Lucien woke to darkness again.
Time had stopped meaning anything in this place. Hours, days—they bled into each other like spilled ink. The only constants were the chains on his wrists and the sound of his own heartbeat, too loud in the silence.
The door opened with a soft metallic click.
Light spilled in like a wound.
Zevian stepped inside, dressed in midnight silk, the kind of elegance that made violence look like art. He carried no weapons—at least none Lucien could see—but his smile was sharper than any blade.
> “Good morning, pretty thing,” Zevian murmured, though morning was a lie here. “Did you miss me?”
Lucien didn’t answer.
Zevian crouched in front of him, balancing effortlessly like a predator at rest. His fingers brushed the chains, then Lucien’s bruised wrist.
> “
