Rain tapped lightly against the windows, soft enough to blend with the low hum of the bar's ambient music.
Behind the counter, the bartender worked alone.
Every movement was deliberate — almost ceremonial.
He reached for the bottle:
a tall, dark-glass Japanese whiskey, label minimal, edges crisp.
No theatrics.
Just quality.
He set a chilled crystal glass onto a black rubber mat.
Frost clung to the rim like a thin veil, slowly waking under the warmth of the room.
The bartender lifted the bottle.
Tilt.
A single, steady stream flowed out —
amber, clear, unbroken —
coating the bottom of the glass before rising smoothly.
No splashes.
No wasted drops.
He rotated his wrist just slightly, guiding the pour until it reached the perfect line — two fingers high, exactly level.
He stopped the flow without a single bead running down the neck of the bottle.
Next came the ice.
Not cubes.
Not chipped fragments.
One solid sphere, carved clean.
Cold mist curled off its surface as he lifted it with metal tongs.
The bartender lowered it gently into the whiskey.
Not dropped — placed.
Silent.
Weight settling into the drink without disturbing its clarity.
A slow swirl.
Amber wrapped around the sphere, light bending through the glass like a captured flame.
He slid the drink across the counter.
Not fast. Not showy.
Smooth. Steady.
A perfect glide, the base of the glass whispering against the polished surface.
A hand appeared just in time —
veins prominent, knuckles scarred, fingers calloused.
Lucien.
He caught the glass effortlessly, as if it had always belonged there.
The rain pressed against the window again.
And the world slowed around him.
Lucien brought the glass halfway up, the cold rim brushing his lower lip.
He paused.
Something inside his chest shifted — not painful, not sharp… but wrong, like a door left open somewhere he didn't remember opening.
"Something's changing," he muttered quietly, eyes fixed on the golden surface of the whiskey. "Things… aren't where they're supposed to be."
The voice slipped in beside his thoughts, not loud, not mocking — just present.
"What do you mean?"
Lucien exhaled through his nose.
"My seal being broken… the dreams coming back…"
He shook his head once, barely.
"I don't know."
A soft hum from the voice.
"The seal I understand," it said. "Yours is near-perfect. For someone to notice it, let alone break it—"
Lucien waited.
"…it is concerning," the voice finished.
Lucien swallowed the whiskey, slow and steady, the burn clean.
"And the dreams?" he asked.
The voice hesitated, then answered:
"Might just be paranoia. Or memory refusing to stay dead."
Lucien tapped the rim of the glass with his thumb.
"Doesn't feel like paranoia."
"Then," the voice said quietly,
"something is stirring that shouldn't be."
Lucien didn't reply.
He just stared at the amber swirl in his glass, the ice sphere slowly turning—
as if the world itself was shifting with it.
Lucien set the empty glass down, fingers brushing the counter's cool metal.
He reached into his hoodie pocket and pulled out a slim black carton — matte finish, gold trim.
The lid flicked open with a soft tap.
He leaned the pack toward his mouth and bit a cigarette out by the filter — black paper, gold band, neat and expensive-looking without trying to be.
With his free hand, he snapped his fingers once.
A tiny, sharp flame sparked at his fingertip — no heat, no fuss, gone in less than a heartbeat after touching the cigarette's tip.
He inhaled.
The end glowed.
Smoke curled upward, smooth and unhurried.
A voice beside him — elegant, curious — broke the quiet.
"How did you do that?"
Lucien turned his head slightly.
The woman sitting two seats down had black lipstick, winged liner, and blush that sharpened her cheekbones.
Her hair was pinned behind one ear with a silver clasp shaped like a crescent.
Her glass held something deep red — wine or a cocktail, he couldn't tell — and she looked at him like she'd just seen someone pull a rabbit out of thin air.
Lucien took another slow drag.
"Do what?" he asked.
She leaned in just a little, eyes still on the cigarette tip.
"That," she said. "The flame."
Lucien let the smoke out through his nose — calm, unreadable.
"…parlor trick," he said lightly.
But her eyes didn't believe him.
Lucien flicked the ash off the cigarette, eyes half-lidded.
"That's clearly not a parlour trick," she said, leaning in slightly.
Lucien didn't even turn his head fully.
"How many parlour tricks have you seen," he asked, voice low, "for you to be that sure?"
Her lips parted just a bit.
