---
The morning light was thin and colorless.
Arin stood by the front door, fully dressed in black. Not tailored—never here. But sharp enough to look clean. Formal. Presentable.
His fingers trembled just slightly as he turned the lock.
Lucien, standing shirtless in the corner of the room, frowned. "You're sure you don't want me to stay out here?"
"I'm sure," Arin said, voice flat. "Don't come out. No matter what."
Lucien crossed his arms. "Why?"
Arin finally looked up, and for the first time in days, his expression wasn't guarded—it was scared. Not openly. But deep in the pupils, like an animal anticipating pain.
"Because if he sees you," Arin said, "you'll never leave this city again."
That made Lucien freeze.
"Back room," Arin muttered, grabbing a half-folded blanket and tossing it toward him. "You know the drill. Don't make a sound."
Lucien hesitated. Then, slowly, he moved into the storage room and closed the door. It didn't lock.
It didn't need to.
Lucien knew he wasn't supposed to hear what was coming.
But he would anyway.
---
Ten minutes later, a knock came.
One knock. Then silence. No repeated rapping. No "hello."
That was worse than any banging.
Arin opened the door.
A man stepped inside.
Tall. Suited. Eyes like polished steel. He didn't smile. He didn't remove his coat. He brought the weight of winter with him.
And Arin went still, spine straightening like instinct.
"Arin," the man said simply.
"Father," Arin replied.
Lucien, hidden in the other room, held his breath.
The man looked around the shabby apartment with a slight twitch of disdain. "This is where you've been rotting?"
"I prefer quiet places," Arin said coolly.
"Quiet isn't survival," his father snapped. "It's hiding."
Arin didn't respond. He walked calmly into the kitchen and poured tea. There was no offer made. His father wouldn't have accepted anyway.
The man followed, looking around like a general inspecting a battlefield.
"You think I don't know what this is about?" the man said. "How long are you going to punish yourself for her death?"
At that, Arin's hand trembled. Just slightly.
His father smirked.
"Three years, Arin. She's been dead for three years. Get over it. We all lose things. Especially in our line of work."
Arin's jaw tensed. He set the teacup down carefully, clenching it like a weapon he couldn't throw.
"She wasn't a 'thing,'" he muttered.
His father raised a brow. "No? Then why did you let her die?"
Silence.
Lucien, hidden behind the cracked door, felt the words like a slap. He heard nothing from Arin for a long moment.
When Arin finally spoke, his voice was quieter than ever. "I didn't let her die."
"No," his father said darkly. "But you didn't stop it either."
The air in the room turned to glass. Sharp. Breakable.
"You think hiding in this rat hole, playing house with ghosts, will bring her back?" His father took a step forward. "You are the heir to an empire. Not some broken poet mourning his ruined princess."
"She wasn't—"
"Enough," his father snapped.
Arin fell silent instantly.
His father's voice dropped, icy and lethal. "We have enemies. Our allies grow restless. The other families think you've gone weak. You've been running long enough. You will return, Arin."
Arin stared down at the cup.
"I didn't ask for this."
"You were born for it," his father said. "You don't get to choose your blood. We are what we are."
Arin looked up then. Just slightly. His eyes burned with something old, but quiet.
"I know."
His father straightened his coat. "Good. Then act like it."
---
Just as he turned to leave, something caught his eye.
His gaze paused.
On the two used bowls in the sink.
The second cup.
The faint smell of cigarette smoke that Arin never used.
A beat passed.
He turned back to Arin slowly.
"Who else is living here?"
Arin didn't blink. "No one."
"Really?" His father stepped closer to the table. Tapped his finger once against a fork. "You always set out two plates?"
"I eat twice," Arin said evenly. "Stress habit."
His father raised a brow. "That so?"
Arin didn't respond.
Lucien, hidden in the shadows, moved his hand slowly toward the small knife he kept by the baseboard. Just in case.
His pulse thundered in his ears.
His father lingered.
Then finally stepped back toward the door.
"Don't make me come back here again," he said. "Next time I bring the guards. And you won't like who else shows up."
Arin nodded once.
His father looked him up and down one last time.
Then left.
The door shut with a click.
Only then did Arin exhale.
Only then did Lucien step out.
They stared at each other.
Neither spoke.
But in that silence, they both understood one thing—
The past was no longer behind them.
It was coming.
---
Arin's father suspects someone else is living in the apartment. And he's not the kind of man who lets things go.
Arin had a panic attack..
---