The factory never grew quieter, never gentler. It was a world of iron and flame, of men bent like shadows over machines that devoured their strength hour by hour. The air was always heavy—soot clinging to skin, heat pressing into lungs until every breath felt stolen.
Lucien moved through this inferno like a figure apart. His hands worked quickly, efficiently, without wasted motion, but his silence was a wall between him and the others. Where men shouted to be heard over the roar of pistons, or cursed the bosses, or laughed bitterly at the jokes of misery, Lucien said nothing. His eyes were fixed on his work, his face unreadable, a calm surface no one could pierce.
It made him stand out.
"He's a strange one," they whispered when they thought he wasn't listening.
"Doesn't drink, doesn't gamble, doesn't even talk."
"Walks like he ain't really here. Gives me the chills."
And always, the overseer's eyes lingered on him—hard, suspicious, itching for fault. The man seemed to resent the calm composure Lucien carried, as though silence itself were an insult.
"Culver!" the man roared one afternoon, his voice carrying above the clamor. "You think you're better than the rest, standing there like some mute lord? Get moving!"
Lucien didn't argue. He lowered his head, returned to his task. The weight of the gaze never left his back, but he bore it as he bore everything else—with the same blank acceptance that had long since become his armor.
Yet even as he labored, his thoughts drifted.
Mother.
He could almost see her—slender hands, lined from years of toil, moving quickly over a cutting board. He could hear her soft humming as she cooked, see her leaning against the doorway with that faint smile she thought he never noticed.
Did she still hum? Did she still cook for two? Or had the world erased even that, stripping away her memory of the son who once sat at her table?
Sometimes, in the long hours of repetition, he let himself wonder. And sometimes, he forced himself not to.
---
When the whistle blew at last, it was as though the city exhaled. Men poured into the streets, shoulders sagging, voices rising again in weary laughter or bitter complaint. Lucien walked among them, his steps measured, his wages tucked carefully into his pocket. The lamps had begun to sputter to life, casting the streets in dim pools of light that fought against the gathering fog.
He longed only for the quiet of his small apartment, the meager peace of solitude.
But halfway down a crooked street, rough hands seized him.
A palm clamped over his mouth, dragging him sharply into the shadows of a narrow alley. His back struck the damp wall, the scent of grime and sweat filling his nose. The hold was firm, urgent.
Lucien didn't struggle. His body stilled, his eyes cold, waiting.
Then the grip released.
"Sorry," a voice rushed out, trembling with nerves. "I just… I needed a way to grab your attention."
Lucien turned.
The boy before him was smaller—five foot four to his five foot eight—his frame slight, his clothes ragged and smeared with dirt. His shoulder-length brown hair hung in messy strands, and his emerald eyes, though still bright, carried shadows of exhaustion. His skin was pale beneath the grime, his hands fidgeting at his sides.
Corin Aldewick.
It had been long since Lucien last saw him. Too long.
Corin offered a shaky smile, though his voice quavered. "You're really defenseless, you know? Anyone could've—"
"What do you want?" Lucien's tone cut clean, ignoring the remark entirely.
The words silenced Corin, made him shift uncomfortably. His fingers twisted together as his gaze flickered away and back again. "I… I just wanted to say hi. And ask how you've been." He gave a weak laugh, self-mocking. "Stupid question, I know. You don't have to answer—"
"I'm fine." Lucien's interruption was sharp, final.
Corin blinked, then nodded quickly. "Good. That's… good."
For a moment, the two stood in silence, the fog curling close around them, the sounds of the city muffled by the alley walls.
Then, almost too softly to hear, Corin said, "Can I walk you home?"
Lucien studied him, eyes steady, unreadable. And at last, he turned and stepped back into the street. He didn't answer, but Corin followed, falling into step beside him like a shadow that dared not break away.
---
The walk was quiet at first. Corin's shoulders hunched as though bracing against some unseen weight, his eyes darting nervously, searching for words he couldn't find. Lucien kept his gaze forward, unbothered by the silence.
But the peace didn't last.
Shapes stirred ahead, emerging from the mist. Five men, thickset, their boots loud against the cobbles. Steel glinted in their hands, catching the weak light of the lamps.
"Well, well," one sneered, stepping into their path. "Look at these strays."
Another spat at the ground, baring crooked teeth. "Hand it over. Pockets, quick."
Lucien's jaw tightened. He didn't want blood, didn't want trouble. His hand moved toward his wages, prepared to comply—
And then Corin moved.
It was like watching something snap.
A blur of limbs, the sickening crack of bone, the thud of bodies hitting stone.
In moments, all five men lay broken on the ground, groaning, bleeding, unconscious or worse.
Lucien turned sharply.
Corin stood amidst them, chest heaving, his emerald eyes alight with a madness that didn't belong to the timid boy he remembered. His fists dripped red, his posture tense and feral, like an animal tasting freedom for the first time.
One of the thugs stirred, terror flashing in his eyes as he scrambled upright. He turned to run.
And Corin lunged.
But Lucien's hand shot out, seizing his arm in an iron grip.
Corin froze mid-motion, his body coiled to strike. He whipped his head toward Lucien, those wild green eyes blazing. For a heartbeat, it seemed he might attack him too.
Lucien didn't flinch. His gaze was steady, calm, cutting through the frenzy like steel.
The silence between them was taut, stretched thin as a wire.
And then, slowly, Corin's body loosened. The frenzy drained from his eyes, leaving them clouded, ashamed. His shoulders hunched, his fists unclenched.
"…Sorry," he muttered, voice rough, barely audible. "I didn't mean to—"
Lucien released his grip without a word and turned to walk.
Corin lingered a moment, staring at the fallen men, before he followed. His steps were uneven now, his eyes downcast, the timid boy re-emerging from the wreckage.
---
By the time they reached the apartment building, the streets were silent save for the distant toll of a bell. The lamps flickered in the mist, throwing their shadows long across the cobblestones.
Lucien paused at the door, his key in hand. He glanced at Corin, who stood there awkwardly, blood drying dark on his ragged clothes.
Without hesitation, Lucien unlocked the door and pushed it open.
"Come in," he said simply.
Corin blinked, as though the words startled him. For a moment, he seemed uncertain, teetering between refusal and relief. Then he nodded, the faintest flicker of warmth crossing his tired face.
And together, they stepped into the dim, narrow shelter Lucien now called home.