Lucien woke up sitting on the kitchen floor.
His back rested against the cabinet, legs drawn in, head tilted back as if he had simply given up halfway through standing. For a few seconds, he stayed there, staring at the ceiling, trying to understand how he'd gotten home.
Then his hands started to hurt.
Not soreness. Not fatigue.
Pain.
He lifted them slowly. The skin across his knuckles was split, bruises already blooming beneath the surface. Someone else's blood had dried in thin, dark lines.
Lucien frowned.
He didn't remember fighting.
That thought came with a familiar weight in his chest.
"…Did you come out again?" he murmured.
The apartment didn't answer.
It never did.
A faint shimmer crossed his vision.
Quest completed.
Reward granted.
Mental stability reduced.
Lucien closed his eyes and exhaled through his nose.
Figures.
Three knocks echoed through the apartment.
Sharp. Controlled. Too deliberate to be accidental.
Lucien was on his feet instantly. Whatever exhaustion lingered vanished, replaced by instinct. He slipped the gem into the false lining of his jacket, movements precise, silent.
Another knock.
"Lucien?"
The voice stopped him.
He hesitated, then opened the door slightly.
Iris stood in the hallway, rain clinging to her hair, a small paper bag held awkwardly against her chest. Her eyes searched his face with quiet urgency, relief softening her shoulders when she saw him standing.
"You're alive," she said.
He almost smiled.
"Was that in doubt?"
She huffed, but her gaze dropped immediately to his hands. Her expression changed.
"…You're hurt."
"It's nothing."
"You always say that."
She stepped inside before he could argue, as if the decision had already been made. Lucien closed the door behind her. The apartment felt smaller with her in it. Warmer. More dangerous.
Iris placed the bag on the table. "You didn't eat yesterday."
"I wasn't hungry."
"That's a lie."
He didn't bother denying it.
She moved around the room, straightening a chair that didn't need straightening, glancing at him when she thought he wasn't looking. Iris always noticed things. Not details—changes.
"You didn't answer your phone," she said quietly.
Lucien leaned against the wall. "I forgot."
Her fingers curled slightly around the edge of the table.
"That's not what scares me."
The words landed softly, but they stayed.
Lucien looked away.
In the dark reflection of the window, something smiled back at him. Not wide. Not obvious. Just enough.
His jaw tightened.
"I'm fine," he said quickly.
Iris studied him, eyes narrowing just a little. "You say that like you're trying to convince yourself."
The system stirred at the edge of his perception.
Emotional stimulus detected.
He ignored it.
"I don't need details," Iris said after a moment. "I just need to know you're not disappearing."
Lucien swallowed.
He wanted to tell her everything. About the nights he couldn't remember. About the strength that wasn't his. About the part of him that woke up satisfied after violence.
Instead, he said, "I'll be careful."
She smiled faintly. "You always say that too."
When Iris stood to leave, Lucien felt something tighten in his chest. Not fear of danger—fear of absence.
At the door, she hesitated. "Just… don't vanish on me, okay?"
He nodded.
After she left, the apartment felt colder than before.
Lucien remained standing long after the door closed.
From the corner of the room, unseen and silent, something lingered—
watching the space where Iris had been,
and wondering how much it would hurt when she finally walked away.