[Rynthall Estate—Lucien's Chamber | Seven Minutes Later]
The room was chaos. Organized, towel-drenched, emotionally unhinged chaos.
Lucien was on the bed, drenched in sweat, silk robes tossed over a nearby chair, and hair stuck to his forehead like he'd just done battle with an ocean storm. One hand crushed Marcel's wrist. The other clutched a poor pillow that had done nothing wrong.
"I'M DYING! YOU HEAR ME?! THIS IS IT! TELL THE ARCHIVES TO START WRITING MY TRAGEDY—I WANT A PLAY!"
Faylen, fanning Lucien with a folding screen, muttered, "Tragedy's already written. It's called your love life."
Lucien tried to slap him with a towel but missed because—CONTRACTION. He howled.
"WHERE IS THAT SNAKE-HIP, BEAUTIFUL-EYED, MUSCLE-INFESTED MAN?!"
Fredrick: "Still running, presumably."
Lucien: "TELL HIM TO STOP RUNNING AND START TELEPORTING!"
Marcel leaned in, panting. "Lucien, you need to breathe—!"
