The men stand in silence as Lucien walks past them. They exchange an worry look.
"You'll die if you go alone!" one calls.
Lucien doesn't even glance back.
"Then it's a fair trade." Lucien said coldly, his expression is unreadable.
The door slams behind him. Leaving the men wispering among themselves.
"""
The dead greenhouse. Rain-soaked. Wind hissing through shattered panes.
Caelan crouches in the dark, bruises stiff, bandages filthy, eyes wild but alert.
He's waiting. And he knows Lucien is coming.
Just as Caelen calculate, after a few minutes, Heavy footsteps crunch broken glass.
Caelan's grip tightens around a jagged metal rod—half a garden tool, half a weapon now.
Lucien steps through the rotted threshold, coat dripping with rain, cigarette unlit between his fingers.
They lock eyes.
A moment of silence. Nether of them spoke.
Caelan scoffs. Breaking the silence.
"Took you long enough. Thought maybe you'd send another batch of punching bags." Lucien said. His voice is mock.
Lucien doesn't smile.
He takes one step closer.
Caelan lifts the metal.
"You come closer, I'll make your face match your soul—ugly and cracked."
"You're still bleeding," Lucien says flatly.
"And you're still talking."
Pause. Lucien's jaw clenches. He tosses the cigarette away, like it personally offended him.
"You think you're strong because you're still breathing?"
"I think I'm strong because you're still talking. Go on, mafia prince—say you're sorry. Beg me to come back. Or better—beat me again, choke me, lock me up. Do it. Ruin me, Lucien. You've done it before." Caelen said, his voice is mock.
Lucien stops dead in his tracks.
Something in his chest tightens. Twists. Burns.
He doesn't move for a long time.
And then—he reaches forward.
But not to hit.
To release.
He drops the knife he'd hidden in his coat. Slowly.
His voice is low. Almost shaky.
"I'm not going to hurt you again."
Caelan's laugh is bitter poison.
"You're slipping, Lucien. Getting soft on me?" "Can't even finish your own mess?"
Lucien stares at him.
The silence stretches.
It's almost painful.
Until—
"Run."
Caelan blinks. "…What?"
Lucien grabs his arm—roughly, yanking him so close Caelan can feel the heat of his breath.
"Run. You've got ten minutes. If you make it to the main road, you're free."
His voice drops to a dangerous whisper.
"But if you don't…"
A smirk curls on Lucien's lips—not cruel. Just cracked. A thread of humor in madness.
"You're mine. Forever. I'll chain you to the piano room. Feed you only bitter espresso and insult your aim every morning."
Caelan snorts despite himself.
"You already do that."
Lucien shrugs.
"Then I'll add violin lessons."
"I'll break your violin over your smug head."
"Romantic."
Caelan yanks his arm back. "You're insane."
Lucien steps back, lifts his wrist, looks at the watch.
"Nine minutes and forty-two seconds."
Caelan hesitates.
"This is a trick."
"Isn't everything?" Lucien remarked.
Caelan grits his teeth, body still aching.
But his pride won't let him not run.
So he bolts—barefoot, soaked, limping—but alive.
Lucien watches him vanish into the trees, the storm swallowing him whole.
„„„
Back in the greenhouse ruins, Lucien lights his damn cigarette.
Takes a drag.
Exhales slowly.
"Five minutes," he mutters to himself.
"Run, Caelan. Or don't."
A strange smile tugs at his lips—part ache, part prayer.
"Either way, you're mine." Lucien chuckled that doesn't reach his eyes. "And I don't plans on leaving what's mine."