugo swore were clean before his teammates Beefaroni and Spaghettios disappeared within the café. Fugo absently rubbed his fingers together, his arms held stiffly at his sides as dread churned like a black whirlpool in his gut.

The man had already turned and was reentering the café while Chloe stood with one foot tapping expectantly behind Fugo. He was trapped, sandwiched between the two and he noticed Chloe cautiously edging closer to him as if quietly pressuring him into the building.

A flash of purple painted Chloe's vision as Purple Haze materialized. The girl's calm expression dropped into one of indignant horror as she locked eyes on the Stand's raised fist, sun glinting off the capsules on its knuckles.

She can see Stands, Fugo noted. As expected.

The girl yelped in surprise while jumping back and diving under their table. Barely a second passed before the table suddenly flipped and struck Fugo in the face. A wall of wind knocked him a dozen meters down the block along with all surrounding tables, chairs, and screaming pedestrians. The sound of multiple windows shattering up and down the street were heard. After eating concrete and dizzy from rolling down the sidewalk, Fugo wiped the blood from his mouth as people threatened to trample him as they fled. Everything that wasn't nailed down had been flung in every direction down the street, littered the road, and smashed into the café. Fugo didn't see the new team leader anywhere and imagined he must have gotten caught in the blast and was now picking himself out of a cartoonishly human-shaped hole in a far wall inside the café. Chloe sat in the middle of it all, seemingly untouched, but her expression was tousled with rage.

"Fucking mafia scum!" she shrieked, her voice raising an octave too high as her voice gave out and screeched like an out-of-tune instrument. She was frantically looking at the people around her in alarm and also at her own hands as if checking that they were still there. Fugo rose to his feet, ignoring the burning in his chest from having the wind knocked out of him, and caught the sight of a wispy pair of wings emerging out of Chloe's back made from thick, white smoke. A long, swan-like neck grew out of the top of her head, its neck ending in a stump with a gaping, toothless, black mouth that reminded Fugo of a black hole.

Fugo and Chloe locked eyes as they measured each other up. Fugo suppressed the impulse to take a chance and take her out in the precious second the girl turned when she heard their "leader" shouting for her. There were no pedestrians around anymore and he had a clear shot to potentially take them both out at once, as long as her wind didn't blow Purple Haze's viruses back into his face.

Impatience and rage convinced him how quickly and easily it would be regardless of the risks, but his logical side grabbed a foothold through the stormy sea of emotions. It was too risky to take on two Stand users alone, especially when you had a only foundational understanding of one and absolutely no information about the other.

While Chloe was momentarily distracted with their leader, Fugo made a dash for the alley beside the café. He had seen a bicycle parked next to a side door when he first arrived, probably belonging to one of the employees. He prayed it was still there. It was. He lunged for it, his heart leaping with hope and hands gripping the handlebars. That's when he saw the body of Beefaroni Boiardi lying behind a stack of empty cardboard boxes. Beefaroni had a metal baking pan cleanly embedded through his skull. Fugo gasped and froze in shock just as Chloe emerged around the corner.

An angry torrent of winds propelled Chloe forward like a jetpack. Fugo ducked as she flew overhead. She landed a meter behind him and panic overtook him as he prepared for a pincer movement between the two Stand users. He was again trapped between them and based on the dead body lying behind the boxes, the other Stand user was most likely the one they had encountered at Polnareff's apartment. The man had lodged a metal curtain rod through Giorno's chest, a chain linked fence through Mista's body, a knife through an enemy Stand user's head, and a baking pan through Beefaroni's skull. Fugo no longer felt safe riding this metal bicycle. He planted his feet onto the ground and flung the bicycle in Chloe's direction. As expected, a sudden kick of wind knocked the air out of Fugo's lungs and he felt himself being launched vertically into the air, but this time Purple Haze had grabbed the neck of Chloe's Stand, dragging it with him. He squeezed hard enough to try breaking her neck.

