The bell above the door gave its usual reluctant jingle.
Lucien looked up from polishing a glass that didn't need polishing and froze for half a second—just enough to betray him to someone paying close attention.
Riley Voss walked in like she'd never left.
Same stride. Same expression. Same blood he still remembered smelling in the alley behind the bar. Her coat was a different one this time—leather, black, still hiding whatever she kept tucked inside. She didn't limp. She didn't smile.
But her eyes swept the room like a sniper scanning rooftops.
There were only two other patrons in the place. Both hunched over drinks and determined not to matter.
Lucien set the glass down and gave her that half-smile he'd perfected over decades—the one that said I'm harmless and I might bite in equal measure.
"Well," he said. "Didn't expect to see you so soon. Miss me already?"
Riley slid onto the same stool as last time, the leather creaking faintly beneath her. She rested both arms on the bar, casual.
"Figured I owed you a drink I didn't bleed on."
Lucien raised an eyebrow. "That might be a first for me."
"I'm trying to grow as a person."
He poured her a double without asking. The good stuff, again. The bottle he didn't keep visible. It was starting to become a pattern—one he wasn't sure he liked.
"Busy night?" she asked, eyes flicking briefly to the register, then the empty chairs.
"Raging," he said. "Nearly had to throw out a guy for singing Sinatra into a spoon."
She smiled at that. Barely.
He watched her. The way she sipped slow. The way she scanned the walls, the exits, the ceiling like she was memorizing angles.
"I figured you'd be out… hunting," he said.
"I was," she replied. "Had some… dead ends."
He caught it.
The emphasis.
Dead.
Lucien chuckled, but it was hollow. He was off his rhythm tonight. Too much noise in his head. Too much scent in the air. Her blood had faded—but not entirely.
And the more he looked at her, the more he saw something new in her expression.
Not just curiosity.
Calculation.
She wasn't just back to flirt.
She was here to test him.
Riley tapped the rim of her glass with one finger—soft, steady. It was the kind of idle movement people made when they weren't really idle at all.
Lucien busied himself with lining up empty tumblers. They clinked in perfect formation, but his left hand trembled just slightly. She noticed.
Not enough to call it out. Just enough to file it away.
"Anyone interesting pass through lately?" she asked, voice light, eyes sharper than the silver at her hip.
Lucien didn't look up. "Just the usual broken hearts and barflies. One guy tried to sell me a cursed harmonica. Didn't work."
"You try playing it?"
"I don't touch instruments. They bring out my sensitive side."
"That right?" she sipped. "Can't imagine what that looks like."
He smiled, but didn't reply. Didn't have to.
She leaned forward just a bit, letting her tone shift. "You ever hear of something called Black Sun?"
Lucien's hand paused on the rim of the glass he was wiping. Just for a second. A blink too long.
Then the cloth kept moving.
"Nope," he said. Too fast.
Riley didn't blink. "It's a tattoo. Circle with spiked rays. I saw it on a corpse last week. Same weird blood as the one in your alley."
Lucien poured himself a shot and didn't drink it. "Can't say I've seen it."
Another lie.
She watched his throat work as he set the glass down carefully, like every motion was a test of restraint. The kind you learn in addiction groups. Or war zones.
Or when your whole life depends on pretending you're something else.
She let the silence stretch.
Then said, "Some people think it's a lab mark. Others say it's a cult. But the weird part? All the corpses with it—they weren't drained. They were changed. Like someone was trying to skip the turning process."
Lucien said nothing.
"Sounds messy," he offered after a beat.
"It is," she said. "And the ones who survive it? Don't stay human for long."
He finally looked at her—really looked—and in that moment, Riley knew.
He wasn't confused.
He was afraid.
Lucien's hands were shaking.
He tried to play it off—an empty bottle in each hand, ducking beneath the bar and muttering something about low stock. The door to the back room creaked shut behind him.
Inside, the air was still. Dim. Smelled of stale beer and wood polish.
He braced both hands against a shelf, head bowed.
Her blood was still in the air. Dried. Faint. But enough.
He hadn't fed in… what, three weeks? Four? That was manageable—barely. But this new strain of synthetic had him on edge. It was like walking past a bakery on an empty stomach while dragging your own coffin behind you.
Lucien squeezed his eyes shut.
