Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Dear Detective Lucian Foresight,
If the World Detective Organization did not suit your tastes, why not come work for me?
I may even be able to help your current condition.
If you accept, meet me in Kanai Ward.
I have enclosed a ticket for the Amaterasu Express for the last day of this month.
With love,
Makoto Kagutsuchi.

The letter was delicately wrapped in a luxurious purple envelope, the words neat and handwritten. The paper had a faint scent of cologne and was tucked neatly into Lucians coat, the lingering scent occasionally tickling his nose when he shifted around in the train seat. He had likely reread the letter 100 times now, still wondering if taking this leap was in his best interest.

His clawed fingers traced the embossed lettering on the envelope. Makoto Kagutsuchi. A name that carried weight in certain circles, whispered in shadowy corners of intelligence agencies worldwide. The man was as enigmatic as he was powerful—a phantom that even the World Detective Organization had limited files on.

“Next stop, Kanai Ward. Please gather all your belongings and prepare to disembark at the station.”

The announcement prompted Lucian to shift his gaze toward the train window, abruptly pulling him from his reverie. The glass panes of the train car were soon awash in the ethereal and almost surreal glow of Kanai Ward, accompanied by the unmistakable sound of the heavy rain that perpetually draped the city. Lucian found himself entranced, captivated by an unexpected beauty in the scene. His eyes roved over the landscape with curiosity, taking in the dark, brooding expanse of the sky, which was illuminated by a hazy purple hue cast by the myriad city buildings and their luminous lights. The enchanting view quickly disappeared as the train gradually decelerated, drawing near to the station, the rhythmic patter of rain on the roof growing more pronounced with their deceleration.

As the tinted windows of the car gradually darkened, Lucian's reflection emerged like a ghostly apparition. He quickly clamped his mouth shut, startled by the uninvited appearance of his fangs, gleaming like ivory daggers as his lips hung open in awe. His face bore the signs of stress, with his brow furrowed deeply, each piercing embedded in his skin casting small shadows that danced with the car's movement. His gaze was fierce and penetrating, like a predator assessing its prey, and he pondered whether he should soften his features to appear more approachable for the upcoming meeting. Attempting to relax his tense expression, he rubbed his weary eyes, the weight of exhaustion evident in his gestures. Yet, it was to no avail; his crimson eyes still burned with intensity, piercing through the glass and into his own soul with an unwavering glare.

Lucian didn't have much to gather, just a well-worn backpack filled with clothing, a handful of cherished books, and various loose odds and ends that had accumulated over time. This was a one-way trip, and it wasn't as if he had a place to return to. With a resigned sigh, he shrugged on his weathered leather jacket and hoisted the backpack onto his shoulders. The rest of the train was largely empty, save for a small group of weary stragglers, their faces etched with fatigue. Disembarking took little time, and he was grateful for the quietude of his late-night ticket. The station, bathed in the soft glow of dim lights, was remarkably calm and serene, a stark contrast to the usual hustle and bustle.
The doors hissed open, releasing a gust of humid air that carried the scent of rain-soaked concrete and something else—a faint metallic tang that reminded him of blood. Lucian tensed instinctively. His heightened senses had been both blessing and curse since his... transformation.

"Welcome to Kanai Ward," the automated announcement chimed pleasantly, at odds with the foreboding atmosphere outside.
As Lucian stepped onto the platform, the rain immediately began to soak through his coat. Other passengers hurried past, umbrellas unfurling like black flowers in their hands as they vanished into the night.

The air there felt distinctly different, lighter and more refreshing than what he was accustomed to. Yet, a sweet, intoxicating aroma lingered in the atmosphere, making his head spin slightly and his stomach clench with a mix of anticipation and unease. He had an inkling this sensation would arise. Swiftly, he weaved through the throng of people bustling at the station, eager to escape the dizzying effect. He found himself pausing at the entrance, just before the unyielding curtain of rain that draped over the world beyond.
Lucian pressed his head into his palm, desperately trying to calm the chaotic spin of the world around him. He almost walked right out from his scant shelter, straight into the heavy rain. "Right...the rain," he muttered, his voice barely audible over the persistent patter of droplets. As his fingers raked through his now soaked hair, taming the dark strands back and fixing his ponytail, he chastised himself for such a glaring oversight. He knew he couldn't keep going like this, yet the thought of getting drenched seemed both inevitable and strangely inviting. With a conflicted sigh, he pivoted on his heel, scanning the station with faint hope that maybe, just maybe, they sold umbrellas at a reasonable price among the many shops.

