-The Human World
The streets of helluva -
City streets, evening rush hour.
The air was thick with noise — horns blaring, chatter rising, footsteps echoing off the glass walls of skyscrapers.
Through the chaos, a woman pushed her way through the crowd, clutching her daughter's small hand.
"Hold on, Hana!" she shouted, voice trembling.
But people kept bumping into them — shoulders, bags, umbrellas — until her grip slipped.
Their hands tore apart.
"Mom!"
"Hana!"
The crowd swallowed them both. The mother tried to turn back, but the flow of people pushed her forward like a river current.
Hana, the pink-haired girl no older than seven, spun in circles, eyes wide and shimmering.
"Mommy?! Where are you?!"
Her tiny voice was drowned by the noise.
Panic set in — her breathing quickened, and she began pushing through legs and coats, trying to follow the faint echo of her mother's cries.
But each step led her deeper away.
Until — silence.
She blinked, realizing the chatter was gone. The light of the city faded behind her.
Now she stood in a narrow alleyway, dark and cold, lined with cracked bricks and flickering neon signs. The air smelled of rust and something… rotten.
"Mom?" she whispered.
Her voice barely left her throat.
Then came screams.
She froze. The sound was raw — human pain.
Curiosity and fear wrestled inside her as she took one trembling step forward… then another.
At the corner, shadows moved.
And then she saw it — a group of men crouched over a body, their hands slick with blood, faces half-lit by a dull streetlamp.
Hana gasped.
The man on the ground twitched once — then went still.
Her heart stopped. She couldn't even scream.
One of the men turned, blood glinting on his knife. His lips curled into a grin.
"Well, well, well…" he said, his voice a lazy drawl. "What do we have here?"
The others turned to look.
"A little girl?" one muttered.
"Whose kid is that?" another asked, stepping closer.
"Dunno," the first man replied, licking his teeth. "But she's cute. Makes me miss my girlfriend."
A few others laughed quietly — the kind of laugh that didn't sound human anymore.
Hana's knees shook. Her mind screamed run, but her body refused to move.
The man's grin widened, ugly and certain. "That's a cute little thing — would be a shame if she didn't… stay with us," he drawled, fingers already fumbling at his belt.
Hana's feet hit the alley bricks. Her sobs were tiny, raw. The night smelled of iron and stale smoke. The men closed in like wolves — swagger, leers, the coarse smell of beer and rot.
A bright, spinning column of flame cut the air like a blade. The world seemed to hold its breath. The tornado died down with a soft hiss and, where fire and smoke tangled, a figure remained: a man in a black suit and long coat, a red tie thrown loose, chest partly exposed. He stood perfectly still, shoulders relaxed, as if landing from a walk in the park.
Lucien didn't even notice them at first. He tilted his head, hands in his pockets, an embarrassed little smile softening his face as he admired the fit of his jacket. "Ahhh— I always wanted to wear a suit," he said aloud, voice almost giddy. "Humans really do have an imagination."
Five eyes tracked him. Their amusement drained into uneasy silence.
"How long have you been watching?" Lucien asked, a faint heat in his tone that had nothing to do with the alleylamp. He blinked — startled, as if the question was directed at him instead of the others.
"Please—" Hana's voice cracked through the pause. She was pressed into the cold brick, cheeks wet. She looked up and met Lucien's eyes. In that instant something like a fissure opened inside him — an odd tug that wasn't boredom or disdain.
Lucien sauntered as if passing by. "I see you guys are in the middle of something," he said, casual, lips quirked.
One of the men straightened, venom in his tone. "You got a problem? Shut up and be a good dog and leave."
Lucien chuckled like someone complimented him. "Oh no. I have no problem with what you're doing. Go right ahead. Don't mind me." He turned his back to them, hands in his pockets, coat flaring like a curtain.
The men laughed. One called him a wimp and went back to the girl, loosening his belt. The mood sharpened into predation again.
Lucien paused mid-step. He looked back over his shoulder slowly, like a man considering a menu. "Humans are so weird," he mused under his breath. "Why do I want to help her? I'm not one to interfere." He took another step, then stopped. The tug in his chest was louder now — curiosity, annoyance, a sliver of protectiveness he didn't like.
He sighed, theatrically. "Fine. I'll… watch." Then, with a tiny, almost bored smile: "On second thought, guys, I think you should let the girl go — if you cherish your little, insignificant lives."
The swagger vanished. The leader sneered and pulled a knife out slow enough to be smug.
"It seems you wanna die, huh?" he spat.
Lucien's grin froze. He didn't lunge. He didn't shout. He simply looked at the man — and in that look the air changed. The alleylights seemed to dim, the red of the moon deepened, and the world narrowed to the space between Lucien's eyes and the tip of the blade.
"No, no, no," Lucien said softly, amusement flickering. "You didn't hear me right. I said you're the one who's going to die."
There was a blink — a dead calm — then motion. It was all motion and light and the smell of ozone. The men charged like they always did: teeth bared, knives up. They never saw the space between two heartbeats collapse.
When it was over, there were five bodies on the wet cobbles. No theatrics, no long fight — only finality. Each man lay where he had fallen, eyes wide in frozen surprise. One's throat had been opened; another clutched at his chest; a third had his skull split. The alley tasted metallic.
Lucien stood among them, hair fluttering from a nonexistent breeze, chest rising as if from a stroll. He held one man by the scruff of the neck, the man's head hanging like a puppet — blood glinted on Lucien's fingers, a line of red trailing down the man's throat. Lucien looked at the dripping blood, and even that small, grotesque detail didn't disturb the serene amusement on his face.
