Chapter 3 – The Boy in the Doorway

That night, the boy's face followed Lucien into his dreams.

Not the full picture—just fragments. The way rain clung to dark strands of hair, the stillness in his posture, the empty look in his eyes that shouldn’t have belonged to someone so young. Lucien wasn’t the kind of man who dwelled on strangers, yet somewhere between the blur of business and blood, the memory refused to fade.

When he finally slept, it was shallow, restless. Morning came cold and gray, and Lucien woke with the faint echo of that gaze still in his mind. He shook it off, or tried to. There was work to be done—meetings that weren’t really meetings, transactions sealed in whispers, debts collected in alleyways where no one dared look too closely.

The day passed in the familiar rhythm of his world: calculated steps, measured words, and a quiet trail of fear left behind him. By the time night returned, the city was slick again, the rain reduced to a mist that clung to the air like a held breath.

Lucien found himself outside the bar almost without thinking. Maybe it was coincidence. Maybe it wasn’t. He pushed the door open, letting the warmth and faint hum of music wash over him. The air smelled of old wood, cheap whiskey, and the faintest trace of smoke.

Behind the counter, the boy moved quietly, almost like a shadow. His hands worked with mechanical precision—wiping a glass, setting it down, taking an order without a wasted word. His hood was gone tonight, hair still a little damp from the mist outside.

Lucien took a seat at the far end of the bar, watching without seeming to watch. A pair of men at the other end were laughing too loudly, the kind of laughter that always preceded trouble. Their eyes lingered on the boy a moment too long.

“Come on, sweetheart, smile a little,” one of them slurred. The other chuckled, leaning forward over the counter, close enough to invade the space between them.

The boy didn’t answer. He just kept cleaning the same glass, jaw tight, eyes fixed on the counter.

Lucien didn’t speak either. He simply shifted in his seat, the scrape of his chair against the floor sharp in the low murmur of the room. His gaze slid to the two men—calm, cold, unblinking.

Whatever they saw in his eyes made their laughter die in their throats. One muttered something under his breath, and they both stepped back, retreating to their table with drinks in hand.

The boy didn’t thank him. Didn’t even look at him. But Lucien caught the faint release of tension in his shoulders before he turned away.

Lucien ordered a drink.

A man in an apron stepped out from the back, wiping his hands. “Rin,” he called, “shift change!”

Lucien watched as the boy set down the glass and walked away.

That name settled into Lucien’s mind with unexpected weight—one he knew he wouldn’t forget.

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