Instead of answering, she stood up — slow, deliberate — heels clicking softly against the floor as she moved closer.
Then she slid onto the stool right next to him, closing the distance like she'd been invited.
She hadn't.
That was the point.
"You've got to teach me that," she said, tapping a nail lightly on the bar, eyes roaming over the cigarette, then over him.
Lucien raised a brow.
"Teach you what?" he asked, snide and effortless, as if he genuinely didn't know what she was talking about.
She smiled — not shy, not bold, but pulled in despite herself.
"That little flame thing," she murmured, voice dropping lower, "or whatever else you're hiding."
The voice hummed inside Lucien's head.
"…and there it is."
Lucien didn't reply.
Just took another drag, letting the silence hang heavy — the kind that pulls people closer without asking.
She leaned her elbow on the bar.
"Come on," she said, eyes fixed on him, "you can't expect me to just watch that and not be curious."
Lucien let the smoke slip from his lips, unbothered, unreadable.
"That's not something you can learn," he said.
She didn't move away.
If anything, she angled closer.
"Then show me."
She realized it herself — how close she'd gotten, how bratty the leaning-in looked.
So she eased back onto her stool, composure sliding into place like a mask.
"Allow me to introduce myself," she said, crossing one leg over the other.
"I'm Annie Richards. And you are…?"
Lucien took a slow drag, exhaled softly.
"Rein," he said.
"Lucien Rein."
Her eyebrows lifted just a bit — not in recognition, but in interest.
She raised her hand and signaled the bartender with a flick of her wrist.
"Two shots of neat vodka," she said.
The bartender nodded and began pouring.
Lucien smirked, the corner of his lip barely shifting.
"Ohh," he murmured, "a woman who can handle her liquor."
Annie didn't blink.
"I can handle more than that," she said, eyes flicking to his cigarette, then to him.
The voice inside Lucien clicked its tongue.
"She's not subtle. I like her."
Lucien lifted his shot as the bartender slid it over.
"Cheers," Annie said.
He tapped his glass lightly against hers.
"Cheers."
They drank — both without flinching.
Her eyes widened just a fraction.
"…impressive."
Lucien set his glass down.
"Likewise."
She leaned forward again, slower this time, more controlled.
"So tell me, Lucien…" she said, swirling the second shot between her fingers,
"…what brings you to a bar like this, alone, on a Sunday?"
He raised a brow.
"Same thing that brought you here."
"And what's that?"
"Trouble," Lucien said.
Her smile sharpened.
"…interesting."
Lucien tapped his cigarette box on the counter once, casually.
He flipped it open and tilted it toward her.
"Want one?"
Annie blinked, then smirked and plucked a cigarette from the pack between two fingers.
Lucien took one for himself, closed the box, and set it aside.
For a second, neither of them lit up.
Just silence and eye contact.
Then he leaned in — slow, deliberate.
She mirrored him, her perfume brushing against the faint smoke around him.
Their cigarettes hovered inches apart.
Lucien lifted two fingers between them, barely touching either stick.
Snap.
A tiny, precise flame sparked to life in the narrow space between their cigarettes — no lighter, no friction, just a clean flick of fire that kissed both tips at once.
Annie inhaled, the ember glowing.
Her eyes widened a fraction — surprise breaking through her polished exterior — but she held her posture, chin lifting slightly, refusing to look impressed.
"…you really don't do anything normally, do you?" she said, exhaling a thin stream of smoke.
Lucien leaned back in his seat, cigarette between his fingers, eyes half-lidded.
"Normal's boring."
Annie smirked, tapping ash neatly into the tray.
"Good," she said. "I hate boring."
"So what do you do, Lucien Rein?" Annie asked, leaning on her elbow, eyes studying him like he was a puzzle she wanted to take apart.
Lucien took a slow drag, exhaled sideways.
"Well… I'm not your conventional nine-to-five," he said.
"That much is obvious," she replied immediately.
Her gaze flicked down his shirt, the way he sat, the stillness in his shoulders.
"Your dress. Your posture. Your calm. You walk like someone used to being… much higher in the pecking order."
The voice let out a low, amused hum.
"Mmm. Smart one."
Lucien smirked.
"Well, let's just say… I'm a serial killer," Lucien said.
Annie laughed immediately, light and effortless.
"Right. And I'm the Queen of England."
