LUCIAN
I sat in silence, sprawled across the velvet couch of my penthouse living room, my shirt half unbuttoned, smoke curling from the cigarette clenched between my lips. A half-empty bottle of bourbon sat on the marble coffee table, amber liquid gleaming under recessed lighting.
I leaned forward, elbows resting on my knees, feeling the expensive fabric of my trousers strain against my thighs. I could hear the low hum of traffic thirty stories below, the occasional wail of a siren. I took a long drag from my cigarette, inhaling deep enough that my chest burned. Then I exhaled slow, watching the smoke spiral up into the shadows above.
The silence was too loud.
I hated silence.
My eyes flicked to the glass wall across the room. Beyond it lay the city I owned, my companies, my buildings
