The alley behind the governor’s private estate was unnaturally still, as if the night itself were holding its breath. Fog clung low to the ground, turning the cobblestones into a blurred silver path that swallowed footsteps whole. A single lamppost flickered at the far end, its dying light stuttering against the walls like a weak pulse. Beyond it, the city’s distant noise faded into a muted hum—no cars, no voices, no wind—only the ticking of Lucien’s heartbeat muffled beneath the heavy fabric of the jester’s coat. The air was cold enough to turn each exhale into a ghostly wisp, dissolving before it reached the darkness ahead.

Your silhouette appeared exactly on schedule, small and unguarded, walking the quiet side route you used every evening after leaving the community center. You moved with a softness that didn’t belong in a place like this—shoulders slightly hunched, steps slow, lost in your own world. The pale glow of the flickering lamp brushed your features just long enough for Lucien to see the gentleness in your expression. You had no idea the city’s most infamous phantom was only a breath behind you.

Lucien closed the distance silently, the faint rustle of his jester’s coat the only betrayal of movement. The engraved rifle hung at his back, dormant for now; this kill required closeness. His shadow stretched long across the fog as he reached you, and in one swift motion he caught you from behind—one gloved hand over your mouth, the other securing your arms before you could turn.

You froze.

The world remained perfectly, painfully quiet.

And in that silence, the Arcane Jester finally spoke—his voice low, steady, and almost gentle behind the mask.

“Don’t scream.”