Fugo caught a glimpse of Chloe clawing at her own neck on the ground, unable to breathe. Struggling to get free, her Stand let out another barrage of wind and Fugo felt a fourth story window shatter that his back and shoulder struck. He fell backwards into a dark room, landing on a soft carpet littered with glass shards. Pain shot up and down his arms from where the glass had ripped through his skin. He looked at Purple Haze's fist, which had slipped from the girl's Stand, nothing left but a wisp of white smoke.

"Young man!" an old lady shouted as she stood from her living room sofa. A game show was on television and a small, yapping dog was in her arms. "What are you doing here?"

Fugo ignored the woman in favor of looking out the newly broken window to see Chloe perched on the windowsill of the adjacent building. Gracefully, she flew over and leered at Fugo. "Call the police, he's in the mafia and is here to rob you!" she told the woman.

The old lady's mouth dropped open and she sputtered as her face turned red with rage. "I'm tired of you bastards thinking you can do whatever you want!" the old woman approached Fugo, who was struggling to get onto his hands and knees. He heard Chloe laughing while the old woman began beating him with a shut umbrella.

Finally finding his footing, Fugo ran from the living room, ignoring the feeling of his wounds stretching open further from the strain.

"Don't worry, miss, I'll get him and teach him a lesson," he heard Chloe say to the old woman just before Purple Haze knocked over a cabinet of fine china in a desperate attempt to block the doorway from his pursuers. A few seconds later as Fugo was unlocking the three deadbolts the old woman had on her apartment door, he heard the sound of cracking wood as Chloe's Stand easily knocked the heavy furniture away.

Panicked, Fugo jumped the railing of the apartment building's spiral staircase. Before Fugo hit the floor after falling four stories, Purple Haze caught the highest railing of the first floor and gently set Fugo down. He was opening the door to the apartment's main lobby when a strong burst of wind smashed his body against the door, slamming it shut. Fugo's body jolted a foot off the ground from the force of the winds. It was difficult to move. It was difficult to breathe.

"Did you know that the winds from tornadoes are so strong, they can embed otherwise harmless playing cards into the trunks of trees as if they were ninja stars?" he heard the girl say behind him.

Fugo found it difficult to turn his head, but he was able to look behind him and catch the girl casually opening a pack of cards. He felt the door groan under the pressure beneath him and the stairwell railing rattled from the force of the winds. Meanwhile, not a hair on Chloe's head moved.

"A 'gift' I stole from the lady upstairs," she stated matter-of-factly. "Now, you're going to answer a couple of my questions. First question: What's up with the turtle?" She held out a playing card, which delicately flapped in the breeze. She let it go and it embedded itself dangerously close to Fugo's spine. He flinched. He wasn't sure if she had missed. Her Stand was powerful but he was beginning to doubt its accuracy.

Fugo said nothing as Purple Haze materialized on the opposite side of the door he was pinned to.

"Not talking? Fine. I've got 51 of these left… "

The door made a cracking sound as it gave way when Purple Haze knocked out one of the door hinges. Fugo and the door flew into the apartment building's main lobby and slid across the waxed floor.

Fugo's heart leapt as he lunged for the beautiful sunlight streaming in through the building's front doors. If he could get back onto the streets, he'd have a lot more options for places to hide. Just then he saw the second Stand user walk by and they locked eyes through a window. Fugo dove for cover into the apartment's leasing office as he heard shattering glass and a low ringing when the heavy metal doors were suddenly dropped to the floor where Fugo once stood.

As Fugo grabbed a chair to throw through the nearest leasing office window, he began noticing how difficult it was for him to catch his breath and how weak and sluggish his body was becoming. He had lost a lot of blood and was doubting his ability to run from either of the approaching enemies. He noticed his mind had become just as sluggish when he noticed a latch on the window. It could be easily opened without needing to break it. Fugo let go of the chair and opened the window.

"You ok?" he heard the man ask Chloe as she emerged from the stairwell. He didn't hear the girl respond, but assumed she gave a nod as the two planned their next move. The leasing office door clicked open.