“Forgetting an umbrella on your first day in Kanai Ward~?”

Lucian sensed a presence approach from behind, the soft swish of an umbrella unfurling above him, shielding him from the drizzle. He spun around swiftly, his gaze locking onto a figure shrouded in mystery—a masked man standing before him. The man was slightly shorter than Lucian, yet his presence was commanding, accentuated by the opulent red suit he wore. Each thread seemed to shimmer with intricate detailing, reflecting an air of grandeur. His long, wispy silver hair flowed down like a silken waterfall, almost ethereal in its beauty, framing the centerpiece of his ensemble—a mask that exuded an aura of mischief and intrigue, its crude design both captivating and enigmatic.
The design struck him as reminiscent of a skeletal figure, with its white mask featuring a singular eye at its heart. It was eerie yet captivating. The mouth stretched into a mischievous grin, revealing a small tongue playfully peeking out between the parted lips. What made it even more peculiar, however, was observing the mouth part as he spoke, as if it concealed a secret screen that animated to life with each word.

"You must be Lucian; you definitely have that irresistible Vampire Detective vibe~ Tall, dark, and oh-so-handsome." He laughed softly, a playful glint in his eyes. "I'm absolutely thrilled you decided to accept my invitation." He lowered his head with a charmingly formal nod.
Lucian felt his shoulders stiffen involuntarily. So this was Makoto Kagutsuchi—a figure as theatrical as the rumors suggested. The vampire detective studied the masked man, noting how the rain seemed to part around him, as if nature itself respected his boundaries.

"You have quite the network Mr. Kagutsuchi," Lucian replied, his voice low and measured. "I only decided to come three days ago."
The masked man tilted his head, the gesture oddly birdlike behind his ornate façade. "When you've been in this business as long as I have, you develop a certain... intuition about people's decisions." He extended the umbrella further, creating a sheltered space between them.

“Please, just call me Makoto~” he chimed in a warm, melodic voice, extending his hand with a lighthearted chuckle. Lucian hesitated for a brief moment, taking in the inviting gesture, before reaching out to meet it with his own. Makoto's grip was gentle, his hands soft and enveloping with a comforting warmth. With his Forte, Lucian could sense the subtle rush of blood coursing just beneath Makoto's skin, each beat of his pulse steady and unwavering, devoid of any hint of deceit.

“Didn't expect me to meet you here in person, huh? I was simply too excited, so I came to fetch you myself! I do hope you didn't mind the late-night traveling. I had a sneaking suspicion you would prefer a small crowd.” Makoto spoke with a unique cadence, his words direct yet infused with a playful undertone that Lucian found intriguing and a bit elusive.

“It was perfect actually…thank you.” Lucian rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly, a hint of warmth spreading across his cheeks.

“Wonderful!” Makoto chimed, his voice smooth and melodic. He reached into his tailored jacket and produced a sleek key fob, pressing its button with a flourish. Across the way, a luxurious sports car sat gleaming under the streetlights, its polished surface reflecting the faint glow of the city. The car beeped softly as it unlocked, its lights flashing in a welcoming gesture. “Let’s be on our way then, you must be tired from such a long trip~” Makoto began to turn, his coat swaying with the motion, but paused mid-step.

“W-wait I have so many questions—” Lucian's voice wavered, a mix of urgency and confusion.

“In due time, I promise I will answer any questions you may have once we are comfortable. This certainly isn't the place to have such a conversation, no?” Makoto tilted his head to the side, his mask glinting with curiosity beneath the dim light.

“I suppose you’re right…but please just tell me, are you really able to help me?” Lucian asked, his tone serious, the weight of his journey evident in his voice.

