Chapter 4 Marked

Three days passed before Lucien set foot in the bar again.

Business had kept him buried in meetings, negotiations, and the kind of work that never ended without someone bleeding. By the time he returned, night had already swallowed the city, and the streets glistened under the weight of fresh rain.Yet the image of the boy in the doorway, rain plastering his hair to pale skin, lingered in his mind like a splinter he couldn’t dig out.

He finally walked through the bar’s door. The air was heavy with cigarette smoke and stale liquor, the low hum of conversation blending with the clink of glasses. His gaze swept the room without urgency, though it searched for something in particular.

It didn’t take long.

The boy stood behind the counter, head bowed as he dried a glass. His movements were quiet, efficient—someone who had learned to fade into the background. But trouble had found him anyway.

Three men leaned on the bar. They weren’t regular patrons; they had the sharp, calculating eyes of debt collectors. One of them leaned in, voice low but sharp.

“You know how this works. Can’t pay? Then find another way to settle.”

Another man smirked. “That face could earn. Maybe we start there.”

His hand slid forward across the counter.

The boy stepped back, shaking his head. “No.”The boy froze, fingers tightening around the glass.

The third man chuckled, a cruel sound. “If you won’t pay with money, you’ll pay with your body.”

He reached across, grabbed the boy’s wrist, and pulled.

Lucien’s chair scraped against the floor. The sound cut through the bar’s noise like a blade through silk. The three men turned, their expressions shifting from smug to wary.

Lucien moved before he thought about it. The scrape of his chair against the floor silenced what little chatter remained. His steps were unhurried, the sound of his shoes on the worn boards the only noise in the room.

The tallest man noticed him first. The others followed, and the air shifted—recognition, sharp and immediate.

Lucien stopped just close enough for his presence to press in. His voice was quiet, but it cut through the space like steel.

“Let him go.”

One of them hesitated. “And who says—”

He yanked at the boy’s arm again, harder this time, the glass slipping from his other hand and shattering on the floor.

Lucien moved forward with the slow, deliberate steps of someone who knew he had nothing to fear. Lucien’s eyes met the eyes of the man's, calm and cold, the kind of look that promised there were worse things than death.

He stopped only a breath away, his voice cold enough to still the air between them.

"Touch him again, and you will regret it."

The man froze. The boy’s wide eyes flicked from Lucien to the collector’s grip still on his wrist. For the first time that night, the bar seemed utterly silent.

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