She knows something. You let her get too close. Again.
The craving bit deeper—not hunger, exactly. Not need. Want. The memory of taste, the way it filled every nerve like fire. The silence it gave him, even just for a second.
He shoved the thought down. Swallowed hard. Breathed. Again. Again.
Then, louder than he meant: "Get it together, Vale."
At the bar, Riley sat alone.
She waited five seconds after he left before moving.
Just a slight lean forward. Eyes skimming the shelves. She wasn't looking for labels.
She was looking for slips.
Behind the bar, wedged half-obscured by a dusty bottle of vermouth, was a photo.
Old. Faded.
Three people. Two men, one woman.
Lucien in the center. Younger—but not by much. Wearing the same half-smile. Arm around the woman beside him.
Riley leaned closer.
That woman—short white hair, sharp cheekbones, confident posture—wore a tattoo on the side of her neck.
A black circle.
Rays like knives.
Riley froze.
Black Sun.
She didn't touch the photo. Didn't move it.
She just sat back slowly, eyes unreadable.
Lucien was hiding more than his teeth.
He was hiding his past.
And it was about to catch up.
Lucien stepped back behind the bar like nothing had happened.
The light hit him differently now—hollow under the eyes, jaw too tight. He poured himself another drink but didn't touch it. Riley knew the difference between drinking to relax and pouring for show.
This was theater. He just didn't realize she was the critic.
"Sorry about that," he said. "Stockroom chaos. Found two bottles trying to unionize."
Riley didn't laugh.
She leaned on the bar, glass in her hand, and said, "Ever kill someone who didn't deserve it?"
Lucien froze, just for a breath.
Then he smirked. "That's a hell of a first date question."
"I'm serious."
"So am I."
She sipped her whiskey. "I was twenty. Six months into my first real contract. There was a guy—looked barely older than me. Fangs, yes. Fresh scars, yes. But when I cornered him, he just dropped to his knees. Didn't fight. Just said—'Please. Not yet. I'm still me.'"
Lucien didn't speak.
Riley's voice stayed flat. "I hesitated. Long enough for him to lunge. Took a chunk out of my shoulder. I finished it, but…"
She ran a finger along the rim of her glass.
"…he bled like a person."
Lucien's knuckles whitened around the bottle he was holding.
She watched him without looking like she was watching.
"You think that means he was still human?" she asked.
Lucien's voice, when it came, was barely more than a whisper.
"I think that means you were."
Riley blinked once.
That wasn't the answer she expected. And it wasn't one a normal bartender would give.
She leaned back, slow.
"Have you lost someone?" she asked.
Lucien didn't reply.
He just looked at her for a long time, and said nothing.
But his eyes weren't blank.
They were brimming.
The bar had settled into silence again.
Not comfortable silence—coiled silence. Like a wire pulled too tight, waiting for the spark.
Riley finished the last sip of her drink and set the glass down with the kind of precision that said she'd made a decision.
Lucien watched her, still behind the bar, hands tucked into the edges of his sleeves like he didn't trust them. He didn't say anything until she stood.
"You leaving already?" he asked.
"Didn't realize I was expected."
"You've got a way of making a place feel like it's waiting for you."
She raised an eyebrow. "That a line?"
"It's a truth. Most lies are."
She adjusted her coat, eyes sweeping the bar one more time. Lingering a second too long on the photo behind the shelf. But she didn't bring it up.
Not yet.
Lucien reached for the bottle again, poured two fingers into her glass, then slid it across the bar.
"On the house," he said. "In case you don't come back."
Riley looked at the glass.
Then at him.
Then, without a word, she downed it in a single pull.
Lucien blinked. "Didn't even taste it."
"I already know what it is."
She turned for the door.
He called after her—soft, but deliberate. "Riley."
She paused.
He hadn't used her name before.
"Yeah?"
"If you ever want to stop pretending…"
She waited.
He didn't finish the sentence.
She gave him half a smile. Not warm. Not cruel.
"Same to you."
The bell above the door jangled as she stepped out into the night.
Lucien stood there for a long moment, watching the empty glass.
Behind the bar, he didn't notice what she'd left.
A tiny, matte-black disc, no bigger than a coin.
Wedged beneath the base of the shelf.
Still blinking.
Still listening.
Still watching.