Makoto studied him for a moment, his gaze steady and reassuring. “Yes, I believe I can,” he replied with quiet confidence.

Lucian exhaled deeply, a small but weary smile forming on his lips. “I guess that's better than nothing…” He took his first steps off the curb, the sound of his shoes tapping gently on the pavement as he joined Makoto under the wide canopy of the umbrella. “Lead the way, boss.”

“With pleasure~” Makoto replied, his voice carrying a note of promise, as they moved together toward the waiting car.

Makoto’s hand lightly brushed against the small of Lucian's back, gently guiding him towards the sleek, polished car and courteously opening the passenger door for him to enter. Lucian carefully slipped inside, feeling a bit self-conscious about his wet boots marring the pristine interior of such an expensive-looking vehicle. He placed his bag on the floor with care and fastened his seatbelt, a task completed just as Makoto himself settled into the driver's seat with practiced ease.

“All set?” Makoto hummed in a cheerful tone, his voice carrying a warmth that filled the space.

“Yes, thank you,” Lucian replied, his tone polite and grateful.

With a smooth turn of the key, Makoto started the car, and the cabin was instantly filled with the soft, sultry sounds of moody jazz emanating from the speakers. The dashboard came alive with a myriad of sophisticated lights, casting a gentle glow that danced across the interior.

The majority of the car ride unfolded in a comfortable silence, with Lucian gazing through the rain-speckled window, watching as droplets formed intricate paths and fused together before trailing off. Occasionally, Makoto would hum along to the tunes, his voice a soft accompaniment to the music. From time to time, Lucian would cast a glance toward Makoto, whos masked expression remained steady and focused on the road ahead.

Despite the mask obscuring much of his face, Lucian estimated Makoto to be around his own age. What he could discern of his profile was strikingly well-defined, a pronounced jawline subtly emerging from beneath the long, flowing strands of hair resting on his shoulders. A single stud adorned his ear, a red gem that perfectly matched one of the many rings adorning his fingers. Among them, a large, ostentatious green carnation ring sparkled on his left pointer finger, tapping rhythmically against the top of the steering wheel as he navigated the road with ease.

As they continued along the road, it began to narrow gradually, descending into a secluded area before smoothly guiding them into an automated garage beneath the towering Kanai Tower. "We're here!" Makoto exclaimed, his voice tinged with excitement as he parked the car and hopped out with a buoyant step. With a flourish, he opened the door for Lucian, extending a hand to assist him.

"Shouldn't I be the one escorting you?" Lucian pondered aloud, grasping Makoto's hand and allowing himself to be gently lifted to his feet.

"Hmm, perhaps you're right. I've never hired a right hand before; maybe we can take turns?" Makoto proposed with a playful grin, which drew a good-natured scoff from Lucian.
"We’ll see." Lucian remarked as he surveyed the garage. Sleek sports cars dotted the space, their polished exteriors gleaming under the fluorescent lights, while the rest of the garage sprawled out spaciously and largely unoccupied.

"Come on, right over here!" Makoto called out, already a few paces ahead and beckoning from the entrance of the elevator with an enthusiastic wave.
Lucian broke into a light jog, catching up with ease and stepping into the elevator alongside Makoto. With deliberate care, Makoto pressed the button for the penthouse suite, folding his hands neatly behind his back. As they began their smooth ascent to the tower's pinnacle, Lucian felt a knot of anxiety form in his throat. He took a deep, calming breath just as the elevator doors whispered open, revealing their destination.

Makoto led the way with a dramatic flair, stepping out first and turning on his heel as if unveiling a treasure. With a playful smile and an inviting tone, he declared, “How does it feel to be at the highest point in the city~?” While gracefully gesturing toward the inner sanctum of his penthouse, he beckoned his guest further inside.

“Please, make yourself comfortable. My home is your home,” he continued warmly. With fluid motion, Makoto shed his suit coat, revealing underneath a perfectly tailored, vivid red vest that exuded both style and confidence, the color reminiscent of rich, velvety wine.

