Rain glazed the broken steps of the church like glass.
David and Elliot stepped out into the square—sore, dusty, and very done—only to find a tall figure waiting under the iron gate, hands folded behind his back as if he'd simply wandered out for fresh air.
Lucien.
David stopped. "What's with the flashy exit if you were just going to wait outside?"
Lucien blinked once, perfectly solemn. "…Dramatic timing."
Elliot snorted so hard he almost slipped. "You practiced that, didn't you?"
"Yes," Lucien said without shame.
David pinched the bridge of his nose. "How did you even get here? Flight magic?"
"No," Lucien said. "I rode the same thing you rode."
David stared. "The plane?"
"The plane," Lucien confirmed.
Flashback
The cabin hummed. A curtain separated the chaos of economy from a pocket universe of quiet.
Lucien sat upright in first class, coat folded with military precision, a cup of tea untouched on the tray. The screen in front of him displayed the route map; he watched it like a general tracing a battlefront.
Turbulence hit. A flight attendant stumbled, apologized, and offered champagne.
"No," Lucien said gravely. "I must remain clear-headed."
He glanced at the closed curtain, as if sensing the muffled baby in economy suddenly… stop crying.
"He's here," he murmured to no one, and went back to studying the safety card.
Present
Elliot gaped. "You were on our flight? In first class?"
"Of course," Lucien said, as if there were no other way to travel. "I keep my distance until I am certain I am needed."
"Translation," David said, "you wanted a dramatic entrance."
Lucien met his eyes, and for once the gold in them dimmed. "No. I wanted to be certain I wouldn't ruin it."
Wind worked rain through the gate bars. For a moment, the night carried only the sound of water and far-off traffic.
Lucien drew a breath, straightened, and spoke as if delivering a vow. "I wish to fulfill my dream—to learn directly from you. If you will allow it, I will follow. I will unlearn what must be unlearned."
David felt a crawl of goosebumps. "You really say things like that with a straight face."
"It is the only face I have," Lucien replied, genuinely puzzled.
Elliot stepped between them, palms out. "Hold on. He tried to obliterate you at a church and now he wants to be roommates?"
David leaned close, voice low. "He's not trying to kill us, Elliot. I've never felt intent from him—not once. He's… lost."
"Lost?"
"Like a compass that points at a story instead of north."
Lucien waited, getting wetter by the second without appearing to notice.
"Fine," David said at last. "You can tag along. But no more theatrics."
Lucien nodded solemnly. "Understood." A beat. "I cannot promise."
Elliot groaned. "I hate that he's honest."
The Tiny Flat
Cut to: a cramped London apartment that felt even smaller with a third person in it.
Lucien sat very straight on the arm of the one surviving chair because the actual seat had given up under Elliot months ago. His long coat was cleaned and hung with reverence on a doorknob. He inspected the room like it was a temple and he was trying to be respectful of its gods.
Elliot knelt on the floor, phone in one hand, a drained bronze idol in the other. "I listed three pieces. Every offer is either a meme or someone trying to pay in exposure."
"Exposure to what?" David asked, folding towels that did not belong together.
"Obscure history blogs." Elliot scowled at the screen. "Why do people lowball? I wrote 'rare' four times."
"Because 'rare' is free and 'money' is not," David said.
Lucien looked between them, baffled but polite, as if attending a lecture on a subject no one had invented yet.
The small TV on the dresser flickered, brightness fighting the room's single lightbulb.
"—reports of unusual lights over Seoul's Gwanghwamun area," the anchor said. "Officials cite a weather anomaly—"
Elliot pointed the remote like a wand. "There. See? The world is doubling down on weird."
David stared at the screen a moment too long. He felt the soft tug of a far-off pulse, that same uneasy rhythm threaded through Prague. "Looks like our next mess," he said.
"Great," Elliot said. "Do you have any idea how much airfare to Korea is?"
David laughed once, a dry sound. "You think I can punch open a savings account?"
"Budget promo," Elliot said, already tapping. "There's always a—nope. Nothing. This is pain."
Lucien watched them from the edge of the chair, expression caught somewhere between curiosity and pity. After a moment, he reached into his coat and withdrew a small leather pouch, worn smooth with age. He loosened the drawstring and spilled gold coins onto the table.
They hit with a rich, heavy sound.
Elliot's soul left his body. "…Did we just get sponsored by history?"
David stared at the coins—familiar script, dragon's-head stamp, the weight of a world that was not this one. "Those will exchange," he said slowly. "Carefully. In pieces."
"I have more," Lucien said. "I assumed Earth still valued gold."
"It does," David said. "Sometimes too much."
Elliot recovered enough to grin like a lottery winner. "So. Business class? First class? I want to experience legroom at least once before I die."
"No," David and Lucien said at the same time.
Elliot squinted. "You two agree now? On depriving me of joy?"
"There are better uses for money than seats," David said. "We'll bleed value at an exchange, then bleed it again on flights. We stretch every coin."
He looked at the TV again, the Seoul lights haloing a gate the camera wouldn't show properly. He did the math in his head like an old habit: rent, utilities, cheap food, train to the airport, exchange fees, incidentals. He lifted a finger and ticked them off one by one in the air.
"If we're really going," he said, "I might have to resign."
Elliot's head snapped up. "Wait—seriously?"
"It was either that or get fired for 'excessive sick days.'" He gestured at the coins. "If we can stabilize income selling drained artifacts—carefully—then I won't miss the paycheck. Just the stability."
Lucien considered the ceiling, as if speaking to an invisible council. "If space is the problem, I will not stay here," he said at last. "I will find lodging nearby and meet you every morning."
"You don't have to—" Elliot began.
"He does," David said gently. "There's not enough square footage in London for those shoulders."
Lucien accepted this as an objective measurement of architecture.
Elliot's phone pinged. He glanced down, face falling. "We got an offer. Half the asking price and a winky face."
"Sell one," David said. "Just one. We need cash flow, not pride."
"I hate being practical," Elliot muttered, tapping. "Fine. One."
He looked up again, eyes brightening. "But the moment we convert those coins, I'm buying a proper backpack. And shoes that don't squeak."
"Shoes are allowed." David nodded to the TV. "Seat upgrades are not."
Lucien watched the two of them negotiate reality like it was a new martial form. The corner of his mouth moved—almost a smile. "I will handle the exchange," he said. "Discreetly."
"Good," David said. "Tomorrow morning, we plan. Day after, we move. Korea isn't going to wait."
Elliot flopped back onto the floor, victorious despite the winky-face buyer. "Another adventure," he said to the ceiling. "And maybe this time I won't almost die."
"No promises," David said.
He switched off the TV. The room fell into the hush that comes after decisions. Rain patted the window. Somewhere far away, the world's old nerves twitched.
Lucien stood, collected his coat, and moved to the door. He paused there, as if the tiny threshold required permission. "Thank you," he said, the words so plain they almost sounded foreign.
"Don't thank me," David said. "Be on time."
"I will."
He stepped out into the corridor and vanished into the stairwell's dim light, boots quiet, presence quieter.
Elliot sat up on his elbows. "He's so weird."
"He's trying," David said. He rubbed his chest where the old circle's pulse hummed, tired but steady. "That counts."
He picked up a coin, weighed it, and set it back down carefully—as if returning a memory to the table.
"Pack light," he said. "We leave soon."
"Seoul," Elliot whispered, grinning. "Seoul."
David leaned his head against the wall and closed his eyes for one breath—a long, human breath that had nothing to do with circles or stars. "Guess the world's not waiting for me to clock in anymore."
Outside, London's rain softened; across the sea, strange lights over Seoul refused to die.