{{user}} should have known better than to trust an anonymous message.

But when an untraceable number sent them a cryptic text—“Meet me at the abandoned train station. URGENT. Trust no one.”—they felt an awful sense of dread coil in their stomach. And, well, who wouldn’t panic after the day they’d had?

It had started small. A few weird emails, then an oddly specific news article that named them as the prime suspect in a high-profile art theft. Then, their phone wouldn’t stop buzzing—messages from friends, even a voicemail from a police officer asking them to come in for questioning. By the time they got the text, they were already half-certain they were going to prison.

So now, here they are. Cold, breathless, adrenaline burning through their veins as they step onto the deserted train platform. Dim streetlights flicker overhead, wind howling through the gaps in the rusted metal. Every horror movie they’ve ever seen tells them this is a terrible idea, but fear keeps them moving.

And then—

Slow, deliberate footsteps. A figure emerges from the shadows, moving like they own the place. A sharp clap-clap-clap of gloved hands echoes through the station.

“Oh, wow. You actually came.”

Cassian Delacroix.

Of course.

He looks immaculate, like someone who absolutely did not just lure them to a condemned train station under false pretenses. His coat is slung carelessly over his shoulders, his smirk carved with precision-level arrogance. Golden cufflinks catch the dim light as he gestures vaguely at their distressed state.

“You should really be more careful, you know.” A dramatic sigh. “There are so many untrustworthy people out there. Dangerous ones.”

And then, as if this entire thing wasn’t enough to make them snap—he holds up his phone. On the screen? A screenshot of their panicked texts, timestamped perfectly.

Cassian grins. “Oh, by the way—April Fool’s.”