Lucien didn't smile.
Instead, he lowered his head slightly, one hand gesturing with theatrical elegance — a neat, mocking little bow.
"Your Majesty."
Annie blinked.
Then she laughed again — louder this time — tipping her head back in amusement.
"Oh my god. You're ridiculous."
Lucien straightened, taking a slow drag from his cigarette, exhaling past her shoulder with lazy control.
"Ridiculous?" he echoed.
"Yes," she said, eyes narrowing playfully. "But in a charming way. Dangerous-charming. That annoying kind of charming."
The voice snorted softly.
"She's hooked."
Lucien tapped ash from his cigarette, gaze steady on her.
"Tell me more," he said.
Annie leaned closer, chin propped on her hand.
"Well, for starters… you don't laugh at your own jokes. Which tells me they're not jokes."
"Maybe they aren't," Lucien replied.
She raised an eyebrow.
"Then maybe I should be scared."
Lucien took another drag, smoke drifting between them.
"Are you?"
Annie held his stare for a full beat.
"…No."
He smirked.
"Good."
She bit her lip lightly — not nervous, just intrigued.
Then:
"So, Lucien Rein… what do you actually do?"
He flicked ash into the tray, eyes never leaving hers.
"I told you," he said softly. "I kill things."
Annie's smile returned — slow, entertained, and way too confident.
"And I told you," she murmured, leaning in, "I'm the Queen of England."
Lucien glanced at her drink.
"Then I hope Her Majesty can handle her liquor."
She lifted her shot glass, touching it to his.
"Watch me."
"My father owns Rein Industries," Lucien said, casually.
Annie's eyebrows shot up.
"Oh? So… family money, huh?" she teased, swirling her vodka.
Lucien tilted his head, unimpressed but amused.
"Is that your assumption," he asked, "or your coping mechanism?"
She laughed, pushing his shoulder lightly with the back of her hand.
"Oh, don't start. Guys with that line always have one of two problems."
"Enlighten me."
"Either they rely on daddy's wallet…" she held up a finger,
"…or they're trying way too hard to sound important."
Lucien let a thin smile form.
"And which one do I sound like to you?"
Annie studied him — really looked.
The posture.
The calloused hands.
The eyes that never tracked movement like normal people.
Finally, she exhaled.
"…Neither."
Lucien raised an eyebrow.
"Oh?"
"You don't talk like someone who relies on anything," she said softly.
"And you definitely don't talk like someone trying to impress me."
The voice hummed, satisfied.
"She's more perceptive than she looks."
Lucien crushed what was left of his cigarette in the tray.
"Well then," he murmured, leaning slightly closer,
"maybe you're not as bratty as you act."
Annie pretended to be offended.
"Bratty? Me?"
Lucien only shrugged, reaching for his drink.
"If the heel fits."
Her jaw dropped in playful disbelief.
"You're insufferable."
"Most people are," Lucien replied. "I just say it out loud."
Annie laughed again — softer this time.
"Okay. Fine. Maybe I deserved that."
"Maybe?"
She rolled her eyes, then held up her glass.
"To… not relying on daddy's money."
Lucien tapped his glass against hers.
"To not needing to."
She smiled at him over the rim.
And this time, it wasn't teasing.
It was interest.
Annie leaned back, twirling her glass between her fingers.
"So…" she said, eyes narrowing playfully, "you've got a special someone?"
Lucien paused mid-sip.
"What do you mean?" he asked flatly.
"Oh, come on," she groaned, making a looping gesture with her index fingers, then a little heart with her hands.
"You know. Don't make me spell it out."
Lucien blinked once, unimpressed.
"Ahhh," he exhaled slowly. "That."
She tilted her head.
"Well?"
"For better or worse… no," Lucien said, shrugging lightly.
"No one."
Annie raised an eyebrow, studying him with a grin.
"No one? Someone like you? Hard to believe."
Lucien rested his elbow on the bar.
"You'd be surprised."
The voice murmured beside him, amused:
"She's fishing."
Lucien ignored it.
Annie leaned closer, chin propped on her hand, lips curving.
"Then maybe," she said softly, "you just haven't met the right trouble yet."
Lucien smirked.
"Or maybe," he countered, "I'm avoiding it."
She laughed.
"Oh, avoiding me now?"
"Did I say that?" Lucien asked.
Her smile widened.
