The metal walls hummed.
Cold.
Damp.
Suffocating.
The children huddled together inside the cargo container — maybe twenty of them. Some cried quietly. Some pressed their knees to their chests. One boy banged on the door until his hands bled.
Then it stopped.
Everyone went silent at once.
Not because the guards yelled.
Not because the truck halted.
It was something else.
A pressure in the air —
like the space inside the container inhaled.
A soft click echoed.
The lock.
Unlocking from the outside.
The door swung open.
Bright white floodlights poured in, forcing all of them to shield their eyes.
Footsteps approached — slow, crisp, measured.
But no sound accompanied them.
No gravel crunch.
No breathing.
No rustle of cloth.
Just … movement without sound.
A long silhouette appeared in the doorway.
Tall.
Straight.
Composed.
A man stepped inside the container, not ducking despite the low roof, not flinching at the cold metal around him.
His coat fell perfectly.
His gloves were spotless.
His hair too neat for a place this filthy.
His presence moved over the children like a shadow with weight.
The boy closest to him whimpered.
The man crouched to his eye level.
His voice was calm, too calm, unnervingly gentle:
"Don't be afraid.
We are simply deciding futures tonight."
The kids shivered.
Nobody spoke.
The man's eyes scanned them — not with hunger, not with cruelty.
With evaluation.
The way a jeweler looks at stones.
His gaze settled on one child:
A quiet boy, maybe ten, eyes too hollow for his age.
"You," the man said softly.
"Step forward."
The boy didn't move.
The man tilted his head slightly.
Instantly, the guards at the door stomped inside, grabbed the boy by the arm, and pushed him forward.
The man raised one hand.
Silence again. The guards froze.
He touched the boy's cheek with gloved fingers.
"You carry old sorrow," he murmured.
"A rare thing. Heavy. Uncut."
The boy trembled.
The man smiled — faint, polite, chillingly empty.
"You will do."
A guard asked, timidly:
"Collector… what about the others?"
The man stood, fixing his coat.
"For now, keep them fed.
We may need more resonance in the coming days."
The guard nodded quickly. "Yes, sir."
The Collector stepped out of the container, saying one last thing without looking back:
"Make sure this one is prepared.
The ritual resumes before dawn."
The door slammed shut.
Darkness returned.
The boy cried silently.
But none of the children dared to comfort him.
Not after seeing that man.
Not after realizing:
He didn't walk like a human.
The boy didn't scream.
He couldn't.
Terror had locked his throat shut the moment the white-coated man stepped into the container.
Now two guards dragged him through a narrow corridor, his small shoes scraping against cold cement. He didn't fight back — not because he was weak, but because the presence walking ahead of him dissolved any thought of resistance.
The man in the white coat moved slowly, deliberately, each step dominant enough to make the floor feel like it shifted beneath him.
But still…
No sound.
Not a single footstep.
His shadow slithered behind him — thick, too thick, like a second body rippling on the ground.
Every time the boy blinked, it seemed to change shape.
He couldn't look at it for more than a second without feeling dizzy.
The warehouse corridor ended. A metal door opened.
And suddenly—
the world changed.
Cold concrete gave way to warm air and polished oak.
The smell of rust vanished, replaced by cedar and old books.
The boy's feet crossed onto a floor so pristine he almost stopped breathing.
He looked up.
The walls were lined with paintings —
massive, ancient, historical.
Kings.
Emperors.
Merchants.
Explorers.
Generals.
But in every painting…
in every era…
in every different style…
the same man appeared.
Sometimes in the background.
Sometimes beside a throne.
Sometimes in the corner of a crowd.
Always watching.
Always untouched by time.
The boy's heart slammed against his ribs.
His legs trembled as the guards dragged him deeper into the mansion inside the warehouse — a place that felt impossibly out of place.
The man in white never once looked back at him.
Finally, they reached a tall oak door.
The man placed his hand on it, and the lock clicked open instantly — as if the door itself recognized him.
He stepped inside.
The boy was pushed after him.
Rich carpets.
A chandelier humming faintly.
Shelves filled with leather-bound tomes older than any country he knew.
The man turned slightly and gestured with a calm flick of his fingers.
"Leave."
The guards left so fast they almost stumbled.
The door shut.
Silence.
The man pointed to a velvet chair.
"Sit."
The boy obeyed instantly, dropping into the seat as though gravity doubled.