Fugo had nestled himself under a desk, surrounded by unfiled boxes of an untidy office worker. His feet had lost his shoes and his socks were being used to prevent the worst of his wounds from dripping on the carpet. Fugo drew his knees close to his chest, trying to shrink as small as possible. Holding his breath until it became uncomfortable and spots formed at the corner of his eyes, Fugo only allowed himself to breathe very slowly through the nose. The heavier footsteps could be heard drawing closer first, their Team Leader most likely in the lead. The two Stand users stopped at the office closest to the door. They had spotted Fugo's shoes sticking out from beneath the desk with a few drops of blood dotting the carpet.

Fugo watched from around a corner as the man cautiously entered the room and the girl stood outside, a satisfied grin on her face. She didn't see Purple Haze coming until it was too late.

Chloe screamed as Purple Haze punched the wall next to her. She jumped back, but not quickly enough. Her hand, which was held up to shield her face, began to bubble. Noticing this, she began wailing.

Fugo leaped out of the window and stumbled back to his feet as he heard the man inside say, "Hold still, I'm going to chop it off." Fugo was halfway around the block and he could still hear Chloe's agonized screams.

The streets were bare. Police surrounded the cafe, answering to the many reports of a bomb going off. Even if there were taxis left on the street, Fugo wondered if one would pick up someone as bloodied as himself. He was confident it was only the adrenaline keeping his legs moving, noting the way his shoeless feet dragged while half-jogging down the street. He wove through back roads and alleyways, trying to get as much distance as possible from his enemies. He stopped only when he began questioning his ability to continue moving through the thick fatigue.

Purple Haze ripped a door off the hinges of a black Sudan parked in the alley between two boutiques. Fugo crawled into the back seat to access the damage to his body while his Stand replaced the door. The door no longer fit normally, but at least from a distance there didn't appear to be anything wrong with the car. He needed only a few minutes to patch himself up before he hot-wired the car. Pulling off his jacket and seeing the large gashes down his arms, he questioned his decision to have so many holes in his suit. His right shoulder and arm had gone through the fourth floor window first, so it naturally suffered the worst wounds. Fugo tightly wrapped his tie around his right arm, using it as a tourniquet so he wouldn't bleed out. Ripping off the sleeves of his jacket, he used the rest of the material to patch up his other wounds as much as possible. It was a shoddy job and he knew he'd need to find Giorno soon.

Fugo wanted nothing more than to lay in the backseat and fall asleep, but knew that wasn't a good idea. Soon he had the car hot-wired. Not wanting to be easily identified by enemies who could spot him driving down the street, he stole some new clothes, sunglasses, and a black ball cap from one of the boutiques with the help of Purple Haze.

He drove for several miles before pulling over at a phone booth. He desperately needed to call his friends and warn them that unwelcome visitors may be arriving at his apartment very soon. Someone answered Fugo's apartment phone quickly, but nothing but silence was offered on the other end. Fugo waited for a sign that it was one of his friends on the other end of the line before his stomach tied into knots and he hung up. He immediately jumped back into his car and drove to another location.

The dark hallway of a cheap night club felt momentarily safe enough as Fugo sat in front of a row of old public phones hanging on the walls. The seats were ripped and there were sketchy phone numbers littering the walls in various handwriting. It was still too early for there to be many people in the building yet. Fugo checked his watch. It was broken.

Fugo dialed the number of his friend Pesto Fettuccine from the Information Management team. Fugo sighed in relief when Pesto's voice was heard on the other line.

"Pesto, it's Fugo. Are you ok?" Fugo sat down on a wobbly bench and leaned against the nearby wall.

"Fugo? What have you been doing? A few minutes ago, we got word that the Boss has a hit on your head. You're supposed to be shot on sight. Where are you?"

Fugo bit his lip as his heart sank. Great. Brushing off Pesto's last question, Fugo began prodding, "Pesto, about the new intel group… two people came to meet us, a man and a woman. One was apparently our team leader but he killed the other two members of our group. They tried to kill me, too. I barely got out alive. Do you know who they might have been?"

"Damn. Did you do anything to piss off the Boss for him to send hit men after you?"

Fugo thought about that night when Polnareff's hard drive was stolen and they buried that Stand user in concrete. "I don't know. I don't even know who the new Boss is. Do you know anything about him?"

