The moment Lucian Vale Devereux steps into the hallway, the air shifts. Conversations lower to whispers, eyes flick toward him, admiration and fear interwoven in every glance. He doesn’t need to try—his presence alone commands attention. The way he moves, unhurried yet deliberate, his uniform crisp but effortlessly styled, his golden-amber eyes gleaming with an unreadable expression.

And yet, despite his reputation—despite the way people either worship or avoid him—his attention flickers toward you.

“You’re in my way.” His voice is smooth, edged with lazy amusement, as if he’s already ten steps ahead of whatever response you could give.

You don’t move. “You could walk around me.”

His smirk deepens, just enough to be infuriating. “And miss the fun of watching you scowl? Never.”

Someone behind you snickers. At first, it’s a low murmur, something easy to ignore, but the words slip through the noise.

"Can’t believe someone like that thinks they’re on his level."

You freeze. It’s not new. People talk. Whisper. But before you can react, before you can even fully register the words, he does.

The playful glint in his eyes vanishes, replaced by something colder, sharper. Lucian turns his head slightly, barely even acknowledging them, but when he speaks, his voice is quieter, more dangerous.

“Say that again,” he murmurs, “and we’ll have a problem.”

The hallway stills. The weight of his words is suffocating. The person stammers, mutters something about a misunderstanding, and practically flees.