"No," she whispered, tapping her glass lightly against his, "but I think you will."
Hours slipped by.
Empty glasses gathered in crooked stacks across the counter — whisky, vodka, something red Annie ordered twice without remembering the name. The neon lights above them had shifted color three, maybe four times.
Annie was drunk.
Not sloppy.
Not loud.
Just looser — shoulders relaxed, laughter unfiltered, her hand occasionally brushing Lucien's arm and staying there longer than necessary.
Lucien, on the other hand…
He hadn't been this drunk in years.
He could feel it — a warm fog settling in his chest, a slight delay between thought and movement, his posture slipping no matter how many times he straightened it. His jaw was tense, not from anger but from trying to keep himself composed.
The voice sighed theatrically.
"Well done, genius. You got drunk with a stranger. Truly the peak of strategic brilliance."
Lucien ignored it — or tried to — but even that felt slow.
Annie leaned her head on his shoulder for a moment, then shifted to cling lightly to his arm instead.
"You know…" she murmured, her words soft but not slurred,
"…you're surprisingly easy to talk to."
Lucien exhaled, steadying himself with a hand on the counter.
"That so?"
"Mhm." She poked his chest, smiling lazily.
"You pretend to be all distant. Cold. Mysterious. But you're not."
Lucien raised an eyebrow.
"I'm not?"
"No," Annie whispered, leaning closer.
"You're just… holding your breath."
That sentence hit him harder than the alcohol.
Lucien looked away, eyes narrowing slightly — not in anger, but in awareness.
Annie giggled, bumping her shoulder into his.
"See? That look. That one right there."
Lucien rubbed his temple.
"This," he muttered, "is why I shouldn't drink."
"Too late," Annie said cheerfully, sliding her fingers down his forearm.
Lucien inhaled deeply, steadying himself.
He needed a moment.
Or a door.
Or an exit.
Or… something.
The voice chuckled.
"Careful. She's trouble."
Lucien closed his eyes for a second.
"…yeah," he breathed, "I can tell."
Annie tugged him toward the dance floor, her grip warm and insistent.
"I don't dance," Lucien said automatically.
"You will," she smiled, pulling him into the soft neon-lit haze.
He was about to argue again — but then the music shifted.
Low bass, slow rhythm, the kind that didn't demand skill, just presence.
Annie stepped close, her hands lightly brushing his shoulders.
Lucien hesitated… then let his palms rest at her waist.
She swayed.
And he followed.
At first stiff, guarded.
Then, gradually… looser.
Her perfume mixed with cigarette smoke.
Her hair brushed his jaw when she leaned forward.
Her fingers traced the back of his neck in a way that wasn't intentional but landed perfectly.
The voice hummed.
"Well, well… look at you. Feels human, doesn't it?"
Lucien didn't answer — but he didn't pull away either.
He let the rhythm guide him.
Let Annie lead.
Let himself breathe in a way he hadn't in a long time.
And for a moment — just a moment —
he enjoyed it.
Not the drunkness.
Not the attention.
But the simplicity.
The warmth.
The music.
Another heartbeat close to his.
Annie spun lightly under his arm, laughing, hair flaring in the neon.
He actually smiled — small, barely there, but real.
But after a minute, reality crept back in.
Lucien's expression shifted.
He stepped back gently.
"That's enough," he said quietly.
Not cold.
Not harsh.
Just… pulling himself out of something he wasn't used to wanting.
Annie kept dancing — swaying with the music, eyes half-lidded — not upset, not confused, just drunk and alive.
Lucien returned to the bar, slid into his seat, and exhaled as he ran a thumb along the rim of his empty glass.
The voice drifted in.
"You liked it."
Lucien ignored it —
but the faint flush across his cheekbones said enough.
A guy in a leather jacket stepped up to Annie on the dance floor.
"Dance with me?" he asked, leaning in.
Annie shook her head with a light smile. "No thanks."
He lingered a moment too long. She simply turned away, drifting toward a cluster of girls.
The girls pulled her in, laughing, and soon she was dancing with them instead — loose, carefree, letting the music carry her.
Lucien watched from the bar.
Not possessive.
Not jealous.
Just… aware.
Something in his chest tightened.
Maybe the alcohol.
Maybe the déjà vu of watching people drift in and out of chaos.
Maybe the strange heaviness of the past few days clouding over him.