There was a pause on the other end of the line. "Look, I shouldn't be talking to you given the circumstances, but we've known each other for a long time. I know you're a good guy. When Buccellatti's team went traitor, you were the only one of them to refuse and came home."

Fugo's chest ached.

Pesto continued, "Also, you got me out of that jam back in April last year. I owe you one, so I'll tell you this: I wasn't transferred to another team. I'm still in intel/Information Management. I thought it was odd you were being added to a second intel team. It didn't make any sense why you weren't just added to mine. There's been talk of the Boss reassigning a lot of people. There have been complaints about highly-efficient teams being broken up. I'm talking inhuman levels of efficiency almost as if some of its members are fucking wizards, and based on some of the reports…"

Fugo swallowed hard.

"...Anyone who has met this new Boss has been scared out of their minds about something during their meetings. I heard he's a rather plain-looking guy: short brown hair, dresses casual, but has scars on his face and hands. He says he's from Rome, but I've heard rumors he's a local by a few who claim to recognize him. I was naturally curious, so I've been trying to get a name but haven't been able to get into contact with those who claim to have known him."

Fugo ran a hand down his dirty face. "That's him. That's the guy who tried to kill me today."

"Fucking. Hell. Really? Seriously, what did you do to piss him off?"

Fugo groaned. "Do you know anything about the girl he was with? She looked to be around my age – long black curly hair, name is Chloe. She attacked me at the cafe." Technically, Fugo attacked her, but it wasn't to kill. At first. Fugo decided to leave those minor details out.

There was a pause on the other end. "… There are no women working in Passione. Unless you count the wives who naturally do tasks for their husbands. Sounds like she might be too young for that, though."

"Well, I saw a Passione woman with my own eyes. She was with 'our' new Boss and she's the one who inflicted most of the damage on me."

"Maybe she's part of a new underground hit squad he's assembling. Since… you know, all of La Squadra…"

"Yeah," Fugo said quietly. "Here's the thing, though. During our confrontation, she called me, and I quote, 'Fucking mafia scum.' That's an odd thing to say if she's mafiosa herself. Is Passione now contracting out hit-men?"

"I… don't know. There's been a lot of changes and it's only been a day. I'll look into all of this, but… Fugo, I don't think it's safe for either of us to communicate for the next few days."

"Yeah. I understand," Fugo said. Pesto was already risking a lot by saying as much as he was right now. "Thanks for everything, Pesto."

"You take care."

Fugo hung up the phone and slouched in his seat. The pain and fatigue was becoming unbearable. Now that his apartment was possibly compromised, there was only one place he thought Mista would go in an attempt to meet up – the restaurant where they all met Buccellati.

"I'm so sorry to hear what happened to Buccellati," the owner of the restaurant Libeccio lowered her head. "He was not only one of my best customers, but if not for him… well…" she trailed off.

"Many people in this neighborhood came to him for help. He was especially fond of this place," Mista said, his shadow long from the harsh back alley's street light.

"I'll tell you what," the owner said, noticing the way the pink-haired girl behind Mista was wringing her hands. "Though we're about to close, you can come in and wait for your friend. Which one was it?"

"He's blond," Mista glanced in Giorno's direction, who was nervously scanning the surrounding shadows. "The other blond. He likes to wear a lot of holes in his clothes."

"Oh, Fugo," the owner smiled stiffly, remembering having to clean blood off a table the last time he was here. There was a pause. "I'll whip up some appetizers for you while you wait. That is, if you're hungry?"

The three teens eagerly nodded as they clamored into the restaurant. Most of the staff was gone besides a few stragglers who were cleaning tables. Mista, Giorno, and Trish found a table in a corner farthest away from the windows and partially hidden behind some ferns.

"What's wrong, Trish?" Giorno asked when he noticed her hand recoil from the seat she was about to take. Fearing a Stand attack, he glared at the seat couldn't find anything out of the ordinary. It looked like a normal chair.

Trish looked up from the half dozen tiny crumbs littering her seat. She could have sworn she also saw a smear of pasta sauce on the chair's edge through the dim lighting. "N-nothing," she stammered. "I was just thinking how nice it was to hear about Buccellati." She fetched another chair at an already-cleaned table and swapped it with her own. "I miss him."

