The silence that followed the slamming of the suite door was not empty. It was a heavy, suffocating thing that seemed to press against the sterile white walls.
Under the thin hospital blankets, Lucian Thorne did not move. He did not let out a sigh of relief, nor did he curse the brother who had just wrestled him away from the ledge of the third-storey window.
He simply closed his eyes.
It was a sleep that had nothing to do with physical exhaustion and everything to do with a soul that had been frayed by a century of lives.
His consciousness slipped away from the bright lights of the hospital room, retreating into the only sanctuary he had ever truly known, the deep, featureless dark of his own mind.
Sleeping is the only hobby he liked in every transmigrations and reincarnations. Even when his body withers away all he wanted was to sleep.
Outside the door, the click of polished shoes on the linoleum announced the arrival of the butler.
Hans entered the suite with the practiced stealth of a man who had spent a lifetime avoiding projectiles. He was a man of advanced years, his back straight as a rod and his expression a mask of professional neutrality that hid a profound, bone-deep weariness.
For years, his primary duty had been to manage the aftermath of the Young Master's debauchery. He had cleaned up spilled wine, apologized to offended nobles, and stood as a silent witness to the various ways the eldest Thorne son had dragged the family name through the dirt.
As he stepped into the room, Hans expected the usual. He expected to find the furniture overturned, the medical monitors shattered, and Lucian screaming for more alcohol or demanding to be released.
Instead, he found a room that was eerily still.
He saw the drop of blood on the floor where the IV had been ripped out. He saw the window, which was still slightly ajar, letting in a thin, cold draft of the night air. And then, he saw the figure in the bed.
Hans walked toward the bedside, his footsteps making no sound. He reached out to adjust the IV stand, but his hand paused mid-air. He looked down at Lucian.
The Young Master was asleep, but it was not the fitful, snoring sleep of a drunkard. He was motionless, his breathing so shallow it was almost undetectable.
The usual flush of anger and excess had faded from his face, leaving behind a pale, hollowed-out mask.
'Something is wrong,' Hans thought, his eyes narrowing slightly behind his spectacles. 'The air around him has changed.'
He did not wake the boy. Instead, he silently moved to the window, closing it with a soft click of the latch.
He wiped the water that was spilled from a cup in the side of the bed from the floor and stood in the corner of the room, a silent sentinel in the dim light.
He had seen Lucian in many states manic, violent, weeping, and unconscious, but he had never seen him look so much like a corpse that was still breathing.
***
A few floors away, in the hospital's sterile corridor, Micheal Thorne was already on the phone.
His hand gripped the sleek device so tightly his knuckles were white. He paced back and forth, his breath coming in short, jagged bursts.
The phone rang three times before a deep, resonant voice answered. It was a voice that sounded like grinding stones, cold and devoid of any paternal warmth.
"Is the brat causing another riot?" Marquis Thorne asked. He didn't ask how his son was doing. He didn't ask if the accident had left any permanent damage. To him, Lucian was not a child, he was a malfunctioning piece of equipment.
"He tried to jump, Father," Micheal said, his voice trembling with a mixture of rage and leftover adrenaline. "He woke up, ripped out his IV, and tried to throw himself out the window. I had to tackle him back into the room."
There was a long, heavy pause on the other end of the line. Micheal heard the faint sound of a digital tablet being set down on a desk.
"How pathetic," the Marquis finally said. The words were not laced with shock, but with a profound boredom.
"He is still trying to use these cheap stunts to get that girl's attention? Does he think that threatening his own life will make the Duke reconsider the annulment? It only proves that the Duke made the right choice in cutting him loose."
"Father, it didn't feel like a stunt," Micheal countered, his voice dropping to a whisper as a group of nurses walked past him. "I've seen him throw tantrums before. I've seen him pretend to be hurt to get what he wants. But this time... his eyes were empty. He didn't even look at me when I was screaming at him. He looked at the window as if it were the only door left in the world."
The Marquis let out a sharp, dismissive huff.
"You are overthinking the actions of a fool, Micheal. He is dazed from the alcohol and the shock of his own failure. He wants a reaction. He wants us to come running to his bedside so he can play the victim. I will not have the Thorne family manipulated by the whims of a drunkard."
"But—"
"Enough," the Marquis interrupted, his tone final. "Leave him there. Tell the hospital staff to keep him sedated if they must, but do not waste any more of your time watching over him. If he wants to act like a broken toy, let him sit in the dark for a while. Perhaps the isolation will finally teach him the value of the name he carries. Go home, Micheal. You have training in the morning with the Second Corps. Focus on your own path."
"Yes, Father," Micheal muttered, his shoulders slumping.
He ended the call and stared at the dark screen of his phone. He should have felt relieved. He should have been glad to be rid of the burden of his older brother's drama.
But as he turned to walk toward the elevator, the image of Lucian's eyes kept flashing in his mind.
They weren't the eyes of a man who wanted attention. They were the eyes of a man who was already gone.
Back in the suite, the quiet remained unbroken. Hans stayed in his corner, his gaze fixed on the glowing heart-rate monitor. The digital line peaked and dipped with mechanical precision.
Under the covers, within the depths of Lucian's subconscious, something was shifting. The soul of the hybrid monster, the warrior who had lived a hundred lives, was finally beginning to weave itself into the nerves and sinews of this new, fragile vessel. The dormant power, the raw, chaotic energy from his first life was not gone.
It was merely sleeping, curling like a serpent at the base of his spine, waiting for a command that Lucian was not yet ready to give.
Lucian's hand twitched slightly on the white sheets.
'Just let me sleep,' he thought, the words drifting through the void of his mind. 'Do not wake me again. I have done enough. I have seen enough.'
But even as he made the plea, he knew the universe was not finished with him. He was a Thorne now.
He was the trash of a prestigious house in a world where magic and technology had built a new kind of cage.
And as the moon rose higher over the neon skyline, the man who wanted to die was forced to keep on breathing.