The café was bustling with morning chatter, the smell of roasted beans filling the air. Sera tapped her fingers impatiently against the table as Lucian rambled about the "art of being late" like it was some kind of philosophy.
"…so you see, love, if you're late, people appreciate you more. They wait, they long, they ache—and when you finally appear, bam!—they're blessed."
Sera groaned. "Blessed? You're ridiculous."
Lucian leaned back in his chair with a playful smirk. "You call it ridiculous, I call it charm."
But beneath the golden playboy's smile, a faint pressure was building in his skull. He winced for half a second, barely noticeable, but the laughter in his throat cracked like broken glass.
Sera noticed. Her sharp eyes softened. "Lucian… are you alright?"
He forced a grin, brushing it off. "Just a headache. Probably too much caffeine."
Still, as he reached for his cup, his fingers trembled. And when he glanced out the café window, the reflection in the glass wasn't his own.
For just a flicker, he saw another man—black hair slicked back, a cigarette glowing between sharp lips, eyes cold as knives. Kane.
Lucian's smile faltered. He looked away quickly.
Sera tilted her head, concern deepening. "You look pale."
"I'll live," Lucian muttered, slapping on his usual grin.
Later that night, Lucian lay sprawled across his couch, flicking through channels on the TV with zero interest. His apartment was a mess as usual, but something gnawed at him.
Every channel he switched to, he heard whispers. Not from the screen, but from his own head.
"Weak."
"Fool."
"You waste time with jokes while I hunt."
Lucian squeezed his temples. "Shut up, Kane. This is my time."
But the whispers didn't stop.
Then, a sharper voice—calm, stern, disciplined—cut through the noise.
"Focus, Lucian. The city doesn't sleep. And neither should we."
Lucian groaned, rolling over. "Great. The cop's awake too. Fantastic. All three of us having a party in my head now."
For the first time, the balance cracked. Arata's presence stirred faintly, Kane's sneer pressed against the edges of his mind, and Lucian realized he wasn't alone anymore. The walls were thinning.
The next day, Lucian met Sera again. But this time, something was different. He was still charming, still playful—but his jokes landed strangely flat. His eyes flickered too often, distracted.
"Lucian?" Sera asked softly, reaching across the table to touch his hand. "What's wrong?"
He froze. Her touch grounded him, but also terrified him. Because deep down, Lucian feared something he never admitted aloud:
What if she touched him one day, and it wasn't Lucian she found sitting across from her?
What if it was Kane?
Or worse… Arata, the cop, with no memory of who she even was?
Lucian pulled his hand away quickly, masking it with a laugh. "Nothing, nothing at all. Just thinking about… how your smile could end wars."
Sera frowned but didn't press further. She didn't know it, but she was already walking on the edge of a secret far too dangerous.
And Lucian—childish, foolish Lucian—was running out of time before his illusion cracked completely.