POV: Lucien Moretti (Third Person)
"You smell like burned wire and bad intentions," Dante said, sliding the steel door shut behind them.
Lucien didn't slow. "Then we're in the right place."
The safehouse wasn't safe in the traditional sense. No soft edges. No comforts. Just concrete, low light, and exits layered like lies. Lucien preferred it that way. Comfort made people sloppy.
Seraphina sat on a crate near the far wall, legs tucked in, eyes half-lidded. Awake. Listening. Always listening.
Elena leaned over a table, mapping routes with a grease pen, her hair pulled back tight like she was bracing for impact.
Lucien watched her for a beat longer than necessary.
"We've got maybe forty minutes before word spreads that the tunnels are compromised," Elena said without looking up. "After that, the Shadow Market wakes up."
Dante snorted. "That place never sleeps. It just pretends to."
Lucien stepped closer. "Then we move before it finishes stretching."
Elena finally looked at him. "You want to walk into the dirtiest neutral zone in the city with a child they think is a key?"
"I want answers," Lucien said. "And they sell them there—piece by piece."
Seraphina's voice cut in, soft but clear. "They'll lie unless they're scared or paid."
Dante blinked. "She's not wrong."
Lucien crouched in front of Seraphina. "Do you feel anything now?"
She hesitated. "Not loud. Just… itchy. Like the air knows I'm here."
Elena's jaw tightened. "That's exposure. We keep her hooded, shielded. Minimal eye contact."
Lucien nodded. "No touching. No names."
"And no theatrics," Elena added pointedly.
Lucien's mouth curved. "I don't do theatrics."
Dante laughed once. "That's the funniest thing you've ever said."
They moved out through the rear corridor, slipping into the veins of the city where money changed hands faster than blood cooled. The Shadow Market lived beneath an abandoned transit hub—neon grafted onto decay, music bleeding through concrete like a pulse.
Lucien felt it the moment they crossed the threshold.
Eyes turned. Conversations dipped.
"You just rang a bell," Elena murmured. "Everyone heard it."
Lucien scanned the crowd. Dealers. Fixers. Women in silk and scars. Men who smiled with their eyes closed. The city's appetite on display.
"Let them look," he said. "Looking costs nothing. Acting costs limbs."
They reached a private alcove guarded by a woman with silver rings climbing her fingers like armor.
"Lucien Moretti," she said coolly. "You're early. And late."
Lucien inclined his head. "Vera. Still breathing."
"Barely." Her gaze flicked to Elena. "You brought static."
Elena smiled thinly. "Only when provoked."
Vera's attention slid to Seraphina, lingering a fraction too long. Seraphina shrank closer to Lucien.
Lucien's voice dropped. "Eyes up."
Vera raised a brow, then waved them in. "You want whispers or weapons?"
"Truth," Lucien said. "The kind that hurts to say."
Inside, the room smelled of incense and old money. Screens glowed with shifting data. Vera poured drinks none of them touched.
"Someone used human proxies tonight," Elena said. "Clean teams. No flags. That narrows the buyer list."
Vera laughed softly. "You think buyers leave fingerprints?"
Lucien leaned forward. "I think you know who benefits from testing me."
Vera studied him. "There's a syndicate moving in layers. They call themselves the Curators."
Elena stiffened. "That's not a street name."
"No," Vera said. "It's an idea. They collect anomalies. People who break probability."
Lucien's blood ran cold. "Say that again."
"They believe certain lives bend outcomes," Vera continued. "Wars won. Men who don't die. Children who shouldn't exist."
Seraphina's breath hitched.
Elena spoke carefully. "And they think they can harvest that?"
Vera shrugged. "They think everything has a price if you remove the soul first."
Lucien stood. The room seemed to contract around him.
"Names," he said.
Vera met his gaze. "I don't have them yet. But I know where they buy silence."
"Where?"
"The clubs along the river. Velvet fronts. Back rooms full of confession."
Elena nodded. "That fits."
Seraphina whispered, "Music makes them careless."
Lucien looked down at her. "We won't take you there."
She met his eyes, steady. "They'll look for me where you refuse to go."
Elena inhaled sharply. "She's right."
Lucien clenched his jaw. Every instinct screamed no. Protect. Hide. Burn the world instead.
"We set a decoy," Elena said quickly. "False trail. I go public. Loud."
Lucien turned on her. "Absolutely not."
"You said you wanted answers."
"Not at your expense."
Their eyes locked—heat, friction, something dangerously close to wanting.
Vera cleared her throat. "You're bleeding tension on my furniture. Decide."
Lucien looked back at Seraphina. "If this goes wrong—"
She squeezed his hand. "You always find me."
That faith cut deeper than fear.
Lucien exhaled slowly. "Fine. But I choose the room. I choose the exits."
Elena nodded. "And I choose the noise."
