The rain hit harder as the city slipped into night, a restless rhythm tapping against windows and rooftops. Neon lights reflected in the puddles like broken glass. Most people rushed home, tucked under umbrellas and behind locked doors.
Elara Dorne had no such luxury.
Her shift at the diner had ended late. The buses were done for the night, and she didn't have cab money. Her thin coat clung to her, soaked through. One hand clutched the strap of her violin case; the other shoved deep in her pocket around the handle of a small, half-dull pocketknife.
She turned into a side street, hoping to cut ten minutes off her walk. The alley was dark but familiar. Normally quiet.
Tonight, it wasn't.
At first, it was just a whisper in the rain. A second set of footsteps. Slower. Measured. Not following, but watching.
She stopped walking. The steps stopped, too.
A chill rolled down her spine.
"Hello?" she called out, her voice sharper than she felt. "If you're trying to scare me, congrats."
Silence. Just the rain and the faint hum of a flickering streetlight.
She started moving again—faster.
Behind her, footsteps picked up.
She turned the corner and broke into a run.
Lucien Vale was already moving when the panic hit her chest.
He stood atop a tall rooftop across the district, eyes closed, coat billowing in the wind. He didn't need to see her to find her. He could feel it—that heartbeat. Sharp, erratic. Human.
He had ignored it once. But not tonight.
He leapt. No sound. No weight. Just shadows cutting across rooftops like silk.
Elara stumbled. The alley ahead was a dead end. She cursed, turned to run back—but the man was there.
Tall. Thin. Drenched in shadow. His eyes weren't normal. They glowed. Faint red, like dying embers. And his smile was wide.
"I don't want your money," he whispered. "Just a little taste."
He lunged.
Elara screamed and swung the knife—too slow, too wild.
But the man never reached her.
A crash. A blur of motion. And suddenly, he was airborne—slammed into the brick wall with enough force to crack stone. He crumpled. Unmoving.
She spun around.
Another man stood in front of her.
Dry. Still. Silent.
Lucien Vale.
He didn't look at her. His crimson eyes were locked on the figure slumped against the wall.
"Leave," Lucien said to the attacker.
A second passed. Then the man hissed, vanished into the shadows like smoke fleeing fire.
Only then did Lucien turn.
Elara stepped back instinctively.
He didn't follow.
"You're hurt," he said.
"I'm fine," she lied. "What was that?"
Lucien tilted his head. "A mistake."
"I don't understand."
"You shouldn't."
Then, he stepped back. The rain curved around him like it didn't dare touch him.
"Who are you?" she asked, breathless.
Lucien paused. His voice was quiet, unreadable.
"Someone who shouldn't care."
And just like that—he was gone.
Vanished.
Elara stood alone in the alley, heart pounding, the rain finally soaking into her skin.
And all she could think about was the name he hadn't given her.