He lifted the man's head a little higher and, with an almost parental tone, said, "You'll tell me your story in Hell, okay?"
The streetlamp hummed. Hana's sobs choked into a silence. The remaining three men — where there had been five — were either unconscious or very quiet. The leader's knife slid from limp fingers and clattered on the stones.
Hana pressed herself against the wall. Her small chest heaved with tremors. She could not take her eyes off the man who had just ended her threat. He looked like danger and comfort rolled into one impossible person.
Lucien lowered the head. He wiped his fingers on the dead man's jacket, as if tidying up, and let the body slump. He crossed the space to Hana in three easy strides, lanky and lithe. For a moment, his expression softened — the smirk almost becoming something like gentleness.
"Hey," he said, very quietly. His voice was a soft velvet thing against the harsh night. "Are you okay?"
Hana's eyes were huge. She nodded, then shook her head, then nodded again. Tears streaked clean lines down her dirt-smudged cheeks. "M-mommy!" she blurted, pushing herself to her feet and looking around with frantic hope.
Lucien turned his head toward the mouth of the alley and listened. Faint shouts were rising — concerned voices from farther down the street, footsteps, the scatter of hurried people. The city noticed at last.
He considered for a heartbeat, then crouched so he was level with her. Up close his eyes were small, dangerous moons. He offered a hand, something gentle in that impatient, bored way he had.
"Come with me for a moment," he said. "I'll make sure you're safe."
Hana hesitated — then took his hand like the only polite thing to do. His fingers were warm and dry and oddly comforting.
As they moved toward the street, sirens began in the distance. Lucien glanced back at the bodies and then up at the blood moon. For a flicker, an uncharacteristic shadow of something like regret — or obligation — passed across his face. Then he smiled, the old amused smile.
"See?" he murmured. "A suit does wonders."
Hana clung to his hand. The city swallowed them into its noise. Behind them, the alley kept its secrets — and Lucien kept his.
Got it — I'll pick up right from where we left off: Lucien and Hana leaving the alley, and we'll shift into that emotional "bond begins" moment that sets up the rest of the story. This next section balances the aftermath (the chaos of what just happened) with Lucien's confusion about why he even cares — giving the scene both warmth and mystery.
The streets had calmed by the time Lucien and Hana stepped out of the alley. The noise of the crowd was a distant hum now, muffled by the red haze of the moon that still hung overhead.
Hana clutched Lucien's hand so tightly her knuckles were white. Her small frame trembled beside him — shock, cold, maybe both. He didn't say a word. Just kept walking, his coat fluttering behind him like the shadow of a flame.
Every so often, she looked up at him.
At his pale face, his strange red eyes that caught the light like glass.
He didn't look human, not really.
And yet — he had saved her.
Lucien stopped at a corner. The streets opened into a park, empty except for the flickering lamps and the whisper of the night breeze. Hana's eyes darted around — lost, confused.
"Where's your mother?" Lucien asked finally, voice softer than it had ever been.
She sniffled. "I–I don't know. We were in the crowd and... and I couldn't find her."
Lucien sighed. "Humans and their chaos."
He knelt slightly, placing his palm just above the ground. The shadows around him quivered — faint embers swirling in the air. He closed his eyes for a second. When he opened them, they glowed faintly, crimson bright.
Through that glow, he saw her.
The mother — pushing frantically through the streets, eyes wild with fear.
Lucien stood. "This way."
Hana didn't question him. She followed, her small hand still gripping his. They rounded another corner, and before long a cry pierced through the night.
"HANA!"
The woman's voice cracked. She stumbled toward them, tears streaking her cheeks.
Hana let go of Lucien and ran — full speed, straight into her mother's arms.
The reunion was wordless at first — just the sound of sobbing and a mother whispering her daughter's name again and again.
Lucien watched them silently, his expression unreadable. Something in his chest — something old and quiet — stirred. A feeling he hadn't known in centuries.
"Thank you!" the woman gasped, looking up at him. "I— I don't know what would've happened if—"
But he was already turning away.
"Take care of her," he said, voice low. "And don't come back to this part of town."
The woman blinked. "Wait— who are you?"
Lucien paused mid-step. His coat caught the moonlight. For a moment, he looked back over his shoulder and smiled — that calm, lazy smile that didn't quite reach his eyes.
"Just someone who got bored," he said. Then, with a faint flick of his fingers, the red moon above shimmered. Flames whispered at his feet — and he was gone.
The mother stared at the spot where he'd stood. Hana tugged on her sleeve, still watching the air, eyes wide with "Mom… was he an angel?"
Her mother didn't answer. She just hugged her tighter.
Cut to: Rooftop — Same Night
Lucien stood on the edge of a tall building, the city lights stretching beneath him like veins of gold. His red tie fluttered in the wind.
He stared at the same moon — faintly pulsing like an eye watching him.
The faint echo of Hana's voice still lingered in his mind.
"Why… did I help her?"
He clenched his jaw. He hated that question.
A small flame appeared on his palm — spinning slowly, reflecting in his crimson eyes.
> "I don't save humans," he murmured. "That's not who I am."
And yet, as the flame burned quietly, the corners of his lips lifted into something almost… human.
"This world is as I thought."
The flame died as he clenched his fists and smiled gently.
[TO BE CONTINUED]