Grand Arcanis Hotel – Lucien's Private Suite
Midnight
The room smelled of cedar, rain, and leather-bound stillness.
Lucien sat by the window again, one leg crossed over the other, bare ankle against polished black slacks. He held no drink tonight. Only a pen.
A silver Montblanc. Capless.
He turned it slowly in his fingers. A habit. A ritual.
His tablet glowed on the low table beside him—open to a Thornevale personnel matrix.
Lyra D'Argent.
He tapped her profile photo once.
The screen expanded. Education. Previous firms. Languages. Top-tier scores in psychometric and situational analysis.
Useful.
But irrelevant.
He wasn't interested in this version of her.
He was interested in what lay beneath.
The part even she didn't remember yet.
He sat still for several seconds, gaze fixed on her name.
Then finally murmured to no one:
"She doesn't know."
There was no disappointment in the words.
Only calculation.
He leaned back, pen now poised between his fingers like a conductor's baton.
If he approached directly—messaged her, requested a personal meeting—Edgar would intervene.
Too soon.
Too suspicious.
He needed something less obvious.
Something… plausible.
Lucien tapped a single note into his tablet:
"Request: Strategy review with Lyra D'Argent.
Purpose: Align language for Vale Capital's public statement.
Framed as minor copy refinement.
Personal touch encouraged. Subtext optional."
He paused. Added one more line beneath:
"Use word: déjà vu."
He smiled slightly.
Not dramatic.
Not cruel.
Just precise.
"Let her feel it before she sees it."
The message queued.
Encrypted.
Scheduled.
Tomorrow, 3:30 PM.
He capped the pen. Set it down gently beside the tablet.
And leaned back in his chair.
The city outside didn't know the war had begun.
And neither did she.