Lucian trailed behind with a cautious admiration, his eyes absorbing every sparkle and luxurious detail the penthouse offered. His gaze flitted from the impeccably stocked full bar to the meticulously arranged shelves filled with a curated selection of books, and then to a myriad of intricate framed paintings that graced the walls like treasures of diverse tales. At the heart of the space, a large round hot tub claimed attention. Its steaming water played with the ambient lighting, scattering playful, dancing reflections across the ceiling, transforming a section of the room into an ethereal underwater scene. Yet, amid all the opulence, Lucian found himself drawn to the expansive, arched window that framed the nocturnal cityscape. He gently pressed his hand against the cool glass, lost in the wonder of the sprawling metropolis lit by countless shimmering lights.

“It’s a lovely view, isn't it?” Makoto remarked as he appeared quietly beside him. Balancing a tray laden with a steaming coffee and an assortment of delicate treats, he placed it carefully on the nearest table, the clink of porcelain punctuating the serene atmosphere.

Lucian offered only a silent nod, allowing his bag to drop with a soft thud onto the polished floor beside him. A fleeting moment of unexpected warmth coursed through him when he felt Makoto’s gentle hands on his shoulders.

“May I?” Makoto asked coyly, his voice soft and teasing as he extended a hand toward Lucian’s jacket.

“O-oh, yes, thank you,” Lucian replied, his voice betraying a hint of surprise and gratitude.

With a practiced yet tender motion, Makoto helped to remove Lucian’s coat. His touch lingered for a moment, as if he was assessing Lucians broad stature. He then draping it with the same meticulous care as his own before returning to his seat by the tray of culinary delights.

“Cream or sugar?” he inquired with a light-hearted air as he prepared two cups with deliberate care.

“Black, please,” came the soft reply.

Makoto poured a generous measure of coffee into one cup, its rich aroma filling the space, and slid it across the table. “Take a seat~” he invited, his tone laced with an unspoken promise of more pleasant moments to come.

Seating himself across from Makoto in a matching red leather armchair, Lucian couldn’t help but notice its imposing presence—a chair that seemed to echo the bold character of its owner, especially beneath the enigmatic single eye of his mysterious mask, which seemed to observe every nuanced detail. With cautious reverence, Lucian cradled his mug, warming his hands from the chill of the damp, rainy night; then, with a sense of curiosity, he took a ginger sip. The flavor unfolded as a delightful surprise—rich, chocolatey undertones intertwined seamlessly with a subtle trace of sweet cherry, creating a delicious harmony.

“Good, isn’t it? It’s a premium blend sourced from an artisan right here in Kanai Ward—a personal favorite of mine,” Makoto said with a satisfied air, though his own cup remained untouched, as he relaxed into the plush embrace of his seat, one leg leisurely crossed over the other.

Lucian couldn’t help but agree; his mind felt surprisingly clearer, and the exquisite taste lingered fondly on his palate. Sinking deeper into the sumptuous cushion, he embraced the warmth and comfort of the moment, nodding appreciatively and savoring a few more long sips before gently setting the mug on the table—the rich scene around him blending perfectly with the calming comfort of a shared, intimate escape from the chill outside.

“So why did you invite me here?” he finally inquired, his voice layered with both curiosity and a trace of caution.

“Straight to the point! I like that,” the CEO responded with an enthusiastic lilt in his tone. His words spilled out smooth and confident. “I would like to hire you as my assistant and bodyguard for a case, and as I mentioned earlier, I truly believe I can help you.”

Makoto shifted his posture—a slow, deliberate uncrossing of his legs before re-crossing them in the opposite manner—and continued with a measured calm. “Recently, a high-profile prisoner escaped from our secure facility without leaving a trace. The only clue we uncovered was his blood, found along what we believe was his escape route. I may have perused your file—and I must say, I was thoroughly impressed by your detective prowess and your unique Forte.”

Lucian’s eyebrow arched slightly in surprise. “Where did you get my file?”

With a confident chuckle, Makoto replied, “I’m the CEO of Amaterasu, and I have several avenues through which I gain such information.” His silver hair caught the light as he twirled a delicate strand around his fingers. “Your mother was employed at Amaterasu…it was just a brief stint in genetics and hematology. That was long before my time as CEO, so my records are rather limited.” With deliberate care, Makoto produced two files from his briefcase—one stamped with the official WDO seal and another aged, worn, and marked with the Amaterasu insignia—and placed them squarely on the polished table between them.