The voice clicked its tongue.
"Easy, boy. Down with the territorial instincts. She's not property."
"Shut up," Lucien muttered under his breath, tapping ash off his cigarette.
He didn't mean it as anger.
He just didn't want commentary right now.
Another man moved toward Annie — then another.
She declined them all with the same soft wave of her hand, barely interrupting her rhythm.
Lucien narrowed his eyes.
It wasn't protectiveness.
It was instinct —
the same instinct that let him spot danger in crowds, the same trained awareness that told him when people were watching too closely, the same subtle shift in the room whenever someone changed their intent.
But she wasn't in danger. Just approached. Observed. Not touched.
He forced himself to relax.
The girls eventually pulled Annie back into their circle, but even that didn't last long.
A minute later, she stepped away, breath slightly unsteady, hair messy in a good way.
She scanned the bar.
Her eyes found him immediately.
She walked over — weaving a little, but deliberately — and slid into the seat beside him like that was always where she was meant to return.
She rested her elbow on the counter, tilting her head at him.
"You left the dance floor too early," she said, playful but softer now.
Lucien flicked ash. "Had enough."
Annie smirked. "Liar."
She leaned in closer, the neon light catching the shimmer in her eyes.
And for the first time that night, Lucien didn't look away.
Annie leaned into Lucien, head dropping lightly against his shoulder.
"Y'know…" she mumbled, her words warm against his sleeve, "you look scary, but you're kinda nice."
Lucien stared forward.
"…that's debatable."
She giggled — an unsteady, alcohol-laced sound — and poked his cheek with one finger.
"See? That. That right there. You pretend to be all cold but you're actually soft."
The voice hummed in amusement.
"Oh, she's drunk-drunk."
Lucien took a sip of his drink. "So are you."
"Shhh," she said, pressing a finger to his lips. "Don't expose me."
Before he could reply, someone approached again — the same leather jacket guy from earlier.
He walked up with two friends this time, fake confidence dripping off him.
"Hey," he said to Annie, ignoring Lucien entirely, "come back to the floor. My friends want to dance too."
Annie didn't even lift her head off Lucien's shoulder.
"No."
The guy scoffed. "C'mon, don't be boring."
Lucien didn't move, didn't shift, didn't even turn his head — just flicked his eyes toward the man.
A fraction of a second.
The guy's voice faltered.
"…whatever," he muttered, stepping back with an annoyed glare before disappearing into the crowd.
Annie snorted. "He thinks no means maybe."
Lucien exhaled smoke. "He'll live."
"Maybe," she said, smirking.
After another half hour of drinks and laughter — Annie's head getting heavier on his shoulder, Lucien's restraint getting thinner — she finally said:
"I need air."
Lucien nodded and helped her up.
They stepped outside into the cold night, neon lights bleeding onto wet pavement. Annie wrapped her arms around herself.
"Mmmm… cold."
Lucien took off his jacket and draped it over her shoulders.
She blinked, surprised.
"You're… nice."
He didn't respond.
They walked around the corner toward a quieter alley beside the bar — away from the noise, away from the crowd.
Annie leaned against the wall, breathing slow.
"I feel dizzy," she laughed softly.
Lucien leaned beside her, lighting another cigarette.
For a moment — a rare, quiet moment — time felt still.
Then they heard footsteps.
Multiple.
Lucien's posture shifted immediately — subtle, controlled, instinctual.
Annie blinked. "What—?"
Six men stepped into the alley, fanning out.
The same leather jacket guy was in the center, jaw clenched, expression fueled by bruised ego and alcohol.
He lifted his chin.
"You should've taken the offer," he said to Annie.
Lucien dropped ash onto the ground.
The voice murmured, calm as a storm waiting to break:
"It's always the insecure ones."
The leader pushed his hands into his pockets.
"You two look real cozy. Mind if we have a little talk?"
Five more stepped forward, boxing them in.
Annie froze.
Lucien didn't.
His cigarette burned quietly between his fingers.
And for the first time tonight—
he smiled.
Annie's eyes widened as the men stepped closer.
Without thinking, she grabbed Lucien's wrist.
"Come on—! This way!"
She tugged hard, pulling him past the first two guys before they could react. Her heels slipped against the pavement, breath shaking, but she forced herself forward.
Behind them, the leader barked:
"Hey! Get back here!"
Annie didn't look back.
