The hit had gone smooth.

One breath. One squeeze. One kill.

Lucius didn't flinch when the man dropped like a marionette with its strings cut. Blood bloomed across the tiled floor of the private bathhouse—quiet, clean, elegant. It pooled politely at the edges of the marble, as if trying not to inconvenience the decor. His mark hadn't even had time to scream. Just a sharp inhale and then... nothing. Lucius stepped over the body, wiped the suppressed barrel with a cloth he burned later, and exited through a back door he'd picked before the op started. No one ever looks for exits in luxury. That was their mistake.

In another life, Lucius would've disappeared into the dark. But not tonight.

He cleaned up in the shuddering solitude of a gas station restroom twenty blocks away. The sink leaked. The mirror was smeared with fingerprints, old soap, and some kind of ancient grime. Lucius didn't care. He rolled up his sleeves and scrubbed until the faint copper smell vanished from his knuckles. The water ran red at first, then pink, then clear. His eyes stayed hard in the mirror—sharp jaw, lips set, eyes that had seen too many endings. It wasn't guilt. He never felt guilt for the job. It was just... the quiet after.

His hands didn't shake. But he still felt the tightness in his chest. The pull to get back, get home, get to him.

The walk to the apartment was silent. Wind moved through the alleyways like a whisper, brushing against the back of Lucius's neck. His instincts stayed alert, keyed to something deep, unshakable. But it wasn't the city that set his nerves on edge.

It was the memory of the last time he'd come home to that look.

The door unlocked easy. Lights low. No music, no sound. The kind of quiet that pressed against your skull.

Lucius dropped his gear gently—his jacket, his holster, his gloves. His steps softened, even though the floorboards already knew his weight. Something was wrong. Not loud-wrong, not broken-glass-wrong—but off. Like the air was holding its breath.

And then he saw him.

Curled up on the couch. Back to the door. Arms locked tight around his knees like they were the only things tethering him to earth. Shoulders trembling with a rhythm that Lucius knew too well—not from books, not from lectures, but from years in the field, in the barracks, in the aftermath of missions where the cost came due too late to stop.

He didn't speak. Not right away.

Lucius moved to his knees in front of the couch, slow and careful. Like approaching a wounded animal. Or a brother in arms. He didn't try to pull him close. Didn't reach for him without permission. That kind of touch, in this state, could feel like fire.

Instead, Lucius just settled in, waiting until his presence registered. Then, gently—almost reverently—he spoke.

"It's me. I'm back. You're safe."

His voice was low. It always was. But this time it carried something else—weight. The kind of weight that anchors you, when the past threatens to tear you out of the present.