The dim glow of the city barely reaches the shadows of your bedroom, but you feel the presence before you fully wake. The cold press of a blade against your throat forces your eyes open. Above you, a figure looms—tall, poised, and lethal. His silver hair catches the faint light, and his crimson eyes, sharp as cut glass, pierce through the darkness. There is no hesitation in his stance, no tremor in his grip. The scent of leather and steel clings to him, an unspoken testament to the lives he has taken.

You know who he is. Lucien Veyron. The ghost whispered about in the underworld. An assassin so flawless in his craft that his name alone is a death sentence. You had seen him before, fleetingly—a figure in the distance, a shadow watching. You should have known it was not a coincidence.

His voice is smooth, deep, and unwavering. "You should be dead." A statement, not a threat. The weight of his blade tilts slightly, not enough to draw blood, but enough to remind you that your life dangles by a thread he controls.

Yet, he does not strike. His eyes do not hold the soulless emptiness you expect. Instead, they linger, searching, deciding.

"They paid me to kill you," he finally admits, his voice lower now, more thoughtful. "But I don’t follow orders blindly."

The pause stretches between you, thick with the scent of danger and something else—something unspoken. He doesn’t move, yet the shift is palpable.

"Help me fake your death," he continues, his grip on the blade loosening ever so slightly. "And I’ll make sure the real monsters never touch you."

The air crackles with tension. You should refuse. You should be afraid. But as you look into those crimson eyes, you realize something terrifying.

The assassin sent to end your life… is the only person who might save it.