Lucien didn't move at first. He'd already expected it. The steady, deliberate rhythm on the door was unmistakably hers.
Not the pounding of a stranger or the erratic beating of a soldier in panic, but the precise three-count knock of someone who always announced themselves even when furious.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
He sighed beneath the blanket, eyes still half-lidded.
"Lucien," came her voice through the door — low, tired, but sharp enough to cut through the lingering hum of his ceiling fan. "Open up. Now."
He didn't bother pretending to be asleep.
The blanket slid down. He swung his legs off the bed, feet brushing against the cold floorboards. For a moment, he lingered there, his pale hair falling over his face, the faint flicker of blue siren light from outside painting the edges of his eyes.
Then he stood, walked over, and unlatched the door.
The hinges creaked softly as it opened.
Amara stood on the other side — tall, armored, the faint light from the hallway outlining her frame. Her cloak was tattered at the edges, her staff strapped across her back.
The scent of something burnt clung to her, mixed with sweat and blood. A faint cut marred her cheek, already half-healed.
For a heartbeat, they just stared at each other. Her good was down, revealing her pretty scarlet hair and blue eyes and two perfectly shaped pink lips. Her beauty was undeniable this close.
Then her expression darkened.
"You absolute bastard."
Lucien blinked slowly. "Good evening to you too."
"Don't 'good evening' me." She pushed past him and stepped into the room, boots leaving faint prints of soot on the floor. "You were here the whole time?"
"Yes."
"And you didn't think to—oh, I don't know—do something?"
He closed the door behind her, unconcerned. "I did something. I stayed out of the way."
Amara spun to face him, her silver eyes flashing. "That thing could've killed half your building!"
Lucien tilted his head. "But it didn't. You arrived. On time, even. Well… late, but still."
Her jaw tightened. "You're lucky I don't hit you right now."
He gave a ghost of a smile. "I think you already used up your daily violence quota."
Amara exhaled through her nose, trying to cool her temper. She threw off her hood, letting her dark hair spill down in uneven strands. Her armor dimmed as the runes went dormant, faint traces of residual light still pulsing across her chestplate.
Lucien gestured lazily toward the small chair near his kitchen counter. "Sit. You look like you're going to collapse."
"Don't tell me what to do," she muttered—but she sat anyway, unfastening her gauntlets and setting them beside her.
The faint hum of the refrigerator filled the silence.
Lucien leaned against the wall, arms folded. "I'm assuming that was you who vaporized my hallway?"
She gave him a sharp look. "Be grateful I did. You'd be paste otherwise."
He shrugged. "Wouldn't be the worst thing that's happened to me this week."
That earned the faintest twitch of her lips. "Still pretending you're fragile?"
"I'm not pretending," he said, tone flat.
Normally, she would've argued. But tonight, she didn't. She just sighed, rubbing the back of her neck.
Lucien studied her quietly. Beneath the exhaustion, beneath the blackened blood and cracked armor, she was still Amara.
The same girl he'd grown up with in the orphan dormitories of the Old Cathedral District. Back then, she'd been a scrawny kid with scraped knees and fire in her eyes, the one who stole food for the others and took every beating without complaint.
They'd shared a cot once, during the cold months. Talked about leaving the city. Becoming something more than forgotten children.
And now, she was one of the best-ranked Hunters in the district.
He'd become… this.
"Why were you even in this area?" he asked.
She groaned and leaned back in the chair. "You think I came for you? I was closest to the attack zone when the alert went off. So I took it upon myself to intercept. Turns out the clown landed right in your backyard."
Her tone softened slightly. "When I got closer and saw your window…" She gestured vaguely toward him. "You were standing there like an idiot, eating while a Level Three entity tore your neighbors apart."
Lucien smirked faintly. "Breakfast is important."
"It was midnight."
"Still counts."
Amara glared at him, then gave up and laughed weakly—a sound half genuine, half exhausted. She rubbed her temples. "You haven't changed. Not even a little."
"I try not to."
"Clearly."
The silence that followed wasn't uncomfortable. It was the kind that came with old familiarity, the kind two people could sit in without needing to fill.
Lucien crossed the room to the counter, opened the small refrigerator, and took out a bottle of water. "Want one?"
She shook her head. "Something warm."
He raised an eyebrow. "You planning to stay long?"
"Just enough to get my legs working again."
He poured her a mug of tea—instant, the only kind he had. Amara accepted it without complaint, wrapping her fingers around the cup and letting the steam rise against her face.
Her voice softened when she finally spoke again. "I just finished another exorcism an hour before the alert. That one was… bad."
Lucien leaned against the counter. "Worse than the clown?"
She shook her head slowly. "Different. It was an amalgam. Seven spirits in one body. I barely walked away from it."
He nodded once, quietly. "So when this one came through…"
"I ran here." She smiled wryly. "Figured it was just my luck it happened near you."
Lucien's lips curved faintly. "The universe has a cruel sense of humor."
Amara sipped her tea, eyes half-closing. "You should've at least locked your door, you know."
"Wouldn't have mattered. Voidwalkers don't respect locks. It would've easily torn through it."
"You know what I mean."
He didn't reply.
She set the cup down on the small table, then studied him for a long time. "You really didn't feel like fighting?"
Lucien met her gaze, unblinking. "It was beyond my power."
Her brow furrowed, searching his face. For once, she didn't argue. The fatigue in her body seemed to quiet whatever words she might've used. She just nodded slowly, more to herself than him.
"Fine," she murmured. "You're alive. That's enough."
"Always am."
She gave a short laugh. "That's the problem."
The clock on his wall ticked softly. The sirens outside had stopped; the city was returning to its uneasy quiet, the kind of silence that came only after violence had passed through.
Amara drained the rest of her tea, set the cup down, and stood. Her armor creaked faintly.
"Well," she said, stretching her shoulders, "that's one less nightmare roaming around. I should report in before dawn." She was holding a small crystal in one hand. Something left behind by the spirit shed defeated in the form of the clown.
Lucien nodded. "Go ahead. Try not to explode any more of my walls next time."
"No promises."
She walked toward the door but paused, glancing back. "Stand up."
Lucien raised a brow. "Why?"
"Because if I leave and you're still slouching like that, I'll feel like I'm abandoning a corpse."
He exhaled, then stood. Slowly, and deliberately, as if humoring her.
"There. Satisfied?"
"Barely." She gave him a once-over, then nodded. "You look half-dead, but at least you're vertical."
He smiled faintly. "Thanks for the concern."
Amara's expression softened again. "Always."
They lingered like that for a few quiet seconds—the worn-out hunter and the pale-eyed man who never seemed entirely present.
Finally, she sighed. "Get some sleep. You look like hell."
"I'll think about it."
'I just woke up.' He sighed internally.
She rolled her eyes, pulled her hood back up, and opened the door. "You never change, Lucien."
"Neither do you, Amara."
A small smile ghosted across her lips before she stepped out, closing the door gently behind her.
Lucien waited until her footsteps faded down the corridor before moving. He crossed back to the bed, lay down, and pulled the blanket over his shoulders.
The ceiling fan spun lazily above, slicing the silence into slow, rhythmic beats.
His eyes stayed open, pale and unblinking, fixed on the faint glow leaking through the window.
He could still sense her energy lingering outside the building—Amara's presence, cautious, watchful. She hadn't gone far yet. She never did, not right away.
Lucien exhaled, the corner of his mouth curving upward in a tired, unreadable smirk.
"She never learns," he murmured.
Then he closed his eyes.