The man snapped his fingers.
Within seconds, two silent servants entered — dressed in fine suits, eyes down.
They placed an entire silver tray before the boy.
Steaming rice.
Butter-soft meat.
Saffron.
Fresh bread.
Desserts he had no names for.
Water that looked purer than crystal.
Food so extravagant it felt wrong in his hands.
The servants bowed and exited with mechanical precision.
The boy stared at the feast, swallowing hard.
The man in white crouched before him, eyes calm, ancient, unreadable.
"Eat," he said softly.
"You will need your strength."
The boy clutched the fork, hands shaking.
He didn't dare disobey.
The Collector watched him —
silent, patient —
as if studying a specimen.
Outside the closed door, the thick shadow beneath it twitched once,
like something alive waiting to be fed.
The boy's hands shook as he tried to eat, the silverware clinking softly against the plate.
The man watched him.
Not gently.
Not kindly.
His eyes twitched—just slightly, like a crack appearing in glass.
A faint click followed.
His tongue against his teeth.
Once.
Sharp.
Cold.
Deadly.
"Stop."
The word froze the room.
The boy's fork hung mid-air.
The man straightened, then walked toward him—slow steps that somehow felt heavier than footsteps should, each one squeezing the air out of the room.
He didn't bend down.
He didn't kneel.
He stood over the child like a monolith, like a statue carved from shadow and will.
The boy could feel heat rise behind his eyes, ready to cry.
But something in the man's presence killed the instinct.
The man reached out—gloved fingers cold as metal—and lifted the boy's trembling hand.
Not gently.
Not violently.
Just… decisively.
He wrapped the boy's fingers around the fork correctly.
Straightened the wrist.
Aligned the grip.
Tilted the elbow slightly.
Like adjusting a delicate instrument.
"Look," the man murmured.
His voice didn't rise.
It didn't warm.
It was an instruction.
A decree.
He moved the boy's hand in a smooth, flawless motion—
fork to plate, plate to mouth.
"This," the man said,
"is how you hold an instrument of dining."
The fork glinted under the chandelier.
His shadow stretched long behind him, touching the boy's chair like a hand ready to wrap around it.
The man leaned closer, not blinking.
"Form," he said quietly,
"reveals discipline."
The boy swallowed.
His heart hammered so loudly he thought the man would hear it.
The Collector continued:
"Manner," he guided the fork again,
"is the skeleton of a man."
The boy whimpered.
The man tilted his head, studying him like a sculptor examining clay.
"Remember this," the Collector whispered.
"Manner maketh the man."
He released the boy's hand.
The fork fell against the plate with a faint metallic tap.
The Collector straightened, adjusting his coat perfectly, expression returning to its cold, unreadable calm.
"Now," he said, stepping back into the soft light,
"eat properly."
His shadow lingered a heartbeat longer than his body, as if obeying reluctantly…
before sliding to follow him.
The boy swallowed the last bite, hands shaking.
The Collector didn't move.
He simply said:
"You didn't touch the bun."
The boy hesitated… then picked it up and held it out with trembling hands.
"This… is for you."
The Collector sighed —
not touched, not angry —
just disappointed.
He turned away and snapped his fingers once.
The chair beneath the boy trembled—
and rose,
smoothly, silently, carrying the boy after him as he began walking toward the tall door.
And as the floating chair followed like a chained ghost…
the Collector began to speak.
"Life," he said, "is a resource."
His voice was soft.
Measured.
Cold.
"People cling to the illusion that it has meaning… dignity… sanctity."
A faint hum moved through the hall.
"But humanity, child, is flawed. Deeply. Fundamentally. Irreversibly."
They passed portraits — centuries of painted faces.
In the corner of many…
the Collector appeared.
The same eyes.
The same posture.
Across eras.
"Men destroy.
Women endure.
Nations rise, rot, then repeat.
Power shifts from one incompetent hand to the next…"
He drew a gloved finger across a painting's frame.
"…and the world spirals endlessly."
The boy clutched the armrests as the chair floated closer to him.
"But you know what remains pure?"
The boy said nothing.
"Innocence."
The Collector lifted a hand —
the chair rose another inch.
"Innocence is the world's original currency.
Before gold.
Before land.
Before armies."
They reached the second hallway — darker wood, carved with spirals and symbols.
"Young souls," he continued,
"hold potential untouched by corruption.
