The plane touched down hard, jarring everyone in their seats.
In the back row, a man in black flinched.
He'd always hated flights — hated the sound of engines, the rattle of metal, the smell of recycled air. But most of all, he hated landings.
Because the last time a plane went down… so did his life.
He stayed still for a moment after the seatbelt light blinked off.
Only when the aisle cleared did he rise, slinging a worn coat over his shoulder and adjusting the strap of his small leather bag. His eyes flicked around — unconsciously, habitually — scanning exits, faces, patterns. Twelve years of survival didn't fade just because a plane landed safely.
At the immigration counter, the attendant took his passport with a polite nod.
"First time back?"
The man's voice was low, calm. "Yeah."
"How long were you abroad?"
He hesitated. The question hung heavier than it should have.
"Twelve years," he said finally.
The attendant's brow lifted. "Twelve years?" He smiled faintly. "Well… welcome back home, Mr. Lucian Rein."
Lucian exhaled, a small flicker crossing his eyes — recognition, disbelief, maybe even fear.
Home.
He hadn't heard that word in a long time.
He took the passport, murmured a quiet "Thank you," and moved on.
At the carousel, his black suitcase arrived scuffed, dented — a reflection of the man pulling it off the belt. He gripped the handle like it might vanish if he let go.
At the sliding doors, he stopped.
Just before the threshold.
Twelve years of hell, he thought. And this is what waits for me?
The air smelled different — cleaner, maybe, or just unfamiliar. He didn't know which was worse.
He almost turned back. Then a voice snapped him out of it.
"Oh! Sorry!"
A woman had bumped into him, nearly dropping her handbag. He steadied her by reflex.
"It's fine," he said, handing it back.
She gave a quick smile. "Thanks. I'm Ameera, by the way."
He hesitated, then lied smoothly. "Sunny."
"Nice to meet you, Sunny."
Her phone rang. She glanced at the screen. "Sorry — I have to take this."
He watched her step away, her voice fading into the noise of arrivals. She'd led him halfway out without even realizing it.
Lucian looked up at the night sky through the glass — gray, restless, bleeding light from the runway.
"Well," he muttered to himself, "I'm out anyway."
He walked through the doors, flagged down a taxi, and climbed in without looking back.
As the car rolled forward, rain began to fall — soft, rhythmic, tapping against the window like a memory that wouldn't fade.
For the first time in twelve years, Lucian Rein was home.
And the world had no idea what it had just welcomed back.
"Where to, sir?" the driver asked, starting the engine.
"Velaport," Lucian said.
"Okie-doke," the man replied cheerfully, cranking the meter before pulling away from the curb.
Lucian leaned back, eyes fixed on the blur of streetlights through the rain-slick window. The city had changed — new towers, new colors, faces he didn't recognize.
Not that I remember much anyway, he thought, shrugging it off.
For a while, silence filled the car, broken only by the soft rhythm of the wipers. Then a voice — quiet, too close, too familiar — stirred inside his head.
"That Ameera girl looks familiar, Lucy… I just can't put my hand on where."
Lucian's jaw tightened. "Shut the fuck up."
The driver glanced at him through the rearview mirror. "Sorry, sir?"
Lucian blinked, catching himself. "Oh— no, no. Not you. I was, uh… on the phone."
The driver chuckled. "Ah, good one, sir. You just saved us an awkward trip."
Lucian forced a faint smile, then turned his face back toward the window.
"You didn't have to be rude, Lucy."
"Shut the fuck up, bastard. Not now. Not here."
"What? Can't handle talking to yourself anymore?"
"I'm not that man anymore," Lucian hissed under his breath. "Never again. You speak in my head one more time and I swear to God I'll lobotomize myself."
Silence.
Then a soft, mocking whisper.
"Fine, fine… Lucy."
And it was gone. For now.
Lucian exhaled slowly, the weight behind his eyes throbbing like a pulse. He stared out at the highway again — the glowing road signs, the rain streaking across glass. Everything felt foreign.
Velaport wasn't Tokyo.
It wasn't Kabukichō.
It wasn't the world he'd left behind.
He rested his head against the cold glass. The hum of the engine drowned out everything — except the thought that refused to leave him.
