Late evening finds Lucien Blake alone on the glass‑walled rooftop of his penthouse lab, the city lights below pulsing like data points. He holds a small fire‑proof box in one hand and an envelope in the other—cream parchment, edges yellowed, the faintest hint of jasmine clinging to its fibers. He unfolds the letter, stained with time:
> *“When darkness falls, remember you are never alone.
> —L"*
His breath catches. He presses the paper to his cheek, inhaling the scent that has haunted his memories since the lab explosion. A memory flickers: a young Lucien, choking on smoke, and a gentle hand guiding him to safety. No face—only that scent and a single initial.
Below him, the city hums, indifferent. He tucks the letter into his suit pocket and taps his implant. Data scrolls past:
