The morning blades of the sun rise slowly, shining through the window and landing straight on Lucien, who is spread dead across his bed.
The moment the light hits his eye—he wakes instantly.
He groans, stretches an arm out lazily, and walks over to the window.
With a soft grunt, he pushes it open.
"Mmmm…" he moans. "I've missed this piercing sun."
He says it to himself.
The voice — ever attentive — murmurs:
"Looks nice. We've never seen something like this."
Lucien smirks.
"Seriously? Out of all the things we've seen, you've never seen the fucking sun?"
The voice goes quiet.
Lucien strips, walks to the bathroom, brushes his teeth, and steps into the shower.
Warm water spills over him as he runs his hand across his torso — feeling every scar, every cut, every choke mark and burn etched into his skin.
He wishes he could heal it.
Another time, he thinks.
He steps out, dries off, and moves to his wardrobe.
He opens it.
It's completely stocked with new clothes.
"Mmm… Dad or my brothers must've filled it yesterday."
"Awfully thoughtful of them," the voice notes.
"Fuck off, man," Lucien mutters.
He picks a long black full-sleeve jumper and black trousers.
Before stepping out, he clasps his palms together dramatically.
"Kaigyāin."
His body shifts.
The robust, carved, battle-hardened physique he truly owns compresses — muscle density folding inward, bone structure narrowing, the lethal shape blunted and softened.
Not enough to make him look like a lean, harmless twink.
Just enough to pass as a normal, average teenager who works out consistently.
Someone you wouldn't look twice at.
Not a living weapon reshaped to take more life than it breathes.
He opens the bedroom door.
The voice chimes in, sarcastic:
"Ohhh, you're going to LOVE this. Compared to your family, you have nothing in common."
Lucien smirks slyly.
"Well, you see, my old buddy… fortunately, I lie a lot. So that'll come in handy."
The voice chuckles.
Lucien heads downstairs.
"Morning, Mom. Whatcha cooking?"
His mother turns with a warm smile.
"Morning, Lucien. Roast stew."
"Damn," Lucien mutters.
He looks to the side and sees Elaine.
"Morning, sis."
"Morning," Elaine replies.
Lucien scans the house.
"None of the men are here. Dad's probably gone to work."
"Your brothers too," Elaine adds. "Left early."
"And the brat's at school," the voice completes smugly.
The fuck am I supposed to do? Lucien thinks, bored out of his mind.
He eats breakfast, chatting lightly with the women.
Small talk. Surprisingly peaceful.
He's confused none of them asked him anything about yesterday.
But he doesn't mind.
Peace is rare.
Whatever.
---
After breakfast, he steps into the courtyard—and freezes.
There it is.
A café racer.
Not his bike.
But the exact same model he used to own in Japan.
Same frame.
Same design.
Same build.
Same matte-black silhouette that once screamed freedom to him.
"Damn…" he mutters, stepping closer. "Pretty sure this is Rowen's. Man's got good taste."
He heads back inside.
"Mom, can I get the keys?"
"Lucien, I really advise against that," she warns. "You don't even have a license."
"Mom," he says flatly, "I can stop a boat from capsizing in a tsunami. This is nothing."
Before she can argue, he snatches the keys and walks out.
He climbs onto the bike and starts it.
The engine roars viciously.
He takes off instantly—speeding. Redlining.
Rowen had never pushed it that far.
But for Lucien…this level of speed was normal.
After the joyride, Lucien drives back home.
---
Elsewhere…
A girl lays on her bed, drifting in a deep dream.
She's small again. Barefoot. Laughing. Running beside the boy next door.
They race through the small patch of grass between their homes, weaving around imaginary obstacles only the two of them could see.
He always ran ahead, glancing back with that cocky grin, daring her to catch him.
She remembers how they used to crouch behind the old water tank, whispering like spies on a top-secret mission.
He'd press a finger to his lips dramatically, and she'd try not to giggle.
They'd crawl through tiny spaces, roll on the ground like idiots, and pretend every stick was a legendary sword.
Sometimes he'd climb up the low boundary wall, wobbling dangerously, arms spread like wings.
"Look! I'm a ninja!"
"Get down, you idiot!" she'd yell.
He never listened.
She remembers when he pushed her on the swing so high her stomach jumped — and how he panicked and grabbed her hand afterward because he thought she'd get hurt.
When she scraped her knee, he had run for water, stumbling more than once, and returned breathless, holding the cup like it was treasure.
She laughed at him.
He pouted.
She remembers the day he tore a bit of string from a sack and awkwardly twisted it into a lumpy ring.
"It's a gift," he said, cheeks red.
"For what?"
"Our future wedding."
She had smacked his arm, told him he was stupid, and stormed away.
He didn't see the way she smiled when she turned the corner.
The dream shifts.