She dragged Lucien deeper into the alley, her voice tight and panicked:
"Lucien, run— they're after me!
Don't get involved!"
Her hand trembled as she clutched him, her steps uneven, frantic.
Lucien didn't resist. He let her pull him.
But his eyes flicked once to the walls, the ground, the layout. He already knew.
A blind alley. One way in. No way out.
The voice murmured inside him, amused:
"…she picked the dead end."
Annie didn't hear it. She only heard her own heartbeat.
She reached the end of the narrow passage and slammed her back against the wall, chest rising and falling fast.
"Please—" she whispered, "you shouldn't be dragged into this. They… they won't care who you are."
Lucien exhaled a slow stream of smoke.
"They'll care," the voice said inside him, "in about thirty seconds."
The six men turned the corner, silhouettes filling the only exit.
The leader stepped forward, cracking his knuckles, emboldened now that there was nowhere left to run.
"Well," he said, smirking at Annie, "that was cute."
Annie pressed herself tighter against the wall.
Lucien stood in front of her.
Silent. Calm. Hands in his pockets.
The leader pointed at him.
"You. Move."
Lucien didn't move.
Didn't even tilt his head.
The man blinked in irritation.
"I said—"
Lucien lifted his eyes.
Just his eyes.
Cold. Flat. Unbothered.
The leader's words died in his throat.
Annie whispered behind him, barely audible:
"Lucien… please… don't… I didn't want—"
Lucien finally spoke.
Quietly. Almost bored.
"You should've stayed in the bar."
The alley went silent.
Very silent.
Then the first guy stepped forward—
and the entire night shifted.
Lucien blinked slowly.
The world tilted left… then right.
He grabbed the wall for a second, steadying himself.
Damn… I'm drunk.
His head throbbed. His vision swayed. His thoughts came in broken fragments.
Kill them?
Walk away?
Leave Annie?
Leave the problem?
I could just… turn around. Pretend none of this is my—
The voice slid into the cracks of his mind, smooth and sharp.
"You're wobbling, kid.
Either kill them or ditch her. Make a choice."
Lucien exhaled, breath thick with whiskey.
His hand twitched.
He hated feeling indecisive.
He hated feeling slow.
Maybe I should just leave her. This is none of my—
The man in the leather jacket—clearly the one in charge—stepped forward, spit hitting the ground near Lucien's shoe.
"If you walk now," he said, grinning,
"you might get sloppy seconds."
Something in Lucien stilled.
Not anger.
Not shock.
Just stillness.
Lucien stepped forward.
Past Annie.
Past the leather jacket guy.
Past all of them.
He walked straight to the end of the alley and stood there, shoulders relaxed, head slightly lowered.
The voice hummed behind his ear.
"…you really gonna let them go after that?"
Lucien rolled his neck, cracking it once.
"No," he muttered.
He turned his head just enough for his eyes to catch the alley light—dark, unfocused, but cold.
"I'm going to kill them," he said quietly,
"because they scared what's mine."
Behind him, the men laughed.
They didn't understand.
They didn't know—
Lucien wasn't choosing between violence and reason.
He was choosing how violent to be.
The voice chuckled.
"There he is."
Lucien stepped forward once.
And the alley finally realized who was trapped with who.
Lucien tilted his head just enough to glance back.
Annie stood there at the alley's mouth — breathing fast, clutching her purse, eyes wide with fear.
Terrified… and somehow still cute in it.
Lucien felt something tighten in his chest.
Yeah… that face alone is worth it.
He turned back to the group.
"Since I'm in a good mood today…" he said slowly,
"I'll give you a choice."
He pointed a lazy finger over his shoulder.
"Apologize to my lady over there."
For one second, the men blinked.
Then the leader — the one in the black jacket — sneered.
"Lady?" he spat.
"That cheap little bar–toy? Bro, she's not worth shit. We're doing you a favor."
Lucien stopped breathing for a moment.
The voice whispered behind his ear:
"…they shouldn't have said that."
Lucien took one slow step forward.
The kind of step that didn't belong to a drunk man.
"You get one more chance," he said quietly,
"before I stop being polite."
The leader smirked, stepping closer.
"And what? You gonna hit me, hero?"
Lucien's eyes lifted — cold, focused, sober in a way that shouldn't be possible.
"No," he said softly.
"I'm going to bury you."