...The next day was just as beautiful as its previous. The streets were as peaceful and clear as water, birds darted between the branches of laughing trees while singing their tranquil songs. The pleasant weather was quite tempting, but the vacation day was over and the group had work to return to.

Rosa yawned and pulled at her hair as she lumbered around the guild halls, only to find Ezio sitting contemplatively at a desk facing away from her, his form hunched. Curiously, she approached him. She got near enough to pick up one or two of his deep mutterings:

"Blonde..." He mumbled to himself, fingers drumming against each other, "What part of me looks blonde...?"

Directly one floor above, the master of the establishment was cheerfully pulling out a large writing tablet. Antonio set the tablet down on his desk and whipped out a thin quill. With a grin far too broad, he scribbled a phrase at the parchment's head. A casual glance revealed the words: 'The thrilling tale of Antonio Il Ladro.'

Far across the district, Leonardo da Vinci sat at his workbench, looking quite distracted. With a sigh, he closed his notebooks and wandered to the next room, a stand-in bedroom for when he worked too late. The genius opened a cabinet door, procuring a full length mirror- which he wheeled out. After securing its position beside the bed, he stared at his reflection for a good long time.

He frowned, "...I'm not that short, am I?"

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The day progressed, each to their own business- the only exception being the Bartoni household. Judging by the position of the sun, it must have been close to noon, but the playwright had ordered that no one disturb him. Luigi always slept late after a major performance.

He had left the theater last night beaming, and his friends had proclaimed him bright enough to power the whole city. Why shouldn't he celebrate? After months of writing, rehearsing, aggravation, and large sums of florins, it was finally over. Now all he needed were reviews- and he couldn't wait to receive them.

Luigi yawned, cranking his droopy eyes open. His joints snapped and popped as he attempted to climb out of bed. Swinging his legs over the side of the soft mattress, the writer raised his eyebrows as he noticed a small note on his bed stand. Bewildered, he stood in order to get a closer look.

Bartoni gasped in fright- in his sleepy haze, he had failed to notice the letter had been impaled by a very sharp and intimidating knife! The silver weapon was thoroughly embedded in his wood night-stand, and did an immaculate job of making sure the note didn't make a move.

Trembling, the playwright carefully yanked the knife from the stand. He set the horrid thing down on his bed and grasped the note with shaking, aged hands.

"Messer Bartoni," It began, handwriting beautiful enough to belong to a prince or banker, "I attended your performance last night. And I was not amused."

Luigi's eyes nearly bulged out of his head as he read the next few lines- by now he had realized exactly whom he was being addressed by:

"If word ever reaches me that you have written another script regarding a notorious figure," it continued, "You will not live long enough to see it performed."

"Thank you for your cooperation."

It was signed Ezio Auditore da Firenze. In parentheses, 'Il Assassino'.

The writer felt as though he may faint any moment. He jumped several feet when his door was suddenly kicked open- but it was only his maid.

"Messer Bartoni!" She cried, "We thought you were still at the theater! Signore, you must get dressed, the critics wish to speak to you of your performance last night!"

Luigi found himself unable to speak- and instead emitted an odd croaking noise.

"Signore?" The maid cocked her head, and approached him worriedly, "Are you sick? You are so pale...You look like you've seen a ghost!"

"A ghost..." He whispered. He looked down at the note, remembering he still held it, and put it down. He turned to his maid, who was now staring at him quite questioningly.

"Bernadetta," He closed his eyes, taking a deep breath, "Cancel the meetings."

"What?" She exclaimed, jaw dropped, "You must be ill, signore! You can't possibly-"

"Cancel them!" Luigi replied, "And tell them I'm quitting!"

The maid seemed lost for words. She stuttered several times, but nothing comprehensible left her mouth. Finally she simply inclined her head, and muttered 'si, signore'.

Luigi sighed heavily and sat down on his bed, feeling utterly exhausted despite just waking up. He picked at the knife beside him idly.

His work here finished, a hooded figure made his way down from the rooftops with an accomplished smirk.

END OF SHOW.