Unbroken.
Unclaimed."
His shadow stretched toward the boy, too thick, too dark.
"No monetary value can match it," he whispered.
Then, as he approached the final door:
"And understand this, child—
the world you walk in…"
he gestured to the centuries of history around them,
"…was built on these stolen resources."
Not gold.
Not land.
Not empire.
Innocence.
"It is not cruelty," the Collector said softly as the altar door opened.
"It is correction."
The chair drifted into the room behind him.
"Sacrifice," he murmured,
"is the spine of order.
To maintain one life…
or maintain the world's balance…
the cost must be paid."
The boy's chair descended slowly to the center of the altar chamber.
The Collector's eyes did not blink.
"And tonight, little one…"
his shadow rose behind him like a second body—
"…you will help restore balance."
The floating chair drifted into the chamber behind the Collector, slowing as if the air itself thickened inside this room.
The door shut.
Soft.
Final.
The boy clutched the armrests, breath shallow as his eyes adjusted to the dim, unnatural glow of the chamber.
It wasn't a room.
It was an altar.
Circular. Perfectly symmetrical.
The floor was polished black stone, veined with crimson lines that pulsed faintly — like veins under skin. The walls curved around them, etched with symbols older than any language the boy had seen in schoolbooks.
Metal instruments hung in precise rows.
Silver knives.
Hooks.
Rods.
Pendulum-like tools whose purpose the boy didn't want to imagine.
At the center stood a raised slab of stone —
smooth, dark, and cold-looking,
carved from a single block of obsidian.
The altar.
The Collector stopped in front of it.
The boy's chair remained a few meters behind him, hovering shakily, as if deciding whether to obey gravity.
The Collector raised one hand.
His shadow stretched.
Longer.
Thicker.
Alive.
It slid across the polished floor like liquid night, curling around the base of the chair… then slipping up the legs of the seat.
The boy whimpered as something cold brushed his ankles.
The shadow gently wrapped around him —
not grabbing,
not yanking,
just taking him,
the way a parent lifts a sleeping child.
Slow.
Smooth.
Terrifyingly gentle.
The boy's body lifted from the chair.
Arms dangling.
Feet swaying.
As if suspended by invisible strings made of darkness.
The chair sank slowly back to the ground, abandoned.
The Collector didn't turn around.
He simply spoke, voice quiet enough that the room itself had to listen:
"Do not fear the dark, child.
It has known you longer than your name."
The shadow lifted the boy higher, carrying him toward the altar —
not to the very center,
but just above its edge,
as if presenting him to the stone.
The crimson lines beneath the floor brightened, pulsing in rhythm with the boy's racing heartbeat.
The Collector rested his gloved hand on the altar's surface.
The stone responded with a faint hum.
The boy hovered inches above it, held aloft by the Collector's shadow, unable to move, unable to speak, unable to look away.
The Collector finally turned his head, eyes calm, ancient, unreadable.
"Everything built," he said softly,
"must be paid for."
The boy shook as the shadow tightened around him —
not hurting,
just holding him still.
"And tonight…" the Collector whispered,
"you will complete the equation."
The boy hovered above the altar, limbs pulled tight as if unseen strings were winding around him.
The Collector placed his palm upon the cold obsidian.
The air shifted.
The chamber's hum dropped into a deep, suffocating drone—
And then he began to speak.
Not words.
Not sounds.
Something older than language.
Symbols spoken into the air.
"⟊⩖⟁⟟…
⧈⟊ᚽ⟁⧪⟁…
ᛝ⧫ᚠ⟁ ⟟ᚿᛦ⟁…"
The chamber responded.
The carved glyphs along the walls flickered alive,
each one glowing faintly as if awakened from centuries of sleep.
The boy's spine arched.
His breath snapped into sharp, helpless tremors.
The Collector's voice deepened, turning heavier, layered, inhuman:
"Ϟ⟁⟟ᛝ…
⟒⟁⧫ ᚦᛋ⟟⧪…
⟊ᛦ⧫⩖ ϟᚠᛚ⟟…"
The boy gasped—
A white glow erupted beneath his ribs.
It pushed outward—
And three perfect pale circles rose from his chest,
gliding up like rings carved from frozen light.
They rotated in different directions,
each at a different speed.
A low, glassy tone resonated from them:
"VVNNN—
VVNNN—
VVNNN—"
The Collector stepped closer, shadow stretching behind him like it was growing hungrier.