Their feet pound against dirt.
They're older — maybe nine or ten — running toward a cliff overlooking water.
He's faster. Always faster.
He reaches the edge and turns, laughing, hair whipping in the wind.
"Hey! Come back — you're gonna fall!" she shouts.
"I'm not gonna fall, you fool! I'm gi—"
CRACK.
The ground splits beneath him.
The sky darkens.
The world warps.
Water surges violently.
He slips. Falls.
She screams his name and lunges forward, but something cold grabs her, yanking her backward.
Her fingers stretch toward him — an inch from touching—
He disappears into the flood.
"NO— NOOOO!!!"
She wakes with a choked cry.
Her body trembles.
Her breaths come sharp and uneven.
She wipes her tears slowly and sits up.
Her room is still.
Her hands shake as she walks to her desk.
She lifts the old portrait she keeps there.
Her.
And him.
Two kids smiling like the world couldn't break them.
His joy.
Her hidden love.
She exhales shakily.
"Oh, Lucien… how I miss you."
A vicious engine roar cuts through the quiet outside — violent, sharp, echoing.
Irritated, she goes to the window.
A man on a bike is revving loudly below.
She narrows her eyes.
"…ah."
Recognition flickers faintly.
"He's the guy I bumped into at the airport."
Her eyebrows draw together.
"What's he doing here…?"
She strips and heads to her bathroom.
Freshens up — cold water on her face, brushing her teeth, fixing her hair, doing her routine with a half-annoyed expression.
The engine outside doesn't stop.
It growls… shifts… then growls again.
She mutters under her breath, "What is wrong with people…"
She steps out, gets dressed, and goes to eat breakfast.
Her mother watches her frown each time the engine roars.
"What the hell is happening at the Reins?" Ameera finally complains.
"What's with all this engine noise?"
"I have no idea, sweetheart," her mother says.
But the noise continues.
Ameera sighs sharply, gets up from the table, and heads outside.
She steps out of her front gate and walks down the short stretch to the Rein residence.
The bike is still there — loud, obnoxious, shaking the quiet morning.
And the man from the airport is standing beside it.
She walks up to him.
"Hey. Remember me?"
Lucien turns toward her.
For a split moment, something flickers in his eyes — a recognition that isn't quite recognition.
A sense of familiarity he can't place.
Then it disappears.
"Heeyh — I'm sorry, but no. I just got here."
She feels annoyance prickle under her skin.
She's not the type people forget easily, especially not after just a few days.
"Hey, I'm Ameera," she says.
"The girl that bumped into you at the airport."
"Ahh," Lucien says, nodding. "No — I remember. Sorry."
He smiles politely.
"I'm not good with names…"
A tiny pause.
"…or faces," he adds shyly.
The voice kicks in immediately:
Except when you're skinning them, it chuckles in his head.
Lucien's smile twitches for a fraction of a second.
Ameera notices — but she has no idea what caused it.
Before Ameera can say anything else, the bike gives one last howl of an engine pop—
"BWAAAAAM!"
Then:
"HEY! HEY YOU! YES, YOU WITH THE BIKE!"
Ameera groans internally.
"Oh no… not Ms. D'Souza…"
Out storms Ms. D'Souza, the neighborhood headache in human form.
Hair tied too tight.
Bangles jingling violently.
Face set in permanent disappointment.
She points straight at Lucien like he's vandalized the whole street.
"I have been hearing this NONSENSE since morning!" she screeches. "What is WRONG with you? Do you think this is a RACE TRACK?!"
Ameera mutters under her breath:
"Enemy of my enemy is my friend… right?"
Lucien turns, blinking once, polite and harmless.
"Sorry, ma'am. I didn't realize. I'll keep it down."
"Oh YOU'LL keep it down?" she snaps, stepping closer. "I've lived here fifteen years! I know EVERYONE. And I have NEVER seen you before! Who are you?! Why are you here?!"
Ameera winces.
She hates being seen talking to Ms. D'Souza — the woman will gossip for days.
Lucien's polite smile weakens a little.
"I just arrived yesterday. I'll be quieter. Sorry for the trouble."
"Oh don't you 'sorry' me!" she shrills. "Should I CALL the Reins? Do they even KNOW you're here?"
Lucien straightens.
A small shift.
Subtle.
But sharp.
His posture goes from normal → still.
His expression wipes clean.
His gaze lowers — controlled, cold for a split second.
Ameera feels something off…
Not familiar — just wrong.
Like this man is NOT the type she should be yelling at.
He speaks, voice flatter:
"Ma'am. I said I'm sorry."
Ms. D'Souza doesn't see the warning.
"Oh, attitude also? LOOK at this! Kids these—"
Lucien lifts his head.
And looks at her.
A simple glance — but heavy enough to make even Ms. D'Souza's screaming engine sputter.
