She saw him again three days later. The same bench, same cigarette, same unreadable eyes.
But this time, he wasn't alone.
Beside him stood another man—taller, leaner, composed. If the first one was fire, this one was ice. Dark suit, gloved hands, and eyes like a storm restrained behind glass.
They were speaking in low voices. Heated. Controlled. Something dangerous passed between them—something unsaid but ancient.
Aaliyah didn't stop, but her steps slowed.
The fire-eyed man noticed.
"She's the girl," he muttered, too low for her to hear. But the other one—Lucien—turned to look anyway. His gaze was different. Not curious. Not hungry. Just... still.
And Aaliyah, for reasons she couldn't name, felt exposed.
That night, in her bag, another note.
"The glass can't protect you forever. One day, it shatters."
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