Ameera. Where had he seen her before?
But his thoughts are interrupted before he could finish
"Exactly where in Velaport, sir?" the driver asked as the car joined the main road.
"Just drop me near the market. I'll go from there," Lucian said.
"Okie-doke."
The taxi wove through narrow lanes lined with glowing signboards and rain-drenched scooters. When they reached the market, the driver stopped, climbed out, and helped with the luggage.
"How much?" Lucian asked.
"Four hundred, sir."
Lucian handed him a five-hundred-rupee note. "Keep the rest."
"Thank you, kind sir," the man said with a grin, then drove off, tail-lights fading into the drizzle.
For a moment Lucian just stood there, breathing in the familiar air.
The scent hit him hard — pepper, cardamom, old wood, the faint tang of sea salt carried by the wind.
This place hasn't changed in its soul, he thought.
He started walking, luggage in hand. The narrow streets curved the same way his memory remembered them.
If memory served right… left at the bakery, past the small shrine, and—
There it was.
The house.
The place he'd grown up in.
Where his father's laughter once filled the rooms, where his mother's cooking perfumed the evenings.
Reggie and Ron — his elder brothers.
And Lex, the youngest… just a toddler back then.
All gone, or grown, or moved on. Only memories left — and maybe not even that.
Lucian stood at the gate, staring. His chest tightened.
What if they don't remember you?
What if you really did die that day?
He swallowed hard, backing away. "Not today," he muttered.
Turning back toward the street, he flagged an Uber and rode to the nearest hotel.
He booked a single room, went upstairs, showered, and changed into something more casual — jeans, a dark T-shirt, a hoodie.
The bed felt too soft, too clean. He lay staring at the ceiling, the hum of the AC filling the silence. Sleep didn't come.
He turned. Rolled over. Closed his eyes. Opened them again. Nothing.
After what felt like hours, he sighed. "Might as well check out the nightlife," he said to himself.
He slipped on the hoodie, grabbed his phone, and stepped into the elevator.
The digital display ticked down floor by floor until it reached G.
The doors slid open.
Lucian walked out into the night.
The streets around the hotel buzzed with neon and noise. Lucian walked aimlessly until the thump of bass drew him to a small pub tucked between two shuttered stores.
Inside, smoke curled through blue light. He sat at the counter.
"Japanese whiskey," he said.
The bartender poured a glass. Lucian took a sip—smooth, familiar.
Water, he thought.
"Fucking brat," the voice muttered in his head. "You drink this stuff more than water."
Lucian smirked faintly. "What can I say? I'm an aspiring alcoholic."
The voice gave a low chuckle. "At least you're honest."
He stayed just long enough for the warmth to crawl up his throat. Then he slid a few notes across the counter and left without looking at the dance floor. The strobe lights, the laughter, the perfume—it was all noise. He'd seen too much of this neon cesspit before.
Outside, the rain had stopped. The streets gleamed wet and empty. As he walked toward the hotel, movement caught his eye—four men crowding a girl against a wall.
"Deal with it," the voice whispered. "Might give you some peace of mind."
Lucian exhaled. "I know."
He stepped forward, his tone calm but edged.
"Leave her alone," he said. "She doesn't look like she's having fun."
The bearded one stepped forward, smirking. "And who the fuck are you, huh? Jet Li?"
Lucian tilted his head. "Was that supposed to be an insult or a compliment?"
Even the thug's friends laughed. The girl, terrified a moment ago, let out a nervous chuckle.
That did it. The bearded man snarled and lunged, a cheap knife flashing in the streetlight.
Lucian moved like instinct. His heel dug into the ground as he slid back, his arm sweeping upward to strike the man's elbow from below. The knife flew from his grip with a dull clatter.
Before the thug could even process what happened, Lucian caught his wrist, yanked him forward, and drove his boot into the man's shin. The brute buckled with a grunt, dropping to one knee.
Lucian shifted his weight, grabbed the man's wrist again, and twisted hard—sharp enough to make him howl but not break. Then, with the knife now in his hand, Lucian crouched beside him, calm and unshaken.
He tapped the blade lightly against the back of the man's shoulder, just enough pressure to make him freeze.
