Riven was discharged two days later.
No one called it an overdose.
They said complication. They said reaction. They said stress in the careful way adults used when they wanted to avoid blame. His mother nodded through all of it, hands folded too tightly in her lap, eyes never leaving his face as if he might disappear again the moment she looked away.
Riven stared past them.
Hospitals stripped people down to their essentials — bone, breath, liability. He hated how quiet it was. How controlled. The way everything beeped and hummed without asking permission. It reminded him too much of Lucien.
Lucien never came.
That absence sat heavier than any lecture.
When they finally let him leave, his mother insisted on walking him home, her hand hovering near his arm like she was afraid touching him might shatter something. Riven tolerated it in silence. Guilt crawled under his skin, sharp and unwelcome.
At the apartment door, she stopped him.
"You can't keep doing this," she said quietly.
Riven shrugged. "I'm still here."
"That's not the same thing."
He didn't argue. Arguing meant engaging, and engaging meant admitting she was right. He kissed her cheek, quick and distant, and shut himself in his room before she could say anything else.
His phone buzzed almost immediately.
You survived.
Riven snorted softly.
Barely, he typed back.
A pause.
Then:
Good. I wanted to meet you.
Riven frowned.
Who are you?
This time, the answer came without hesitation.
Someone who understands leverage.
⸻
They met three days later.
Not in an alley. Not in a club. Not anywhere that smelled like desperation.
Adrian Voss chose a café on the upper edge of the city, all glass and polished wood, the kind of place that didn't advertise its prices because it didn't need to. Riven almost turned around when he saw it. Almost. Pride dragged him forward.
Adrian was already there.
He stood when Riven approached the table — tall, composed, mid-thirties maybe, dressed in a simple charcoal coat that looked expensive without trying. His smile was polite, measured, like it had been practiced in mirrors and boardrooms alike.
"Riven Hale," Adrian said. "I'm glad you came."
Riven didn't sit. "You've been watching me."
"Yes."
No denial. No apology.
Riven's eyes narrowed. "That's supposed to make me comfortable?"
Adrian gestured to the chair. "Sit. Please."
Something about the way he said it — not commanding, not submissive — made Riven hesitate. Then he sat, jaw tight.
Adrian folded his hands on the table. No rings. Clean nails. A man who didn't need to advertise power.
"You scare people," Adrian said conversationally.
Riven blinked. "Is that your opener?"
"It's an observation." Adrian smiled faintly. "You scare people because you don't mind being seen as dangerous. That's rare at your age."
Riven scoffed. "You didn't call me here to compliment me."
"No," Adrian agreed. "I called you here because you're spiraling, and because someone like Lucien Crowe doesn't spiral people unless he's involved."
Riven's body went still.
"You don't get to say his name," Riven said.
Adrian's eyes sharpened — not offended, just attentive. "There it is."
"What?"
"The loyalty," Adrian said softly. "Even after rejection."
Riven pushed back from the table. "This was a mistake."
"Was it?" Adrian asked calmly. "You were dying in an alley a week ago. You answered when I called. You're here now."
Riven froze.
Adrian leaned back slightly, giving him space that felt deliberate. "Sit down, Riven. I'm not here to threaten you."
"That makes one of us," Riven muttered, sitting again despite himself.
Adrian's smile widened just a fraction.
⸻
They ordered coffee. Adrian paid without comment.
Riven watched him closely, cataloging details the way he always did — posture, breathing, the absence of wasted movement. This man was controlled in a way that felt familiar and wrong.
"You don't dress like someone who belongs in my life," Riven said.
Adrian chuckled quietly. "I assure you, appearances are flexible."
"What do you want?" Riven asked.
Adrian considered him. Really looked at him this time — the faint tremor in his hands, the shadows under his eyes, the defiance stretched thin over something raw.
"I want to help you stop destroying yourself for someone who doesn't deserve the effort," Adrian said.
Riven laughed. "You don't know him."
"I know enough," Adrian replied. "I know he values distance. Control. Clean exits."
Riven's nails bit into his palm. "You're wrong."
"Am I?" Adrian asked gently. "He let you get this far without intervening."
The words landed hard.
Riven swallowed. "You don't know why he did that."
"No," Adrian agreed. "But I know what it costs."
Silence stretched between them, heavy and uncomfortable.
"You didn't look surprised to see me alive," Riven said slowly.
Adrian tilted his head. "I'm not surprised."
"Why?"
"Because men like Lucien Crowe don't walk away cleanly," Adrian said. "They leave wounds. And wounds don't disappear just because you refuse to look at them."
Riven's chest tightened.
"What is this?" he demanded. "A warning? A lecture?"
"An opportunity," Adrian said.
Riven barked out a laugh. "I don't have anything you want."
Adrian's gaze softened, almost pitying. "You are exactly what I want."
Riven stiffened. "Say that again."
Adrian raised his hands slightly. "Not like that. Relax."
Riven didn't.
"I want to offer you protection," Adrian continued. "Resources. Stability. Someone who actually notices when you disappear."
Riven's throat burned. "Why?"
Adrian's eyes didn't leave his. "Because Lucien Crowe believes control is love. And I think that belief deserves to be challenged."
Something cold slid down Riven's spine.
"You know him," Riven said.
"Yes," Adrian replied simply.
⸻
They walked out together.
The city looked different from up here — quieter, cleaner, less forgiving. Adrian stopped beside a black sedan that wasn't Lucien's but carried the same quiet authority.
"Think about it," Adrian said, opening the door. "I'm not asking you to trust me. Just... don't waste yourself on someone who won't bleed for you."
Riven stared at him. "You're not a good person."
Adrian smiled. "Neither is Lucien."
The car pulled away, leaving Riven standing on the sidewalk, heart pounding, thoughts spiraling in directions he didn't like but couldn't ignore.
⸻
That night, Lucien stood in his office, city lights painting sharp lines across the glass.
Marcus watched him carefully. "You're losing control of this situation."
Lucien didn't respond.
"There's another player," Marcus continued. "Adrian Voss."
Lucien's jaw tightened.
"So," Marcus said quietly, "you do care."
Lucien stared out at the city, fists clenched at his sides.
"Yes," he said. "And that's the problem."