AT NUMBER 72 FAR STREET, on the corner of Central Park Avenue, a group of Australian tourists paused in front of the historic Dakota Building, one of New York City's most celebrated architectural landmarks. Beneath the gray afternoon sky, the building seemed to breathe history—its German Renaissance arches cast deep shadows across the sidewalk, still wet from the recent drizzle.
The visitors admired every detail, taking dozens of photographs, captivated by the dark, iconic atmosphere of the place where John Lennon had spent the final days of his life. An almost sacred feeling surrounded the building, as though its walls still preserved the distant echo of a song left unfinished.
A gleaming black limousine pulled up in front of the main entrance. The engine purred softly before the rear door swung open. A tall, muscular Black man wearing a dark suit and mirrored sunglasses stepped out first. His eyes swept the street with the vigilance of a soldier in enemy territory before he opened the door for his passenger.
Almost simultaneously, five cars stopped behind the limousine, and photographers poured out, cameras in hand, unleashing a barrage of flashes that transformed the rain-soaked pavement into a sea of strobing light. They had all come for her: Jessyca Volpi, the Brazilian supermodel who had conquered Paris, London, and New York with her irresistible charisma.
— She's so tall! — whispered an awe-struck red-haired teenager, raising her phone to capture the moment Jessyca stepped out of the limousine.
— And gorgeous... — her brother added, unable to take his eyes off the model.
— She really is — their father echoed, equally mesmerized.
— But she's way out of your league — his wife cut in jealously, driving her elbow into his ribs.
Jessyca wore a simple outfit, yet one of effortless elegance. Her long blonde hair, tied into a flawless ponytail, reflected the photographers' flashes. Her finely sculpted, perfectly symmetrical face wore only the lightest touch of makeup—just enough to accentuate her blue eyes, which seemed to capture the very brilliance of the sky.
In everyday life, she had no need for the glamour of the runway. She wore white sneakers, faded blue jeans, a T-shirt, and a black jacket that outlined her figure with almost sculptural precision. Standing six feet two inches tall, Jessyca turned toward the cameras and flashed a broad, spontaneous smile. The long diamond earrings dangling from her ears sparkled beneath the flashes, scattering light like stars in motion.
Her phone vibrated inside her handbag. She felt it but ignored it. This was not the moment to answer.
— Could I have your autograph? — asked the teenager wearing a Like a Virgin T-shirt, approaching timidly.
One of the security guards stretched out an arm to stop her, but Jessyca gently motioned for him to step aside.
— I love that song — she said, smiling at the fan. — It's just a shame Madonna never lived here.
She took the pen and carefully signed the back of the girl's shirt.
— Could you sign it here? — the teenager asked, turning around and lowering her denim jacket.
— You need to head inside, Jessyca. It's becoming difficult to hold back the crowd — warned the head of security as he watched the growing gathering of curious onlookers.
— I think I ruined your shirt — Jessyca joked, handing back the pen before waving goodbye.
— What did she write? — the teenager's father asked.
With a half-smile, her mother read it aloud:
— "Jessyca, the Virgin."
AS SOON AS SHE ENTERED the Dakota Building, accompanied by her faithful bodyguard—the man she had nicknamed Black Angel, a former Marine raised in Brooklyn with the discipline of a soldier and the protective instincts of a guard dog—Jessyca took her phone from her handbag.
A missed call flashed across the screen.
Her manager.
She opened her voicemail and listened to his familiar voice.
"Jessyca, I know we just met to finalize the details of your trip to London, but I just received a phone call, and there has been a slight change of plans. For tomorrow's press conference at L'oscar London, you'll need to wear an outfit by the Italian designer Samwell LaVey and jewelry by Vanessa Segala. See you soon."
Jessyca narrowed her eyes in irritation.
— I won't wear some designer's outfit I've never even heard of, sweetheart... — she muttered to herself before switching off the phone.
THE APARTMENT DOOR slammed shut behind her.
Jessyca threw her handbag onto the sofa and stood motionless for several seconds, her heart racing, her breathing heavy.
For weeks, something inexplicable had been haunting her life—a shadow, a presence, a subtle disturbance that had begun with a dream.
She remembered it with almost photographic clarity.
She was back in her childhood bedroom, in a small town in the Brazilian countryside, where time seemed to stand still and the scent of aged wood still lingered in the air.
Outside, the sky had turned a deep crimson.
A dragon of fire slithered through the clouds, moving like a living comet. The thunderous beat of its wings shook the heavens.
Terrified, Jessyca ran through the house searching for her parents, calling out to them, but every room was empty.
Then she heard muffled voices coming from the backyard—whispers, cries, something suspended between prayer and lamentation.
She opened the back door.
The world seemed to change.
A group of people stepped aside abruptly when they saw her, revealing the center of the gathering.
Her father stood before a table, his hands covered in blood, gripping a blade that reflected the trembling light of nearby candles.
At his feet lay the body of an animal, its neck almost severed, attached to its torso by nothing more than stretched tendons. A red mask covered its head, and streams of blood trickled down its horns before dripping onto the ground. Its entrails spilled across the table in a grotesque display while a swarm of flies buzzed drunkenly around the metallic scent of death.
— This is for you, my daughter... — her father said, wearing a smile that was at once serene and sinister.
Horror rooted Jessyca to the spot.
Yet, driven by a force born equally of revulsion and fascination, she leaned over the table, trying to understand what she was seeing.
Then her eyes widened.
The body before her was beginning to change.
The flesh shifted.
Its form reshaped itself.
What had moments earlier been a sacrificed goat now bore the delicate face of a child—pale, silent, staring back at her with empty eyes, as though accusing her of something she did not yet understand.