Lucien sat in his apartment, the heavy silence of the room punctuated only by the rhythmic turning of a page. He was dressed in black slacks and a charcoal button-down, his silhouette sharp against the minimalist decor. Usually, the stillness was his sanctuary, but tonight, the air felt thin.
He checked his phone. It was past midnight. Ken should have been home, or at the very least, he should have replied to the message Lucien sent over an hour ago. Lucien dialed the number. It rang—a hollow, mocking sound that echoed through the empty room until it went to voicemail.
Ken never left calls unanswered. Not for Lucien.
A cold prickle of unease, a sensation Lucien hadn't felt in a century, began to crawl up his spine. He sent another text: "Hey... are you alright?"
He waited. Five minutes. Ten. Half an hour. The message sat on the screen, unread.
