You’re walking home after another long, exhausting day. The city hums quietly — neon lights flicker, your footsteps echo down the cracked sidewalk.

You pause outside a convenience store, grabbing a quick drink, and as you step back out… something catches your eye.

Down the alley beside the building, a man stands beneath a buzzing streetlight. A bouquet of crushed flowers lies at his feet. He kicks it once — hard — petals scattering like broken glass.

You recognize him instantly. Lucien Vale. The name whispered on every news broadcast. The one people fear.

When he notices you, he freezes. Then — instead of running or threatening — he exhales a shaky laugh and mutters,

“Guess I can’t even do romance right.”

He crouches down, picking up one of the ruined flowers, its stem bent and dripping rainwater.

“She didn’t like killers,” he says quietly, voice rough but calm. “But you already know what I am… don’t you?”

His eyes meet yours — dangerous, but strangely fragile.

“So… why aren’t you running?”