"So do I," something in Mista's voice broke as he pretended to readjust his hat, though it was obvious he was trying to hide his face.

Giorno watched Mista as he sniffed loudly and exhaled painfully. And Trish, who was sitting with her back a little too straight and biting her lower lip while she counted the number of rogue crumbs at their table. She peered up at him then quickly turned away. "We haven't had a lot of time to process what has happened."

"You ain't kidding," Mista now had both hands obscuring his face.

"Mista. Tell us something about Buccellati and this restaurant," Giorno hoped to give Mista a focus and an outlet. "You chose this as a rendezvous point and think Fugo will meet us here if he's in trouble, so it must be important to you two."

Mista eagerly complied, telling them with stars in his eyes how he first met Buccellati. The story was peppered with multiple tangents with varying degrees of relevancy, but it somehow made the tale more fun. Giorno and Trish were captivated by the little details. Fifteen minutes later, the table had a large plate of potato and mozzarella croquettes.

Giorno looked to Trish, who was giggling at the description of Narancia's arms angrily waving like an air dancer caught in a storm after Bruno zipped his mouth shut during a team meeting. Her smile was contagious.

Trish noticed Giorno looking her way, a relaxed grin on his face and his arm leaning casually on the table. She smiled wider and Giorno's wavered. He sat up straighter and for a moment appeared to not know where to look before settling on the fork and dinner roll Mista was using to illustrate Aerosmith flying into the back of Fugo's head.

"Hey, Giorno, how did you meet Buccellati?" Trish asked once Mista's story was over.

Mista rose his brows. "Yeah, how did you two meet? Buccellati just told us something like 'Hey dudes I met this guy.' and then, BOOM, the next day you were sitting at our table drinking piss."

"Erm, what-" Trish began.

"Remember Leaky Eye Luca?" Giorno said a little too loudly.

Mista was already putting the pieces together, "... yeahhhh?"

Giorno wasn't sorry he had accidentally killed Luca. As far as Giorno was concerned, the sleazeball deserved it and the world was a better place without him in it. However, there was something about the way Trish was learning forward, eagerly listening to his tale that made him a little nervous. He didn't want the delicate smile on her lips to vanish. "Well-"

"Your friend has arrived," the owner of the restaurant announced in a rushed whisper as she stepped to the side to reveal a very bloody and fatigued Fugo.

Everyone stood and rushed forward as the owner backed away, cautiously eyeing the group. She knew better than to become too involved in these kinds of affairs. Her eyes scanned the small trail of blood on the floor.

"Fugo! Dude, what happened?" Mista cried. "You look fucked up! Damn, I told you not to put any more holes in your suit, it's not a good look for you!"

"Shut up, Mista, this isn't time for jokes," Fugo's breath came out thin and heavy, though a yelp pierced the air when Mista grabbed his friend's arm to help steady him.

"What happened?" Giorno asked as he placed his hands on Fugo's right shoulder, which was bleeding the most regardless of the soaked tie wrapped around it.

"Was knocked through a window," Fugo paused to grunt from the pain. "Among other things." Looking over his shoulder, he noticed the restaurant staff keeping a respectable distance. "The owner is probably wondering if she should call for an ambulance."

"We're good!" Mista smiled and waved at the owner. "He's ok!"

The restaurant staff did not look convinced.

"Do I look ok, Mista?" Fugo barked, his energy returning as Giorno struggled to continue healing a now-wriggling patient. The pain from Gold Experience's healing was making Fugo extra testy and jittery.

"You never look ok. You always look like swiss cheese," Mista said as he eyed Fugo up and down, a playful grin spreading across his face. He was glad Fugo was energetic enough to argue with him. It meant he was going to be ok.

"That's rich coming from someone who looks like he's wearing Tony the Tiger's ass," Fugo jabbed a finger hard into Mista's sternum.

"Please stand still," Giorno said.

"You said my pants looked cool when I first bought them!"

"I WAS BEING NICE!"

