The Riverside apartment was quiet when Lucien pushed the door open and gestured for Corin to step inside. The hinges gave their usual groan, a sound that somehow made the place feel emptier than it already was. The scent of old wood, faint mold, and the bread he had bought two nights prior clung to the small one-room space.
Corin lingered at the threshold like an intruder, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, his shoulders hunched. His boots, caked with dried mud, hesitated against the clean threshold as if even the thought of dirtying someone else's space made him nervous.
Lucien didn't say anything. He simply moved past him, setting the key on the rickety table, his movements slow, deliberate. The silence pressed in.
It was Corin who broke it, though his voice was soft, almost apologetic. "You, uh… live here alone?"
Lucien gave a faint nod. "I don't like company."
That should have been the end of it. But Corin stepped inside, shutting the door behind him, and immediately the air seemed heavier, as if the walls leaned closer. His eyes roamed the sparse furnishings: a bed pushed against the far wall, a chipped wardrobe, the table with its uneven legs, and a half-burnt candle stuck into an empty bottle.
The boy looked around like he expected more. Like he wanted to comment on the emptiness but bit back the words.
Lucien sat at the edge of the bed, crossing his arms. "Say it."
Corin startled. "Say what?"
"That you expected something different."
The boy fidgeted with his fingers. "…It's just—smaller than I thought. Not bad. Just… different."
Lucien's lips curved, not into a smile but something sharper. "Different is the word people use when they mean disappointing."
The awkward silence that followed made Corin look smaller than his already short frame. He stood in the middle of the room, lost, before finally pulling out the chair across from the bed and sitting down. The wood creaked under his slight weight.
For a while, they just sat there. Lucien's gaze remained fixed on him, calm, steady, while Corin shifted under it, tapping his fingers against his knees.
Then it came—the first crack.
Corin's hand dipped into his pocket, withdrew, returned, then withdrew again, restless. His mouth opened, then shut. He scratched the back of his neck, glanced at Lucien, and then away, cheeks flushing as if he hated himself for whatever words he wanted to form.
Lucien tilted his head, observing. "You came here for a reason. Stop circling it."
The boy's lips pressed tight. He looked down, voice low, breaking. "…I need money."
The air stilled.
Lucien didn't move. Didn't even blink. His face betrayed nothing, but in the stillness of his gaze, Corin squirmed like a worm under glass.
Finally, Lucien spoke, voice calm and even. "For what."
The shame on Corin's face deepened. He stared at his hands, forcing the words out. "My family… they owe a debt. Ten thousand silver coins."
Lucien arched a brow. "That's not a small sum."
"My father," Corin began, voice trembling, "borrowed it. He wasted it all—drinking, gambling, chasing pleasures. And then, when there was nothing left, when the collectors came knocking… he slit his throat. Left it all behind. Left me to pick up the weight."
The words came like poison, bitter and reluctant.
"The collectors don't care who borrowed it. A debt is blood. And now it's mine." His fists tightened. "Ten thousand silvers. I can't even scrape together ten."
Lucien leaned back against the wall, arms folded. His eyes were steady, unblinking. "Then why not kill the man you owe?"
Corin's head snapped up, shock flaring in his emerald eyes. "…What?"
"If the creditor is dead, there is no debt. Simple." Lucien's tone was flat, logical. Cold.
For a long moment Corin just stared at him, as if he were insane. Then he shook his head, letting out a hollow laugh. "If it were that simple, I'd have done it already."
He leaned closer, voice dropping to a whisper, as though even the walls might betray him. "The boss isn't just a man. He's contracted."
Lucien's gaze sharpened. "Contracted?"
Corin swallowed, his voice hushed. "With a daemon."
Lucien didn't answer. His silence urged him to continue.
Corin looked away, words spilling like confession. "Daemons… they're not demons like the church preaches. Not angels either. They're… older. They don't care about good or evil. They just exist. They whisper from the cracks of the world, from the fire, the sea, the shadows. And sometimes… if a human is desperate enough, or foolish enough, they listen back. That's when the contracts form."
He rubbed his arm, shivering slightly though the room wasn't cold.
"The boss—he's bound to a flame daemon. That's why no one dares touch him. His body burns hotter than fire. Blades melt before they pierce him. Men who've tried to kill him… ended up ash before they could swing twice. You can't just kill someone like that. Not without another daemon's power. Not without a counterbalance."
Lucien remained still, but his mind turned. The concept was strange, but not entirely unfamiliar. The boy's shifting demeanor, the way his nerves vanished in moments of violence, it all clicked.
"Daemons…" Corin continued, almost desperately, "…they lend strength. A fraction of what they are. In exchange, they feed. On fear. On desire. On whatever bargain is struck. Families sometimes hold them for generations. You've heard of noble bloodlines with inhuman strength? With voices that command loyalty? It's daemons. Always daemons. Passed from father to son, from mother to daughter."
His voice grew tighter, like he was revealing something forbidden. "But the church hates them. Calls them heresy. They brand contractors as blasphemers. Burn them, if they're caught. But still, people make the pacts. Because without them… you're nothing."
Lucien's gaze cut into him. "And you?"
Corin froze. "…What?"
"You shift," Lucien said simply. "One moment a timid coward. The next, snapping necks with ease. Isn't that the mark of a contractor?"
The boy paled. His mouth opened, then closed. Fear flickered in his eyes.
"How—"
Lucien tilted his head slightly, almost curious. "So. You are bound."
Corin shook his head violently. "It's not… it's not that simple."
But Lucien only watched him, expression unreadable. His words were soft, but they landed like stones. "If you are not bound, then you are broken. Which is it?"
The boy trembled. His lips moved, but no sound came. At last, he lowered his gaze. "…It's complicated."
Lucien leaned back, folding his arms again. "Everything is."
The silence stretched long. Finally, Lucien reached for the small pouch on the table, the faint jingle of coins breaking the air. He placed it in front of Corin with a soft thud.
Corin stared at it like it was poisoned. His hands clenched. "I… I can't—"
"Take it," Lucien interrupted. His tone was flat, but there was weight behind it, as though refusal wasn't an option.
Corin swallowed, shame and relief warring across his face. Slowly, with trembling fingers, he pulled the pouch toward him. "…Thank you."
He stood quickly, almost too quickly, like if he lingered he might crumble. "I'll… I'll go now."
He turned toward the door.
"Stay."
The word was calm, soft—but it cut through him sharper than steel. Corin froze mid-step. He turned, eyes wide. "W-What?"
Lucien's gaze locked on him, steady, unyielding. "Stay the night."
Corin's breath hitched. He didn't understand. He couldn't understand. But under that gaze, his legs moved against his will. He lowered himself back into the chair, eyes lowered, hands clenched around the pouch of coins.
And Lucien simply leaned back on the bed, closing his eyes, as though the matter were already decided.
The candle flickered. The room was silent. Outside, the Riverside quarter's noise dulled into the night.
Inside, however, the air was thick—with desperation, with unspoken truths, and with the faintest whisper of chains that neither boy had acknowledged yet.