Lucian gravitated first to his mother’s file, handling it with an air of both nostalgia and trepidation. Memories of his distant childhood flooded back—years when he had not seen his mother since he embarked on a career as a detective. He recalled leaving home at an early age, disinterested in following the family footsteps. His mother, absorbed in her work with Amaterasu, had often left him in the care of nannies. Her Forte—deemed superior in the field as a universal blood donor—had been a silent beacon of excellence, nothing like what fate had in store for him. With a detached motion, he discarded the file, not giving it a second thought; after all, the last time they met she had refused any exchange of words.

Makoto’s tone then softened as he began discussing the more delicate subject of Lucian’s own file. “As for your personal file, let’s just say that Number One and I share a rather familiar rapport. I apologize if I overstepped by delving so deeply into your past—I’m genuinely more interested in your perspective. The close-mindedness of the current WDO leadership is of little consequence to me.” His head shook ever so slightly, a note of disappointment weaving through his words.

The information was considerable, and Lucian held his chin pensively, piecing together the puzzle—a notorious criminal on the loose, a mysteriously masked CEO, and a city perpetually drenched in rain. It all felt like something ripped from the pages of an obscure mystery novel. With a reflective sip of his coffee, he reached over and sifted through the details of his file. The contents were largely unremarkable—a summary of successful cases, commendations of his physical abilities. Yet, one detail drew his attention: an eerie silence where his current condition should have been detailed, culminating in a bold, disquieting stamp across the file declaring,

“Deceased.”

Judging by the expression etched on Lucian’s face, Makoto’s curiosity was met. “You see what’s wrong with that file, don’t you?”

“Why would the WDO mark me as dead after I left…?” he asked aloud, his brow drawn tight in confusion. As he looked up from the file, he found Makoto leaning in, his gaze fixed directly upon him, chin resting thoughtfully in his hand.

“That is exactly what intrigues me,” Makoto admitted, selecting the file with deliberate care before setting it aside. “My working theory is that the WDO is eager to expunge any undesirable ties to its history—especially when it involves the Homunculi.” He let his voice trail off, leaving the weight of the theory hanging in the charged air.

“While it’s true we have made considerable strides integrating both humans and Homunculi, many remain staunchly opposed. Whether out of fear or mere obstinacy, I cannot say for certain—but my role as CEO has shown me the depth of this divide over the last decade.”

Lucian’s expression darkened into a reflective frown, his mind churning with the plausibility of Makoto’s theory. “So that’s why you’re so eager to help?”

“Indeed,” Makoto replied with a hint of rueful resignation. “I suppose part of the responsibility rests on my decision to reopen Kanai Ward to the world. I never fathomed that a Forte would be so deeply impacted by the presence of Homunculi.” His fingers danced idly over the cover of the file, tracing circular patterns around the etched logo. “Would you care to elaborate further on that?”

Lucian exhaled slowly, fully aware that this aspect of the dialogue was inevitable. “As you already know, my Forte is essentially Vampirism. I consume blood, and in doing so, I gain a window into the memories stored within it. The process also enhances my physical strength and speed—the fresher the blood, the crisper the visions, and the more potent the boost.”

“Such a practical and undoubtedly powerful Forte,” Makoto observed lightly, a tone of admiring curiosity intermingling with his words. “No wonder your file highlights your many feats.”

Lucian shook his head wearily. “That may be true, but I’ve also been labeled a freak and a liar more times than I can count. Since consuming the blood of a Homunculus, my struggles have only intensified. The sun now burns my skin, and I can even discern the subtle differences in the scent of blood in the air. Until recently, I never…” He paused, catching himself as he searched for the words. “I never craved the taste of blood, but now it feels as though my insides are ablaze—an unquenchable hunger lingers despite my attempts to satiate it.” His voice softened to a murmur laden with sadness and quiet terror. “I just don’t want to hurt anyone…”

“Hmm, I see,” Makoto murmured thoughtfully, mirroring Lucian’s contemplative pose as he stroked his chin. “I'm truly sorry you’ve had to face this solitary battle.”