Giorno was satisfied. And also a little frustrated at being dragged around while the two sparred, so he let go. If Fugo had this much energy return, he was going to be fine.

A warm hand suddenly wrapped around Giorno's arm. Trish quietly pointed to two people outside on the streets, looking into the bright restaurant. Giorno and Trish stood still, quietly waiting to see what the couple would do. They continued on their way after looking at the restaurant's hours posted on the doors. Giorno's arm began to tingle from Trish's firm grip cutting off his circulation.

Trish sighed, "Probably just a normal couple..."

"As opposed to an abnormal one," Giorno said quietly. Trish peered up at him curiously. "Sorry, that didn't mean to come across caustically. I just mean... It's too dark outside now and too bright in here. We're exposed." He looked down at Trish's fingers still clinging to the sleeve of his shirt. She noticed and shyly pulled away and a cool chill replaced Trish's warm hands on his arm. Giorno turned to Fugo, "What's the chance you were followed?"

"I'm pretty sure I lost the two who attacked me. Of course there's always a possibility I was still followed, or there could be bugs planted in places where we think we're safe." Fugo looked around the room, where a few staff members still sometimes peered curiously in their direction.

"You should tell us everything that has happened," Giorno noted the way Fugo cautiously looked around the restaurant. "When we're somewhere more private."

"Hey, we're taking these to go!" Mista called out to the restaurant owner as he began wrapping the food in napkins that were quickly blossoming with oil stains. "Thank you, we really appreciate it!" Money was left on the table and within seconds, the teens were gone.

They were able to sneak into an empty hotel room with the help of Spice Girl softening any locked doors in their way and reshaping them back into place once the group was inside.

The group exchanged stories while sitting on the beds in a relaxed circle. Fugo told them about Chloe, the Team Leader who was more of a "Team Leader" than originally expected, and his phonecall with Pesto. Giorno, Mista, and Trish told Fugo how they tried to go back to Fugo's apartment but they had caught the shadows and movement of several people inside when they looked up at the windows from the streets below.

"For a second, I thought it might be firemen since I'm pretty sure we forgot to turn off the oven," Mista said.

Fugo's cupped his face in his hands and heaved a heavy sigh. "It's ok, Mista, that's the least of our worries right now."

"Why would the new Boss want to kill your new team mates?" Giorno asked.

Fugo shrugged. "I have no idea. In the few hours I knew them, they didn't seem threatening to me, unless they had information on the guy."

"That's a possibility," Giorno tapped his chin with one of his fingers. "But why gather new teams together just to kill them?"

"I can't imagine that Beefaroni fuckin Boiardi could have been so dangerous. The guy was an idiot," Fugo mumbled. "They just wanted information from me, until I proved too uncooperative and dangerous."

"One of Mista's contacts told us earlier today that the new Boss was only changing the teams for Stand users. Non-Stand users' jobs and locations were kept the same and Stand users were being relocated in places where their Stands weren't as useful. He also mentioned one of his Stand buddies dropping all contact and he hadn't been able to get ahold of him," Giorno stared thoughtfully at a small crack in the wall next to his headboard. "The new Boss knows who is and isn't a Stand user. He could have gotten that information from the hard drive filled with Stand user data that Polnareff had been gathering. I think..." Giorno paused. "I think he's trying to kill all the Stand users."

Fugo and Mista exchanged looks.

"It makes sense. Stands pose the most threat to him," Trish said. "If he was the only Stand user left, there'd be little risk that what happened to my father would happen to him."

"What about that girl?" Fugo asked. "I feel like we're missing something."

"That is strange what she said to you." Giorno was staring even more intensely at the wall, deep in thought. "If she hates Passione, why work for their new Boss? And why would the Boss want someone like that to work so closely to him? And if he's out to kill all Stand users, why let her live?"

The group fell silent with thought.

After a while, Giorno broke the silence. "If he's this much of a threat to us, if he is intending to kill all Stand users, there's little reason why we should engage in conversation with him. I wanted to talk to him first, but the only choice we have may be to seek to kill him first."

"I hope Polnareff is ok," Trish whispered.