(Flashback of the day when Lucien decided to leave)
Lucien didn't sleep that night.
He just laid there, curled up in Arin's arms, burying his face into the dip of Arin's collarbone, where his scent was strongest—warm, clean, just a hint of something wild underneath. Arin's chest rose and fell in slow, unconscious rhythm. And Lucien matched his breathing to it like he always did. Because it was easier to exist when Arin did. Even if Arin didn't know he was being memorized.
Every inhale was like carving the moment into his soul.
His arms were wrapped around Arin like he was anchoring himself to something real—something solid. Because the next morning, it would be gone. And Lucien would have to let go.
He didn't cry.
Not yet.
At 6:00 a.m., he opened his eyes and tilted his head up slightly to look at Arin's face in the weak blue dawn. He looked like he always did when sleeping—a contradiction of beauty and battle scars. Fragile and dangerous all at once.
Lucien lifted a hand and gently brushed Arin's hair off his forehead.
He kissed him there.
Then on the bridge of his nose. Then on the curve of his cheek.
Then on the pulse beneath his jaw.
But he didn't kiss his lips.
Because he knew if he did, he wouldn't be able to walk away.
"I love you," he whispered into the crook of Arin's neck. "More than I should. More than you'll ever know."
Then, without another word, he pulled himself away and left the room.
---
The address Arin's father had given him was a private compound outside the city. Cold metal gates, silent guards, the faint hum of menace in the air. Lucien stood in front of the doors in silence, his eyes empty, his heart screaming.
When Arin's father appeared, Lucien noticed it immediately.
The change.
That man had always been cold.
But today, he looked satisfied.
Triumphant.
Lucien spoke first.
"I'm ready."
His voice was steady.
"But you have to protect him. From Silas. From anyone who so much as breathes wrong near him. And you won't drag him back into your business. You will let him go."
The man gave a small nod.
"Fine."
Lucien turned to leave, but the man said, "Wait."
He held out a blank sheet of paper.
"Write to him. End it properly. Let him believe you stopped caring. Or he'll come after you."
Lucien stared at the paper for a long time.
Then sat.
And wrote words that didn't belong to him. Words that scraped his throat like blades as he wrote them.
Each word bled poison. But he kept going.
Don't look for me.
He signed it. Folded it. Handed it over.
And left.
---
Lucien unlocked the apartment quietly. The scent hit him immediately—Arin's cologne. The vanilla and smoke of him. The echo of their days together.
It was empty. Hollow.
He walked through each room like a ghost.
The sketchbook Arin had once stolen to look at his drawings still sat open on the table.
Their mugs—his chipped one and Arin's sleek black one—still in the sink.
Lucien grabbed his duffel. Packed everything in a mechanical daze.
Except one thing.
A shirt.
Arin's favorite. The one he always wore to sleep on Lucien's chest.
Lucien folded it and laid it on the bed.
"My little tiger," he whispered with a sad smile. "You've built a habit of sniffing me in your sleep. Maybe this will help."
Then he turned to go.
But his hand paused on the doorknob.
He turned back. Spotted a blank piece of paper near the TV.
He didn't know why.
But he sat down.
And began to write.
To my Arin,
He left it on Arin's pillow.
But think for a moment and throw the letter on the dustbin he knows arin never goes to dirty places so he just throw there....
Then left the apartment.
---
He walked the cold street with his bag slung over one shoulder.
He had nowhere to go.
His steps turned toward Elsa's place. Maybe she could hide him. Maybe he could start over. Try to be something new.
Just as he reached the corner, a sharp tug on his arm.
A hand over his mouth.
The acrid scent of chemicals.
Lucien thrashed, eyes wide.
Arin...
Then everything went black.
---