Lucien came back to a dark house. The silence pressed heavy against his ears, the kind that made the throb in his temples worse. His head was still a storm — thoughts colliding, images flashing, chaos refusing to quiet. He stepped inside, and his body stilled when his eyes caught movement in the living room.
His father was there. Sitting back in his usual chair, half-lit by the TV's dull glow, a half-empty beer can dangling from his hand.
Lucien's jaw tightened. His father — almost perfect in every sense, strong, composed, a man who demanded respect without ever raising his voice — only had one flaw. He was a borderline alcoholic. And tonight, the faint smell of cheap beer clung to him heavier than usual.
"You're finally back, huh?" his father said, his tone roughened, weary. His eyes flicked up. "How was that birthday party?"
Lucien swallowed whatever he wanted to say, straightening instead. He crossed the room with squared shoulders and sat at the table with military precision, posture upright, every line of his body rigid. When his father slid him a beer, Lucien accepted without hesitation, silently thanking God he had chosen a long-sleeved shirt. It hid too much. It explained nothing. He popped the can open, the fizz breaking the silence.
"It went well," he said, his voice calm, rehearsed.
His father breathed deep, held it, then exhaled through his nose like something about the answer annoyed him. His expression shifted — not anger, but displeasure, sharp and clear.
"You brought too many outside scents with you," he muttered, a faint grimace on his face. "Shower once you're done with this."
Lucien blinked, then gave a tight nod. He lifted his wrist, sniffing himself. He could catch it now — faint aromas clinging like smoke after a fire. Perfume, sweat, maybe blood. Not enough to overwhelm him, but enough to irritate his father. Of course it did. Lucien cursed himself silently. He really should have avoided that cursed place.
His father leaned back, voice lower now. "Are the pills working fine?"
Lucien hesitated, then answered honestly. "The effectiveness seems to be lowering. Before, I only needed to take one pill in the morning and one in the evening. But now…" His fingers tightened around the can. "Even taking two pills after every meal is still not that effective."
That made his father pause. His gaze went distant, hollow for a moment, like he was somewhere else entirely. Then he turned, staring at Lucien sharply, the line of his jaw iron-hard.
"Why did you increase the dose without informing me first?"
The reprimand was sharp enough to sting. Lucien pursed his lips, lowering his eyes, shame burning in his chest. "I'm sorry." The apology was quiet, but it filled the silence that followed.
For a while, neither spoke. The house seemed to hold its breath. Then his father broke it, his voice steady but heavy. "I'll be leaving for a few days. I need to get you more pills from the military hospital." His eyes narrowed, drilling into Lucien's as if daring him to disobey. "In the meantime, keep taking your pills. As prescribed."
Lucien nodded immediately, obedient, like a soldier following orders. "Yes, sir."
His father's tone softened, only slightly. "And Claire? I haven't seen her for a few days."
"She's on vacation with her family," Lucien replied, as casually as he could.
That seemed to satisfy him. The conversation slid into mundane things — small talk, inconsequential words that filled the air while the two of them drank their beers. Eventually, his father rose, shoulders heavy, and muttered something about going to bed. He left without ceremony, footsteps fading down the hall.
Lucien lingered, cleaning up the cans and wiping the table, his mind still restless. When he finally turned toward the bathroom, he slipped a hand into his pocket and pulled out a damp handkerchief.
The same one he had pressed against the blonde's shirt.
He stared at it, the faint scent still clinging, the memory of that audacity — that smug calm, that smile. Lucien's jaw locked, and with a sharp exhale he tossed the handkerchief into the bin. Gone. Finished. For tonight, at least.
He stripped, stepped under the shower, and let the water burn across his skin. Afterwards, he rubbed the familiar cream into the raw marks on his wrists, hissing at the sting before forcing himself to lie back in bed. He closed his eyes, though sleep was far from him, breath uneven as his mind replayed every image, every word.
Only then did silence return.
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The next day on set, Lucien swallowed the ache and turned it into a joke. The photographer raised an eyebrow; the stylists exchanged quick, knowing looks. Lucien only smiled — saucy, clipped, perfectly performed.
"Played a bit too rough last night," he said, half-laughing as he lifted a sleeve. A pale smear of purple bloomed across his skin, artfully revealed.
The makeup girl clucked her tongue, already reaching to fuss with his collar, her brush hovering like a mother hen. That was when a familiar voice cut through the bustle.
Claire.
The daughter of the agency's owner, heir to a fortune she wore like perfume. Their story was cliché enough — she had met him on a shoot, later confessing she'd fallen for him at first sight. And Lucien, careful, calculating Lucien, had let himself be caught.
It's not like he hated her. In fact, he liked her now, perhaps even loved her. It was a nice steady relationship.
She breezed across the set with the same effortless brightness that made people orbit her. Without hesitation, she slipped into his space, arms twining around him in a hug that smelled faintly of expensive citrus. He let her, drawing her closer with a soft, easy smile. His girlfriend. His anchor. His distraction.
She pressed a cold bottle of water into his hand, then leaned back just enough to roll her eyes. "Why did you lie, hmm? Who exactly were you 'playing rough' with?" she teased, her voice lilting but edged with something sharper. Her shoulder nudged against his, daring him to answer.
Lucien sighed, running a hand through his hair. "Not right now," he murmured, low enough for only her to hear. "I'll tell you later, baby."
Her lips curved into a pout, but she leaned in anyway, brushing a kiss against his cheek. "I'll be waiting," she whispered, soft as silk, a promise and a warning all at once. "Okay," he muttered. It was stiff, but it landed like a private truce.
Between shots, Lucien thumbed out short, cold texts:
Stop ignoring my texts. You think you can just do me dirty like this?You have to pay me back.Another followed:One wrong move and I tell the school. Hell I will even go to police
So you better respond me soon. Or God help me, you won't like it when I finally get you
No pleas, no bargaining. Just orders. He didn't trust them for a second — not after what they'd pulled.
That night after shoot, he lay in bed with Claire, the bruise still a dull ache beneath his shirt. The words spilled fast, clipped, his anger still raw.
"I'm so pissed," he muttered, fingers worrying the hem of the duvet like he could tear holes in it.
Claire turned toward him, steady in her softness. "You alright? You shouldn't have helped them, Ian. It was their mess."
"I know." His voice was rough, quiet with something heavier than rage. "But I couldn't let them die on my watch. I'll make them pay me back. Slow as hell, but I'll get it. But it's still better than dying like that. You have no idea baby, those people....The way they just-"
She curled against his side, cheek pressing to his shoulder. "Ssshh, Don't think about it anymore," she whispered. "Just… try to relax for now, okay?"
He gave a snort — brittle, humorless. "No promises." Then softer, almost breaking, "Thanks for sticking around."
Her lips brushed his forehead in answer. "Always."
Lucien closed his eyes. The bruise throbbed; his mind itched. Anger still burned, but beneath it something colder was already settling in. Calculation. A plan.
They'd pay. Every last one of them. He'd see to it himself.
Once he goes to school tomorrow, he was going to have a word with those shitheads!