He murmured a final string of impossible syllables:
"⟊ᛣ⟁⧪ ϟ⟊⧫ᛚ…
⟟⟒⧫⟁ ᚦ⟊⟟⧫…"
The circles spun faster—
White sparks flickered off their edges,
drifting upward and vanishing like crushed stars.
The boy's eyes rolled white.
His fingers twisted.
His legs trembled.
His jaw locked.
The Collector whispered one last glyph-sequence, almost lovingly:
"⟟⧫⟒ᛦ…
⧫ϟ⟊⧪⟟⟁…"
The altar pulsed beneath him.
The shadow tightened around the boy—
not painfully,
but with inescapable possession.
The ritual had begun.
The three white rings spun faster, humming like strained glass.
The boy's body shivered once—
and the Collector's shadow closed around him, swallowing sight and sound in a slow, deliberate coil—
—
Lucien snorted.
Loud.
Sharp.
Undignified.
He lay sprawled across his bed like someone had thrown him there and forgotten to pick him up.
Face half-buried in the pillow.
Blanket kicked to the floor.
One arm dangling limply over the edge.
One leg somehow hooked over the headboard.
His hoodie twisted around him like he had lost a fight with it in his sleep.
A thin line of drool clung to the corner of his mouth.
He shifted, smacked his lips, mumbled something unintelligible, and rolled over—
immediately resuming an even louder snore.
The voice sighed.
"…pathetic."
Lucien didn't react.
Didn't twitch.
Didn't show a single shred of awareness that anything in the world existed.
He looked like a corpse that decided to nap.
The voice muttered again.
"Incredible. The great prodigy… sleeping diagonally like a feral toddler."
Lucien snored louder, as if in agreement.
Lucien jolted awake.
Not because he'd rested enough.
Not because the sun reached his face.
But because a voice was drilling through the walls like a megaphone wrapped in fury.
"L U C I E N !
GET. DOWN. HERE!"
Elaine.
Lucien blinked at the ceiling, eyes half-dead, brain still rebooting.
The voice inside him groaned.
"Ah. The harpy has returned."
Lucien rubbed his face and sat up, hair sticking out in every possible wrong direction.
Another shout:
"MOM SAID WAKE HIM UP BUT I'M NOT CLIMBING THOSE STAIRS AGAIN!
YOU HAVE THIRTY SECONDS BEFORE I COME UP THERE MYSELF!"
Lucien muttered, "Yeah, yeah… chill," but it came out sounding like a dying animal.
He swung his legs off the bed and nearly slipped on his own blanket.
The voice snorted.
"Graceful."
Lucien stretched, bones cracking like someone stepping on bubble wrap, then dragged himself to his feet with all the enthusiasm of a zombie doing overtime.
Elaine's voice came again, sharper:
"LUCIEEEEN!"
Lucien winced.
"Alright! I'm coming!" he shouted back.
He grabbed the nearest hoodie—
didn't check if it was inside out—
and pulled it over his head before trudging toward the door.
The voice sighed as he opened it.
"Day one and you already look exhausted."
Lucien yawned.
"Yeah… and?"
Lucien dragged himself downstairs, hoodie twisted, eyes barely open.
Elaine waited at the bottom — composed again, the complete opposite of how she'd sounded minutes ago.
"You took long enough," she said, voice steady and controlled. "Your mother's been waiting."
Lucien blinked at her.
The voice inside him perked up immediately.
"…Hold on. Isn't this the same woman who was screaming your name like she was about to storm the place?"
Lucien kept his face flat.
"What did she do between floors? Breathe in enlightenment?" the voice added.
Lucien muttered, "Be quiet."
Elaine's head turned slightly. "What?"
"Nothing," he said quickly.
She stepped aside, motioning toward the dining room. "Come. Everyone's already seated."
The voice grumbled.
"…she's confusing."
Lucien followed.
---
The whole family was at the dining table.
Aldric sat at the head, suit already on, looking through a file.
Marianne was setting dishes down with a tired but gentle expression.
Rowen sat straight, coffee in hand, already looking like he'd been awake for hours.
Lex was demolishing cereal with zero self-control.
Reggie sat beside Elaine, work bag at his feet, scrolling through something important on his phone.
Elaine took her seat next to him, quiet and collected.
Lucien sat down.
Silence settled almost instantly.