"You know this thing can really hurt people, right?" Lucian said, tone half-mocking, half-teacher. "You wave it around like a toy, someone could actually get hurt."
The man whimpered. "Stop, man! Please—"
Lucian sighed, almost disappointed. "Next time, maybe try using words before weapons. Might save you a limb—or your pride."
He flicked the knife aside, stood up, and dusted his hands off like the whole thing had been a minor inconvenience.
The girl was still frozen, eyes wide. Lucian looked at her briefly, gave a small nod, then turned and walked back toward the hotel, the glow of the streetlights stretching his shadow long across the pavement.
"Ahhh," Lucian said to himself, rolling his shoulders as the adrenaline drained. "That was refreshing."
"Refreshing? How do you know they'd stop?" the voice slipped in, calm but edged with curiosity. "I've seen their eyes. They've taken lives before."
"I know," Lucian muttered, his gaze still on the alley behind him. "But they've seen mine too." His voice lowered, heavy now. "I've taken way more."
"Is that supposed to be a brag?"
"No," Lucian said quietly. "It's the truth."
There was no pride in his tone—only that dull weight, sorrow and regret sitting behind his eyes.
He looked back once more. The other three had already bolted, and the man he left behind was half-conscious, groaning. "So she's safe," Lucian said softly. "Plus, the girl—"
"We've got a tail," the voice interrupted.
"I know," Lucian replied, already glancing at the reflection in a nearby shop window.
Lucian caught her reflection in the glass: the girl from the alley, still clutching her bag, hovering a few paces back. Her steps matched his almost perfectly.
He didn't turn.
Instead, he let the silence stretch until even the sound of traffic faded.
"Persistent, isn't she?" the voice murmured. "Maybe she likes you."
"Or maybe she's scared," Lucian said quietly. "People follow what they don't understand."
He finally pivoted, slow and deliberate.
The girl froze mid-step, eyes wide when their gazes met.
"You can stop pretending," Lucian said. "You've been behind me for five minutes."
"I—uh… I just wanted to thank you," she stammered. "For earlier."
Lucian studied her for a moment. The rain had matted strands of hair to her cheek, and the streetlight painted her skin gold against the wet concrete. She couldn't have been more than twenty-two.
"Don't get attached, Lucy," the voice whispered. "You know what happens when you care."
Lucian ignored it.
"Next time," he said, "don't wait for someone else to step in. Learn to fight back."
The girl hesitated. "I tried," she said softly, "but he was too—"
"Strong?" Lucian finished for her. "Everyone is, until you stop believing that."
She looked down, biting her lip. "You sound like you've done this before."
Lucian's gaze drifted past her, somewhere far away. "More times than I should've."
"You could tell her who you are," the voice teased. "See what happens."
Lucian turned away. "Go home," he said, tone flat but not unkind. "It's late."
She nodded, unsure whether to thank him again or just leave. In the end, she chose silence and walked off into the mist.
Lucian watched her disappear, the sound of her footsteps fading into the hum of the city.
"Still pretending you're the hero?" the voice asked.
Lucian slid his hands into his pockets and started toward the hotel. "No," he said. "Just trying not to be the monster."
Lucian slipped his keycard through the slot and pushed open the hotel-room door. The soft click of the lock was the first real silence he'd had all night.
He set his bag down by the desk and exhaled. "Well," he said to himself, "I can confirm one thing."
"And what's that?" the voice asked, quieter now, almost curious.
"I'm ready to go home," Lucian replied. "Tomorrow, we'll be leaving. So be on your best behaviour."
"Oh? Planning a grand reunion, Lucy?"
Lucian half-smiled, unbuttoning his cuffs. "Something like that." He paused. "And… about earlier. The taxi. I shouldn't have snapped at you—you crept up out of nowhere, and I thought you were him ,that's all."
"It's fine," the voice said easily. "You were tense. I get it."
Lucian switched off the lamp, the room falling into a blue-gray hush. He lay back on the bed, staring at the ceiling.
"Sleep now, brat," the voice murmured, fading like static into the dark.
Lucian's eyelids grew heavy. For the first time in twelve years, he almost felt at peace.