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Chapter 14 – Ripples from a Sip
The morning sunlight was already creeping into Lucas's dorm room when his phone buzzed insistently on the nightstand. He cracked one eye open, groaned, and groped for the device, fully prepared to tell whoever it was that nine in the morning was far too early for acting students who'd been "studying" lines until 2 a.m. (studying, in this case, meaning scrolling memes and convincing himself it was part of "character research").
Instead, the voice that answered him was not a fellow student, but Sebastian's. Crisp. Polite. Terrifyingly awake.
> "Good morning, sir. I've taken the liberty of arranging a driver for your nine-thirty class. Also, your remarks on water conservation yesterday have… caused a certain degree of social and economic movement."
Lucas sat up slowly.
"…I told the theater kids to stop wasting water because the props department kept leaving the taps on."
> "Yes. And as a result, three private companies in the city's central district have announced new water distribution protocols. The municipal supply board has called an emergency meeting. And… several factions have interpreted your words as a sign that you intend to control the city's clean water reserves."
Lucas blinked. "…Because I told the freshmen not to flood the sink?"
> "Influence comes in many forms, sir," Sebastian replied with that faint tone of reverence Lucas had decided was just how he talked. "Your presence alone is catalytic. The ripples you create are inevitable."
Lucas chuckled. "Yeah, I guess my stage presence is improving."
Sebastian didn't correct him.
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By the time Lucas was in the backseat of Sebastian's sleek black car, the city already seemed… weird. The driver was extra polite. Street vendors watched him pass as if he were about to either bless or bankrupt them.
Halfway to campus, they hit a red light near a row of convenience stores. Sebastian glanced out the window and remarked casually:
> "That man in the blue jacket at the corner — he's been following us since the dorm."
Lucas peered through the tinted glass and spotted a thin man holding a grocery bag. "He's probably just going to the same block we are."
> "Possibly," Sebastian said, though the way he shifted his weight suggested he was cataloguing twenty ways to disable the guy before they hit the next green light.
What Lucas didn't know: the man in blue was an underworld information broker who had been sent to confirm "Mr. Nobody's" movements. Unfortunately, he'd already convinced himself that making direct eye contact might trigger an instant, silent death. So he just trailed the car, sweating buckets, until Sebastian's casual glance sent him darting into an alley to "live another day."
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When they arrived at campus, Lucas hopped out with a cheerful "Thanks, Sebastian!" and jogged toward the theater building.
Sebastian remained by the car, watching students pass with the air of a general inspecting enemy troops. Several gave him wide berths — Sebastian's very existence projected the sort of aura that made people remember urgent errands in the opposite direction.
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In the middle of Lucas's movement class, another ripple began forming elsewhere in the city.
The auction house downtown — a discreet, invitation-only establishment — had announced the upcoming sale of a very peculiar item: a weathered leather chair. Not just any chair. Alexander Cain's personal office chair from his final year before vanishing.
The police had already filed internal warnings.
The underworld's private channels lit up with chatter.
And all of it was because, during a brief conversation last night, Lucas had offhandedly remarked to Sebastian:
> "Man, my dorm chair's falling apart. I should get a nice one someday."
That single line, filtered through Sebastian's brain, had transformed into: Alexander intends to reclaim his throne — literally.
By mid-afternoon, at least three factions were plotting how to "respectfully lose" the auction to Mr. Nobody. Two others decided it was safer to cancel their bids entirely and send the chair as a tribute.
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Lucas's day remained blissfully normal — or so he thought.
He spent lunch with a classmate named Nora, who was helping him memorize a particularly dramatic monologue. She tilted her head and asked, "Lucas… why is that guy at the next table taking notes every time you speak?"
Lucas looked over. A middle-aged man in a tan suit was indeed jotting something down between bites of salad.
"Probably a playwright," Lucas whispered. "Maybe he's inspired by our conversation."
What Lucas didn't realize: the "playwright" was actually a mid-tier enforcer from the Grendale Syndicate, desperately trying to interpret phrases like "I could kill this role" and "You have to own the stage" as coded operational orders.
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That evening, Sebastian picked him up again.
> "How was your day, sir?"
"Pretty good. Learned some new breathing techniques."
> "Excellent. Breathing control is… important." Sebastian nodded as though Lucas had confirmed some grand, deadly philosophy.
Lucas laughed. "Yeah, in acting. You've got to make every word hit the audience."
Sebastian's eyes glinted. "Indeed, sir. And with you, every word already does."
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By nightfall, reports were already piling on various desks. The police had two conflicting dossiers: one describing Lucas Cain as a dangerous returning mastermind, the other listing him as an "up-and-coming stage actor with possible extracurricular influence."
In the underworld, the name Mr. Nobody pulsed like a heartbeat through backrooms and smoke-filled bars.
And Lucas, comfortably seated at his dorm desk, was just Googling "cheap ergonomic chairs" and wondering why every ad now seemed to feature thrones.
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