The kind that made the air feel heavier.
Aldric checked the time.
Marianne watched Lucien with worry.
Reggie kept glancing between his phone and the table.
Elaine poured coffee for her husband with that same composed expression she always wore in front of the family.
Lex kept eating, completely oblivious to tension.
Rowen eventually set down his cup.
He didn't look up.
"Where did you go last night?"
Lucien froze.
Every head turned toward him at once.
Marianne's fingers tightened.
Elaine's brow shifted, subtle concern.
Aldric paused mid-movement.
Reggie looked up from his phone.
Even the air felt still.
Lex, mid-chew, stopped completely.
A piece of cereal slid back into his bowl.
"Bro…" he whispered, staring at Lucien like he'd been caught escaping prison,
"…did you disappear again?"
The voice laughed softly.
"…and here we go."
Lucien leaned back slightly, eyes narrowing as the entire table waited for his answer.
He stepped into the hallway, hair a mess, eyes half-open, neck cracking again as he walked.
Elaine was waiting downstairs, hands on hips.
She looked ready to throw him back out the window if he took one more minute.
Lucien stared at all of them, feeling the weight of the question settling on him.
"What do you mean?" he asked.
Elaine set her cup down, her posture straightening.
"Yesterday," she said calmly, "Ameera called me on her way to the airport."
Lucien's expression didn't move, but something inside him tightened.
Elaine continued:
"She said she saw Rowen's bike on the highway… behind three SUVs."
Rowen froze mid-sip.
Marianne's breath caught.
Reggie looked up.
Aldric glanced toward Rowen automatically.
Rowen shook his head immediately, almost offended.
"I was home the entire evening," he said. "I didn't move that bike."
Elaine nodded.
"I told her that. But she insisted it was the exact same model. Same color. Same custom plate style."
Lex blinked.
"Bro… that would mean—"
Lucien cut him off.
"—whaaaat?"
The word dropped out of him stretched, confused, and just a bit panicked.
The voice inside him cackled.
"…you might wanna start digging your grave now."
Elaine looked directly at Lucien.
"So since Rowen didn't take the bike," she said quietly, "and Reggie was home… and the garage logs show one of the bikes was moved…"
Her eyes narrowed—
not accusing, but expecting an explanation.
"Lucien," she said,
"where were you last night?"
Every pair of eyes locked onto him.
Marianne worried.
Aldric unreadable.
Reggie curious.
Rowen suspicious.
Lex fascinated.
Lucien leaned back slightly.
Lucien stared back at all of them, the pressure thick enough to choke on.
He exhaled once.
"…who the fuck is this Ameera—"
Aldric's voice cut through the room instantly, sharp as a blade.
"Language."
Lucien shut his mouth like someone had slapped tape over it.
"…sorry, Dad."
Aldric gave a single nod.
Rowen leaned back in his chair.
Elaine watched carefully.
Reggie leaned forward slightly.
Lex was practically vibrating with anticipation.
Lucien cleared his throat.
"Look… I was out yesterday."
Silence tightened.
He forced his expression to stay calm.
"I wasn't doing anything weird. I was just… riding. Jolly riding. Clearing my head."
Rowen raised an eyebrow.
Reggie looked unconvinced.
Lucien kept going, tone casual:
"I had that same bike model in Japan. Same build. Same feel. I just—" he shrugged lightly, "—missed it."
The voice inside him whispered:
"Smooth. Very smooth."
Lucien leaned back in his chair, pretending the explanation was obvious and harmless.
Across the table, Aldric's eyes narrowed just slightly —
not angry, not suspicious…
Just calculating.
Rowen folded his arms.
Elaine exchanged a look with Reggie.
Lex mouthed, "That's kinda sick," like he believed every word.
The room stayed silent for a moment longer.
Then Aldric said quietly:
"Next time, tell someone before you disappear."
Lucien nodded once.
"Yeah. I will."
But under the table, his fingers tapped against his knee —
a nervous beat only he and the voice could hear.
The voice chuckled softly.
"Well… that was close."
Lucien didn't disagree.
Breakfast went on quietly.
Cutlery shifted.
Chairs creaked.
Paper rustled faintly as Aldric reviewed a document beside his plate.
Reggie scrolled through something on his phone.
Rowen sipped his coffee in even intervals.
Elaine refilled a glass of water.
Lex finished his cereal and immediately started pouring himself another bowl.