Vera smiled, teeth sharp. "I'll send word. Midnight. River club."
Lucien turned to leave, the weight of the city pressing in.
As they stepped back into the market's glow, Elena leaned closer, voice low.
"You're playing with fire."
Lucien didn't look at her. "Fire is honest."
Behind them, music swelled. Ahead, the night opened its mouth.
Seraphina's whisper drifted up between them, quiet and certain.
"They're already watching."
"Keep your head down, and your heart quieter."
Lucien said it as they moved through the shadowed alley behind the club district, the air thick with neon haze and the scent of wet asphalt. The city pulsed around them, alive, hungry, aware.
Seraphina clung to his jacket, small and fragile, yet alert as though she could see the currents of danger that even he could only sense.
"I'm not hiding, Papa." Her voice was soft but firm. "I'm watching."
Lucien's jaw tightened. "Watching doesn't make you safe."
Elena stayed beside them, one hand brushing the child's shoulder. "The minute they spot her, you're not negotiating anymore."
Lucien's eyes scanned the rooftops, the shadows, the glances of passersby—anyone who might be more than they seemed. "Then we force them to play by my rules first."
Ahead, the first velvet-front club loomed. Its neon sign flickered intermittently, a red smear across cracked concrete. Lucien could feel the currents, the subtle pull of every eye in the district adjusting, sensing the anomaly of their passage.
"Remember," Elena whispered, "decoy first. I go loud. You shadow the kid."
Lucien nodded but didn't speak. He felt it already—the tension in the air, coiling like snakes waiting to strike.
They slipped through the back entrance, a narrow service door that led into a corridor of muffled beats and perfume. The room beyond was a crowded maze of shadows: bodies pressed together, laughter masking whispers, hands exchanging envelopes heavier than they should have been.
"Eyes open, ears sharper," Lucien muttered to Elena and Seraphina. "We're the anomaly. Everyone notices anomalies."
Seraphina's hand gripped his sleeve. "They know."
Lucien glanced at her, frowning. "Who knows?"
"The watchers. The collectors. They're here."
Elena stiffened. "Not all of them. But some."
The crowd parted as they approached a back room—private, shielded, where secrets were currency. Vera had promised information, and Lucien intended to extract it.
A tall man with a face that could cut glass stepped forward. His eyes flickered over Seraphina, then Elena, then Lucien. "Lucien Virelli. You bring the miracle child into my market? Bold."
Lucien's gaze didn't waver. "I bring the truth. And you sell lies."
The man smiled thinly. "Everything here is a lie until proven otherwise."
Seraphina's fingers twitched. "They're lying even when they think they're honest."
Lucien's pulse spiked—not fear. Anticipation. Something primal, honed over decades of surviving the city's teeth.
"We're not buying anything," Lucien said. "We're taking notes."
"You always are," the man replied. "But the note-taker usually leaves with scars. Or worse."
Elena stepped forward. "Then we'll write a new ending."
The man laughed, sharp and unnatural. "You're late. The Curators already decided tonight's price."
Lucien's eyes narrowed. "And what is it?"
"Your patience. Your control. Your daughter."
Seraphina stiffened. "I'm not a price."
Lucien moved to her, voice low, deadly calm. "You never will be."
The man's smile didn't falter. "Then prepare to negotiate with consequences."
Gunfire erupted outside—a distraction or the beginning of chaos. The crowd panicked. Staff scrambled. The music shifted violently, bass shaking walls, masking footsteps that shouldn't be there.
Lucien pressed Elena's shoulder. "Go. Draw attention. Now."
She hesitated, fear flickering in her eyes, but Seraphina nodded. "I'll help."
Elena bolted, weaving through the panic, setting off alarms, lights, a cacophony that made every predator in the room reveal themselves.
Lucien grabbed Seraphina, backing toward the nearest exit. Every step measured. Every heartbeat a countdown.
The man with the glass-cut face followed, slow, deliberate. "The child, Lucien. Do not make me repeat myself."
Lucien's gaze hardened. "You will. Because you won't get her."
Seraphina's small voice whispered, "I can help."
Lucien's eyes flicked to hers. "Not yet. Not like this."
Another explosion rocked the street outside, shaking the building. Shadows danced violently across walls.
Lucien tightened his grip on Seraphina, every muscle coiled. "They're testing us. Every move, every reaction. But tonight, the lesson ends."
The man took a step closer. "Then teach me your limits."
Lucien smirked faintly, the kind of smile that promised fire. "You first."
And with that, he moved—a predator in the jungle of human chaos, shadows and neon bending around him. Seraphina clutched his sleeve, her small heartbeat matching the rhythm of the city.
Elena's distant voice echoed through the corridor: "I hope you planned for this."
Lucien's lips curved. "I never plan for less."
Outside, the city waited. And tonight, it would bleed truth.