She freezes mid-breath.
Ameera reacts instantly.
She steps forward, injects herself between them, hands raised.
"Ms. D'Souza! Please! He didn't know. It won't happen again. Right?"
She throws Lucien a quick glance — not knowing him, but knowing he's seconds away from snapping.
Lucien inhales.
Relaxes his shoulders.
Forces normalcy back onto his face.
"Yes, ma'am," he says gently. "I apologize. It won't happen again."
Ms. D'Souza blinks, confused why she suddenly wants to leave.
"Well… good! GOOD!" she huffs, turning sharply and stomping off.
The moment she's out of earshot, Ameera lets out a breath.
She turns to him.
"…you okay?"
Her brow knits.
He's a stranger — but something about that shift felt… dangerous.
Lucien gives a small, harmless smile.
"Yeah. Just… not used to being yelled at."
In his head, the voice laughs:
"Understatement of the century."
Ameera doesn't hear it.
She only sees a polite guy trying to calm down after being attacked by the neighborhood menace.
She nods awkwardly.
"So… uh… anyway… where were we?"
Ameera opens her mouth to say something—
But Lucien's phone vibrates sharply in his pocket.
He glances down.
The screen lights up.
His expression shifts — the polite mask tightening for a split-second before he smooths it out again.
"…I've gotta go," he says suddenly.
He steps back from her, already turning away.
"Byeeeeeeee—"
He waves a hand awkwardly, almost boyish, almost too quick, like he isn't used to ending conversations normally.
But then he hesitates.
"Uh— sorry but… your name again?"
Ameera blinks.
Is he serious?
Her irritation spikes.
"I'm Ameera," she says flatly.
Lucien snaps his fingers lightly.
"Right. Ameera. Bye, Ameera."
He gives a small, guilty smile — then starts jogging toward the Rein gates.
"Wait— who are yo—?"
But he's already gone.
Inside before she can finish the sentence.
The noise of the door closing echoes faintly down the street.
Ameera stands there, confused, annoyed, and weirdly unsettled.
"…what a strange guy."
But she keeps staring at the gate he vanished through.
Ameera stands there a moment longer, staring at the gate he disappeared through.
"Huh… weird guy," she mutters.
Then she shrugs, brushing a bit of hair behind her ear.
"Well… I'll get to know him tonight anyway."
She pulls out her phone to check the time.
"There's that function at the Reins' house tonight… we're invited. So… whatever."
She exhales.
"Let's just wait till then."
She turns around and starts walking back toward her house, already making a mental list.
"I've got to go pack my bags," she reminds herself.
She's leaving soon — to China, to study medicine, to become a doctor.
The thought hits her again as she reaches her gate.
She grips her bag strap lightly.
"Big step," she whispers to herself.
Then she sighs, pushes open her front door, and heads inside.
Her mind keeps drifting back to the man with the bike.
But she forces the thought away.
"Tonight," she says to herself. "I'll figure out who he is tonight."
She heads to her room to start packing.
---
Lucien slips into the Rein house just as his phone vibrates again.
He checks the screen.
Dad.
He answers instantly.
"Yeah? Dad?"
His father's voice comes through, steady and direct.
"Lucien. I need you to come to the factory. I'm sending the location."
A second later, a ping hits Lucien's phone.
"Alright. On my way," Lucien replies.
No emotion.
Just simple.
Straight.
Lucien pockets the phone, grabs the keys again, and steps outside.
The bike's engine grows a little louder as he starts it — but this time, he doesn't push it.
He rides normally.
Smoothly.
Focused.
The route is familiar.
He reaches the aluminium factory — a wide industrial space with towering metal sheets stacked in rows, forklifts moving materials, and large chimneys rising into the sky.
Workers in uniforms move around, nodding respectfully as Lucien walks through.
He heads toward the inner building — the administrative block — a three-storey structure with glass windows and the Rein family emblem above the entrance.
Lucien pushes the door open and walks through the cool, polished hallway.
He reaches his father's office.
The door is partly open.
He knocks once and steps inside.
His father sits behind a large wooden desk, paperwork neatly arranged, laptop open, a pair of glasses set aside.
He looks up.
There is no dramatic reunion.
No emotional outburst.
Just a small nod.
"Sit," his father says.
Lucien takes the seat across from him.
His father leans back slightly, folding his hands together.
"Well… this is the family business," he begins. "Aluminium — manufacturing, processing, export. We've been doing well, even in the last few years."
Lucien listens quietly.
His father continues:
"I've managed operations alone while your brothers handled their own fields. But now that you're back…"
He pauses.
Then meets Lucien's eyes.
"…I'd like you to know everything. How it runs. What we produce. Where we sell. Who we work with. And—"
A breath.
"—if you want to join."
