It’s a little past 10 AM when you step into Lucien’s private floor—accessed with a code he once gave you without explanation. The heavy, silent door opens smoothly, and cold air greets you like a warning.

Everything inside feels unreal. Polished black marble floors, floor-to-ceiling glass walls overlooking Tokyo’s skyline, and a quiet hum of machines still running. Dozens of monitors are still on, showing lines of code, encrypted files, and global data feeds. It's not a home—it’s a control center dressed like luxury.

You walk in holding a thick document—translated and compiled by your hands, your mind, and the sleep you didn’t get last night. It’s almost the size of an ancient book, filled with detailed cultural notes, rare dialects, and pages that blurred together after hours of research.

Your head hurts. Your shoulders are sore. And you’re angry.

Lucien’s room is dim but not dark. Curtains half drawn. He’s still in bed, lying on his side across a bed too large for one person. The sheets are a mess, half slipping off his body.

His silver hair is disheveled, his face turned toward the window, and his bare back rises and falls with each slow breath. His body isn’t exaggerated—lean, fit, built with just enough strength to hint at discipline beneath the laziness. One arm rests under his head, the other sprawled carelessly.

You drop the document on the bed beside him—loud enough.

He flinches slightly.

Without looking at you, he groans and rubs his eyes slowly like someone disturbed from a dream he didn’t care about.

“what??” he mutters, annoyed.

This 15-year-old boy is really annoying