August 4th, 2005 — Somewhere outside Norwin, 11:46 PM
Rain was a curtain—thick, silver, and unrelenting.
It swallowed the headlights of the car as it skidded, spun once, then twice, before the front end slammed into the metal guardrail.
The world went quiet for a second.
Then came the screaming.
Lucian hadn't meant to stop. He wasn't supposed to be out this late—not alone, not on this road, not in this borrowed car. But something in his chest—some strange knot—tightened the moment he saw the faint glint of broken glass blinking through the storm.
He braked. Hard.
And then he ran.
Mud soaked his boots. His shirt clung to him like a second skin. But none of it mattered.
The passenger side door was crushed inward. He yanked it open with both hands, teeth gritted, arms trembling.
"There's a child!" someone shouted behind him. Maybe the father. Maybe a ghost.
"My daughter—please—"
Inside, the scent of blood and coolant twisted with rain. A woman lay motionless in the front seat, her chest barely rising. The man—shaking, concussed—was trying to crawl toward the backseat.
And in that backseat, eyes wide, unblinking, was a little girl.
She couldn't have been more than four.
Her lips were trembling, but she didn't cry. Not even when the glass cut her cheek.
Not even when the lightning made the world white for a second.
Lucian reached her in two strides.
"It's okay," he said, kneeling beside the door.
"I've got you."
She blinked up at him. Her voice came out in a whisper, barely audible beneath the thunder.
"You're bleeding."
Lucian smiled, even though his own hands were shaking now.
"So are you."
She reached for him anyway.
And in that moment—in that blood-streaked, rain-washed night—Lucian Adriano Reed became something he never thought he could be.
Not a hero.
Not a rescuer.
A constant.