The city never truly slept. Its heartbeat was steady, pulsing through the wet streets, through the neon glow bouncing off the asphalt. To most, it was comforting. To Adrien, it was another layer of noise he could not escape.
He walked alone down the alleyway, the soft click of his leather shoes a metronome against the distant hum of traffic. Behind him, his men moved in perfect, silent formation. Shadows, more than people. Their eyes darted, alert, scanning the darkness for threats. Adrien hardly noticed. His mind was elsewhere.
Tonight, like so many nights, sleep had abandoned him. He had tried everything—warm baths, strong alcohol, even the rare sedative his doctor had reluctantly prescribed—but nothing worked. His thoughts were too loud. His memories too sharp. His own pulse seemed to mock him, relentless, insistent.
He stopped at a street corner, glancing up at the neon signs flickering in the drizzle. Rain had begun, light at first, making the asphalt glisten like black glass. His coat collar was pulled high, hiding his jawline, concealing the tension in his shoulders. But no matter how tightly he wrapped himself, the insomnia clawed at him.
A sigh escaped him, uncharacteristically loud in the quiet night. His men paused, waiting for his next command.
"I need… something," he muttered, almost to himself.
And then he heard it.
A note, plucked soft and true, floated through the night air. Another followed, a gentle cascade of sound that somehow cut through the chaos of his mind. Guitar.
Adrien froze. The alley smelled of wet concrete and neon electricity, but beneath it, something softer—a delicate warmth—wove itself into the air. His chest tightened, not with fear, but with recognition. Recognition of something he had been missing for far too long: peace.
He moved without thinking, steps light, silent. His minions whispered behind him, but he didn't hear them. Couldn't. The music drew him like a moth to a flame.
The source was a small bar, tucked between a shuttered bookstore and a corner café. Its neon sign flickered, "Le Rêve," a faint glow spilling onto the slick sidewalk. Inside, through fogged-up windows, a man played.
Tall, lean, calm. Hair falling into his eyes, which flicked up occasionally as if to measure his audience—even though there was none. Fingers danced across the strings with practiced ease, each note deliberate but effortless. He hummed along, eyes closed, immersed in a world that did not include Adrien, the city, or the world outside.
Adrien's chest tightened. His fingers curled slightly around the handle of his coat, and for the first time in hours, he stopped thinking about threats, about rival families, about the endless web of business he had woven. All that mattered was the man, the music, the quiet command of his presence that contrasted so starkly with Adrien's own life.
"Boss…" A voice, cautious, almost hesitant.
Adrien barely acknowledged it. "I hear it," he said, his voice low, controlled, but with an edge he didn't usually let slip. The music had him pinned, unarmed, unprepared.
He moved closer to the bar, past the flickering neon, past the closed storefronts. His shoes echoed faintly against the wet sidewalk. Rain fell harder now, drumming on the roofs above, a soft percussion to the melody spilling out of the bar.
The man inside did not notice him yet, and Adrien found himself holding his breath. The world outside—the mafia, the violence, the power he wielded effortlessly—faded into irrelevance. All he could feel was the pull of the guitar, the gentle rise and fall of the music, and something else. Something he had long buried.
Curiosity, fascination, desire.
He lingered outside, unwilling to enter, unwilling to break the spell. He watched the man's hands move over the strings, saw the slight smile tug at the corner of his lips when he hit a note just right. There was a quiet confidence here, a control in simplicity. It was a control Adrien envied, though he would never admit it aloud.
Minutes passed—or maybe hours. Time had a strange, elastic quality when he was here. The bar was warm, cozy, a golden oasis in the cold city. Adrien imagined the smell of aged wood and polished brass, of coffee and faint undertones of whiskey, of guitar strings worn smooth by years of play.
And then the man looked up.
Blue-gray eyes met Adrien's for the briefest moment. A spark of awareness, nothing more, just recognition. And then, just as quickly, he returned to the music. Adrien's chest tightened further, something unfamiliar stirring inside him. Protection? Possession? Admiration? It was all of it, in ways he didn't yet understand.
The sound of a door opening somewhere nearby—a pedestrian, maybe, or a careless delivery—snapped him back to reality. He realized he was standing too long in the rain, frozen, hypnotized by a stranger. His minions shifted behind him, impatient.
Adrien's jaw tightened. He should leave. This was not the time for distraction. He had responsibilities, threats to neutralize, a kingdom of fear to maintain. But he could not move. Not yet.
Not when this man, this musician, existed in the world.
Something primal, possessive, protective stirred in him. He wanted… what? To hear more music? To meet him? To claim that calm, that peace, for himself? The thought was absurd—but then, so much of his life had been absurd.
He lingered, calculating. The man was alone. There was no one else in the bar. The rain provided cover. His minions were silent, waiting for his word. And then the idea came, sudden, sharp, and entirely reckless:
He could have him.
The thought shocked him—not that he could, but that he wanted to. And more than that, that the idea made his insomnia feel like a distant memory.
He took a step forward. Another. His reflection shimmered in the wet pavement, a sharp, dangerous figure against the soft glow of the bar.
Inside, the man finished a song, the last note lingering in the air, resonating against Adrien's chest like a heartbeat. He hummed softly, eyes closed, unaware of the danger just outside his door. Adrien's lips pressed into a thin line.
He wanted to hear it again. To feel it. To claim it, in some way he didn't fully understand.
A minion cleared his throat. "Boss?"
Adrien finally looked back, long enough to see their expectation, their caution. But he didn't respond. His eyes returned to the musician.
"I'll… be back," he muttered, almost to himself.
And he meant it.
Because Adrien knew something essential, something dangerous: he could leave, walk away, continue the mission, go home to his empty apartment. But he wouldn't.
He couldn't.
The music had found him in the chaos, had reached past the walls he built with fear and power, and had touched something he thought long dead. Calm, longing, desire.
And the man who played it—so unaware, so utterly alive—was the spark.
Adrien's hand flexed in the pocket of his coat. There would be a way. There always was a way.
Tonight, it was only observation. Tomorrow… tomorrow, he would decide.
For the first time in years, Adrien felt awake—not restless, not anxious, but truly alive. And it terrified him more than anything else.
Because he knew, with absolute certainty, that he would not rest until he had the man, until he understood him, until the music was his.