•FEBRUARY 22, 1970
Venice buzzed with whispers of the Carnival Killer. Amidst the revelry, fear spread like wildfire, masked behind the laughter and glittering lights of Carnival. Verohn Corazon, the newly infamous vigilante, sat in a dimly lit speakeasy at the edge of the canal. Across from her sat Giovanna Ciricillo, a woman whose wisdom had guided Verohn through the war but who now questioned her methods.
Between them rested Verohn’s cracked porcelain mask—a twisted visage of decay and vengeance. Giovanna’s sharp eyes flicked between Verohn and the mask, her cigarette burning steadily.
“This is chaos, Ragazza,” Giovanna said, her voice low and measured. “You’re drawing too much attention. The SLIG will retaliate, and when they do, they won’t just target you.”
Verohn’s hands moved in precise, deliberate gestures, signing her response: They deserve this. Every single one of them.
Giovanna sighed, rubbing her temple. “Maybe they do, but you’re burning yourself alive to fight them. This won’t bring justice to Vintamio or Giovenco.”
It’s not about justice, Verohn signed, her movements trembling. It’s about making them afraid.
Giovanna slid a folder across the table, her expression resigned. “Then make it count. These are SLIG safehouses and names. Take them out before they regroup.”
Verohn nodded, her resolve unwavering. She picked up the folder, the mask, and her blade, leaving the speakeasy without another word.
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•FEBRUARY 24, 1970
In the dead of night, Verohn stood in the glow of the Venetian aquarium. The tanks shimmered with fractured rainbows, casting eerie light across her porcelain mask. Inside one of the largest tanks, an SLIG operative floated lifelessly, his body surrounded by spider crabs. Blood swirled in the water, creating a grotesque tableau of vengeance.
Verohn pinned a note to the wall beside the tank, the jagged handwriting scrawling a clear message: For Vintamio. For Giovenco. For everyone you’ve crushed beneath your boots.
She adjusted her mask and disappeared into the shadows, leaving behind only the eerie glow of the tanks and the silence of the dead.
•FEBRUARY 28, 1970
The warehouse burned like a beacon against the night sky, flames licking at the crumbling structure. Verohn moved through the chaos with terrifying precision, her blade cutting through SLIG guards with ease. Each strike was deliberate, each step calculated.
At the center of the warehouse, she found the man who had orchestrated her son’s tragedy. His face twisted with fear as he recognized her mask.
“You don’t have to do this!” he cried, stumbling back. “It wasn’t personal!”
Verohn tilted her head, her lips tightening. She said nothing—her silence was more powerful than any words.
With a swift motion, she drove the blade into his chest. As his body crumpled, Verohn reached into her pocket and placed a lobster claw beside him. Then she stepped back into the shadows as the fire consumed the warehouse, erasing all evidence of her vengeance.
•MARCH 1970
The Carnival Killer had become a legend whispered through the streets of Venice. Her mask hung on a hook in Verohn’s study, a relic of the vengeance she had exacted. But the woman behind the mask was far from finished.
In the following days, Verohn worked closely with Giovanna, who had hired hackers and detectives to root out SLIG operatives infiltrating her gang. Together, they dismantled the SLIG’s networks, one safehouse at a time. The Italian Mafia, recognizing Verohn’s focus on the SLIG, began to quietly back her efforts, providing resources while keeping their distance.
The Vatican, torn between condemnation and tacit approval, maintained a neutral stance. Diplomacy demanded subtlety, but Verohn made a silent vow: one day, she would push the Church to ally itself with the world’s persecuted queer communities.
For now, she remained a ghost in the night, her porcelain mask and deadly blade striking fear into the hearts of those who dared to oppress.