Lucien wiped his hands on a napkin and spoke.
"Dad."
Aldric didn't raise his head, but he acknowledged him with a slight turn.
"Yes."
Lucien leaned back slightly in his chair.
"Can I come with you to the factory today?"
Aldric closed the folder he was reading and set it aside.
"We leave in thirty minutes."
Lucien nodded once, then reached for the toast again.
Aldric checked the time, adjusted his coat on the back of the chair, and stood up to organize a few files into his briefcase.
Rowen pushed his chair back a little and rose to grab his work bag from the counter.
Reggie gathered his things neatly, slipping his phone into his pocket.
Elaine picked up Lex's empty bowl before he could reach for a third serving.
Marianne started clearing the plates closest to her.
Lucien finished the last piece of toast, stood, and headed toward the hallway to get ready.
The morning continued smoothly from there.
And now, the room waited.
Lucien headed upstairs and pushed open his bedroom door.
He walked straight to the wardrobe and pulled it open.
A charcoal-grey shirt hung neatly on one side.
He took it off the hanger, held it up once, then inhaled deeply.
A thin wisp of black smoke slid from his lips over the fabric, smoothing out every wrinkle until the shirt looked freshly ironed.
He nodded to himself and grabbed a pair of black pants, slipping them on.
Buttoned the shirt.
Adjusted the cuffs.
He moved to the mirror, picked up the bottle of oud from the counter, and sprayed himself once across the neck and collar.
A pair of black sunglasses sat on the dresser.
He put them on without hesitation.
He left the room and walked downstairs.
Marianne passed by in the hallway, paused briefly, and looked him over.
"You look good," she said.
Lucien leaned down and kissed her on the head before stepping past her toward the courtyard.
At the shoe cabinet, he scanned the options and noticed a black pair of tabi shoes—Rowen's, most likely.
He picked them up and slid them on.
The voice spoke the moment his heel touched the ground.
"Tabi, huh… old habits die hard."
Lucien adjusted his sunglasses and headed toward the front entrance, ready to leave.
Lucien stepped out into the courtyard.
Aldric stood near the garage entrance, briefcase in hand, waiting for the driver to bring the car around.
Lucien walked up beside him.
"I'll drive today," he said casually. "Been itching for a drive since I got here."
Aldric didn't think twice.
"Fine."
He nodded toward the garage.
"Pick something."
Lucien stepped inside.
The lights came on, revealing the usual lineup—
a black S-Class parked near the front, a grey 7-Series beside it, an LS tucked in next to a clean silver A8.
A navy Range Rover sat near the wall, towering over the sedans.
And in the corner, a matte-black G-Wagon rested like it owned the place.
Aldric adjusted his watch and waited.
"Choose," he repeated.
Lucien studied the row slowly, sunglasses lowering just a bit as he made his decision.
Lucien's eyes moved past the sedans and SUVs…
until he spotted it near the back.
Black.
Long.
Understated.
Royal without trying.
The Toyota Century.
His baby.
It sat there quietly, almost out of sight, the polished black paint catching just enough light to show its depth.
No aggressive curves.
No loud design.
Just pure authority on four wheels.
Lucien exhaled through his nose, a tiny nod forming.
"There you are," he muttered.
Aldric noticed where his gaze settled.
"Hm. Haven't taken that one out in a while," he said.
Lucien walked toward it, running a hand lightly across the door.
"I have."
Aldric didn't comment.
He didn't need to.
Lucien opened the driver-side door, the soft click of the Century's handle sounding almost ceremonial.
He slid in, adjusted the seat, and started the engine.
The car didn't roar.
It hummed—deep, smooth, old-money calm.
Lucien glanced out the window.
"Coming?" he asked.
Aldric stepped forward without a word and got in.
Aldric opened the front passenger door and got in instead of heading for the back.
Lucien glanced at him with a small smirk.
"Aren't rich businessmen supposed to sit in the back?" he joked.
Aldric clicked his seatbelt into place and shut the door.
"Only the useless ones," he replied calmly.
"I didn't build what I have by lounging in leather seats. I've driven everything from delivery vans to transport trucks. A businessman who forgets where he started is already finished."
Lucien snorted once.
"Point taken."
Aldric adjusted the air vent slightly.
"Drive."
Lucien shifted into gear, the Century rolling out of the garage with the quiet confidence of a king returning to his territory.