Lucien stays silent for a moment.
His father doesn't pressure him.
He just waits.
Lucien finally nods once.
"…I'll see," he says.
A small hint of a smile touches his father's face — rare, but genuine.
"That's enough for now."
He slides a folder across the table.
"Look through this. These are our current projects. Take your time."
Lucien takes the folder, flipping it open without hesitation.
Numbers.
Charts.
Plans.
Schedules.
A world completely different from the twelve years he lived.
His father watches him calmly.
"You don't have to decide today," he says. "But I want you to see that there is a place for you here."
Lucien nods again.
The voice inside him whispers softly:
"…A business, huh? Something normal for once."
Lucien shuts it out.
He reads.
Lucien flips through the project folder with quiet focus.
His father expects simple questions.
Instead—
Lucien taps a page lightly.
"Dad… why are you paying Supplier Three in advance instead of net-thirty?"
His father blinks.
"You… know payment terms?"
Lucien keeps reading.
"Supplier Three delays shipments the most. Paying them advance gives them leverage they don't deserve."
His father's brows pull slightly together.
"How do you know their delay pattern?"
Lucien turns the page.
"The timestamps," he says simply. "Seven late deliveries in a quarter. Anyone paying attention would've caught it."
His father is surprised.
Lucien points at another line.
"And this? Wastage percentage is at five percent. Cutting blades aren't being replaced fast enough."
"We do monthly maintenance," his father replies.
Lucien shakes his head.
"That's too slow. Weekly rotations. And make the supplier cover replacements."
His father stares.
"We… don't make suppliers pay for that, Lucien."
Lucien adjusts his tone.
"Oh. Right."
He flips again.
"Transport. You're being billed night-shift premiums even when you aren't using them."
His father freezes.
"How did you—?"
"This billing loop."
He taps the numbers.
"Common trucking scam. You renegotiate, you cut 20–30%."
His father is speechless now.
Lucien continues:
cooling inconsistencies, airflow imbalance, misaligned clamps, uneven drying, redundant manpower loops, a storage rack that loses time by being 10 meters too far.
Every observation perfect.
His father finally asks:
"Lucien… how do you know all this?"
Lucien closes the folder.
"I was mentored.
By Hachikiro Shinji."
His father goes still.
Silence.
Lucien adds:
"He taught me business. Everything I know is from him."
His father sits back.
Then—
He laughs.
Not mockingly.
Relieved.
Lucien frowns.
"…What's so funny?"
"I was worried," his father says.
"Worried about who would take over after me. Or when I'm"—he air-quotes—"'retired.'"
Lucien snorts.
His father smiles wider.
"Your brothers are brilliant. But you…"
He taps the folder.
"You see things before they go wrong."
Lucien shifts.
His father places a hand on his shoulder.
"I'm proud of you."
Lucien freezes for half a second.
His father gestures forward.
"Come. Let me show you the floor."
Lucien follows him out.
The factory floor is alive — heat, metal, machines, workers.
Lucien walks behind his father, scanning everything.
A misaligned panel.
A clamp vibrating wrong.
A cooling rod warping.
A worker struggling with a plate.
An airflow vent too weak.
A machine needing recalibration.
A chemical drum too full.
A storage layout wasting time.
He points things out quietly.
Every correction is dead accurate.
Workers are stunned.
His father is more stunned.
By the time the tour ends, his father looks ten years lighter.
They head back to the office.
His father sits, exhales, and says:
"Whether you join or not… understand this."
Lucien looks up.
"You are capable. More than you know. More than I expected."
Lucien feels his chest tighten.
"You're not behind," his father says.
"You're far ahead."
Lucien swallows.
"…I'll think about it."
"That's all I need."
His father stands, smiles.
"Go home. Get ready for tonight. Your mother will kill us both if you're late."
Lucien snorts.
"Yeah… she will."
He steps outside.
Sun hits him again.
Warm. Sharp.
He breathes once.
Starts the engine.
Rides home.
Tonight will change everything.
And he feels it.
Even if he won't admit it.
---
Elsewhere…
Ameera zips her suitcase shut with a snap.
Done.
Packed.
Ready.
She glances at the clock and sighs.
From the living area, her mother calls, "Ameera, are you ready for the function at the Reins'?"
"Almost!" she replies.
She ties her hair back, checks her passport and documents again, then slides them into her backpack.
"I swear, these last two days have been chaos," she mutters.
The loud biker.
Ms. D'Souza's meltdown.
Flight preparations.
Packing.
Errands.
She smooths her dress, adjusts her earrings, and takes a steady breath.
"Alright… time to see who that guy was."
She steps out of her room, ready for the evening — and whatever comes with it.
Ameera walks into the living space.
Her mother gives her a quick smile of approval.
"You look good," she says.
Ameera nods.
"Let's go."