The room is windowless. The air heavy, too warm—like blood that's gone still. The only light filters through slatted iron vents above. Cold chains bind Caelan to the back of the steel chair, wrists raw. His lip is split. His shirt sticks to his ribs from dried blood.
Time doesn't exist here.
Only pain.
And hunger.
And Lucien's eyes—the only thing he almost remembers.
The door creaks open. Lucien steps in, dressed like the devil in velvet: dark coat, gloves, boots echoing on concrete.
His men flank the wall, arms crossed—silent. Watching.
Lucien walks slowly, letting his presence dig under Caelan's skin.
"You know," Lucien drawls, "when I saw you at the party, I almost believed you'd forgotten me for real."
Caelan doesn't respond. He won't.
His silence is a weapon.
Lucien crouches in front of him, tilting his head. His voice lowers, mockingly soft.
"But your eyes… they flinched. Like they remembered something they weren't supposed to."
Caelan looks up, lashes heavy, jaw clenched.
Lucien reaches for his face.
Caelan jerks back—but can't move far.
Lucien grabs his chin.
"Still so stubborn." His thumb brushes the bruise just beneath Caelan's eye. His voice drops into something crueler. "We were children. Starving in the gutters. You cried into my hands. You begged me not to leave you."
Caelan's breath hitches—just a bit.
Lucien smirks.
"But it's pointless now, isn't it? The past is dead. You buried it when you pulled a rifle trigger in my direction."
Lucien stands and turns away.
"Beat him. Don't kill him. Yet."
HOURS LATER
Caelan is a mess of bruises and dried sweat. Blood crusts his lip again. His arms hang limp.
They've left him like a broken thing in a dark cage.
No food. No water.
No words.
For two days.
He hallucinates shadows that look like wings. Hears Lucien's voice in his head whispering things that don't make sense.
"If one of us forgets…"
He dreams of that coin again—burning in his palm.
He wakes in silence. Alone.
And starving.
A few hours later, Lucien return.
Lucien steps into the room again, slower this time. He pauses in the doorway.
His chest aches when he sees the bruises. The way Caelan sags in the chair like he's stopped caring whether he dies.
But Lucien doesn't show it.
He walks over, crouches down again.
"You look like shit." Lucian said.
No response.
He reaches out and gently lifts Caelan's chin again—this time slower. Not to mock. Just to see.
And Caelan looks up at him. Caelen's Eyes full of hate.
If you're going to kill me," Caelan rasps, "do it. Stop playing god."
Lucien holds his stare. Caelan's voice was hoarse from no water, no food, not speeking for two days. Lucien find it oddly saxy.
Something inside him twists so violently it almost shows. But he lets go.
He turns away.
"I've had enough." Lucian muttered under his breath.
The door slams behind him
Ten minutes later, two of Lucien's men come in. They say nothing. They untie Caelan's wrists, dragging his body forward, propping him against the wall.
They place a metal tray on the table:
Bread, Rice with meat, A bottle of clean water.
One of the men gives him a half-smile.
"Boss said to feed you."
They leave.
The door locks.
Caelan doesn't move.
He stares at the food like it's a landmine. He touches his lips—still cracked, still bleeding. The blood tested salty and dry on his tongue.
He doesn't eat.
Not because he's strong.
Because he doesn't trust it.
Because this isn't mercy. It's a trick. A trap. A game.
He won't play it.
He lays his head against the cold wall and closes his eyes.
Still starving.
Still silent.