The night air outside the casino was heavy with smoke and neon light, the city buzzing but strangely cold. Lucien shoved his hands into his pockets and walked with no clear direction until the faint hum of music and chatter pulled him to a corner bar.
It wasn't a fancy place. Wooden sign half-lit, a row of stools inside worn down by years of elbows and spilled drinks. The floor carried the faint stick of alcohol, and the jukebox in the corner whispered some old blues tune.
Lucien slid onto a stool at the counter, the wood creaking beneath him. He tapped his knuckles lightly against the surface. "A drink," he said, voice low.
From behind the counter, a man about his age appeared, drying a glass with a rag. He had rolled-up sleeves on a button-down shirt, and his hair was neatly combed, though a few strands fell loose from the sweat of the night. He wasn't a stranger, this was the bartender he came to often enough to be recognized.
The man smirked faintly. "The usual?"
Lucien gave a nod. "Yeah."
The glass clinked against the counter as the bartender poured him something amber and sharp. Lucien swirled it once before downing a sip, the burn warming his chest.
"Rough night?" the bartender asked, leaning forward. His tone was casual, but his eyes were studying Lucien closely.
Lucien didn't answer right away. He set the glass down and stared into it as though the swirl of liquid could solve his problems. Finally, he exhaled. "Tell me something… would you do anything to save someone in danger?"
The bartender blinked. "What are you on about?"
"Just answer."
There was a pause, the air heavy with the hum of the jukebox. Then the bartender shrugged. "If the person mattered to me… yeah, I'd do anything. Why?"
Lucien's lips twitched faintly, almost a smile but not quite. He finished his drink in one go, the liquor burning his throat. "That's all I needed to know."
The bartender frowned. "What's wrong with you tonight?"
"Nothing," Lucien muttered, rising to his feet. "I got the answer I wanted."
As he moved toward the door, the bartender called after him. "Don't go and do anything stupid."
Lucien raised a hand lazily, not even turning back. "I'm not doing anything stupid."
He stepped out into the night, the chill wind cutting against his bruised thoughts. He hadn't gone far before shadows blocked his path. Four men stood in a cluster under a flickering streetlight.
The one in front caught his eye immediately,broad-shouldered, muscles straining under his jacket, and a scar slicing across one eye. His presence alone felt heavy, like stone.
"Well, well," the scarred man said, voice low and rough. "Lucien Hale. How've you been?"
Lucien stopped a few feet away, jaw tightening. "What do you want?"
"The boss says he's expecting the money by the end of the week."
Lucien forced a steady tone. "Fine. I'll bring it by the end of the week."
He tried to pass, but the man's hand clamped onto his shoulder like iron.
"The boss also says," the scarred man leaned in close, his breath sour, "we should give you a little gift. So you don't forget."
Before Lucien could react, another thug stepped forward and drove a fist into his stomach.
Air exploded out of his lungs. Pain seared through him, twisting his gut like fire. His knees buckled, and he gasped desperately, body refusing to take in enough air.
Then the others joined in. Blows rained against his ribs, his jaw, his back. He tried to shield himself, but they caught his arms and yanked them behind his back. The scarred man finally stepped forward, his fist slamming across Lucien's face.
His vision flashed white, then black. He collapsed onto the cold pavement.
"See ya," the scarred man muttered, and the group walked away, laughter trailing behind them.
By the time Lucien made it to the hospital, the night was deep and still. He kept his hood up, slipping in through a side door that one of the orderlies had left propped open. His footsteps were soft on the tiled floor as he moved down the hall, every bruise on his body screaming with each step.
No one saw him.
He kept his head low, passing through dim corridors until he reached the room he knew by heart. The door was slightly ajar, the faint beeping of monitors spilling into the hall.
Inside, the room was cloaked in a hush, lit only by a single lamp on the far wall. The steady rhythm of the machines filled the silence, each sound reminding him how fragile the line was between staying and slipping away.
On the bed lay the girl. Pale, motionless, her skin almost translucent under the light. Her chest rose and fell in shallow breaths, each one a fragile victory. Her lips were dry, her hands thin and limp against the sheets. She looked nothing like the girl he remembered, full of life, with laughter in her eyes. Now she was fading, caught in a fight she couldn't even wake up for.
Lucien dragged a chair to her side, wincing at the scrape of metal against the floor. He sat down slowly, his battered body sinking into the seat. For a long moment, he just looked at her, bruised knuckles clenched tight, as though gripping his own pain could somehow ease hers.
"I'll make sure you come back to me again," he whispered, voice rough but heavy with promise. "I swear it."
A sudden voice rang down the hallway:
"Who's there?"
Lucien's pulse spiked. He stood quickly, adjusting his hood, and slipped toward the door. One last glance at the girl, then he disappeared into the corridor's, leaving no trace of his visit.