“Once again, I’m only asking for your assistance in this case and your protection. As for addressing your Forte—well, I simply ask for your consent to conduct a few minimal tests as we navigate these challenges together. How does that sound? I have also arranged a living space for you here in the penthouse. I promise you, all your needs will be met.”

“And if I were to decline?” Lucian asked, his tone tentative yet edged with defiance.

“I would gladly pay for your ticket home—and compensate you for your invaluable time,” Makoto replied, his voice light and laced with an intriguing hint of mischief.

Home—a word that now seemed laughably transient to Lucian. He had spent his life traveling, never permitting permanency to settle. He couldn’t quite decipher Makoto—the man sat there so impeccably composed, and as far as Lucian could tell, truthful. Lost in the labyrinth of his thoughts, Lucian left Makoto suspended in anticipation far longer than intended.

Breaking the contemplative silence, Makoto commented with an unexpected playfulness, “You look quite intense when you’re deep in thought—your eyes especially. Such a divine shade of red, almost rivaling the color of my suit.” With that, he casually shifted his crossed legs once more.

The bold remark caught Lucian off guard; his eyes widened momentarily in surprised disbelief before softening into a shy, embarrassed smile, his cheeks tinged with a delicate blush. “Oh, uh, thank you…”

A charming laugh escaped Makoto as he quickly apologized, “I’m sorry if I was too forward. I rarely have the privilege of one-on-one conversation like this, and I’ve been told that my social graces can sometimes be a touch unrefined. I hope I haven’t made you uncomfortable.”

Lucian couldn’t help but return a small smile. “It’s alright. Usually, these encounters are described as intimidating—this is a refreshing change. You’ve been remarkably accommodating.” With a contented sigh, he finished his coffee and reached for the small plate of treats on the table. Selecting a cookie, he took a modest bite, then another larger one as its sweet flavor enveloped his senses.

“Ah, these are delightful...” he murmured appreciatively.

“There’s more where that came from! I’m delighted you enjoy them. It’s not often anyone dares to try my baking,” Makoto said enthusiastically, clapping his hands in a gesture of genuine happiness.

“Well, I suppose this partnership might turn out better than expected. I happen to have quite a sweet tooth,” Lucian admitted with a wry smile.

“Oh? Does that mean you agree?” Makoto asked, excitement shimmering in his eyes as he leaned forward, his voice filled with a hopeful invitation.

"I do," Lucian replied, his voice quiet but resolute. "I need answers, and you seem to be offering a path to them." He brushed a few crumbs from his fingers, his gaze meeting Makoto's. "Besides, I don't exactly have a wealth of options at the moment."

The eye on Makoto’s mask crinkled with delight as he clasped his hands together. "Excellent! I'm absolutely thrilled to have you aboard. We'll make a formidable team, I just know it."

Rising from his seat with fluid grace, Makoto motioned for Lucian to follow. "Let me show you to your quarters. I believe you'll find them quite to your liking."
Lucian retrieved his bag and followed Makoto through the expansive penthouse. They passed several doors before stopping at one with an elegant, understated design.

"This will be your room," Makoto announced, swinging the door open with a theatrical flourish. "I hope it meets your expectations."

Lucian stepped into the space, momentarily stunned by its grandeur. The room was easily three times the size of any hotel suite he'd ever occupied, with floor-to-ceiling windows offering the same breathtaking view of Kanai Ward. A king-sized bed dominated one side, draped in sumptuous dark red linens that matched the overall color scheme of Makoto's aesthetic. The furnishings were sleek yet comfortable—a writing desk positioned near the window, a plush reading chair in the corner beside a well-stocked bookshelf, and a large wardrobe that looked antique but perfectly maintained.

"Is it to your liking?" Makoto inquired, lingering by the doorway, his masked face tilted in expectation.

"It's perfect," Lucian breathed, unable to hide his genuine astonishment. He set his worn backpack down gently on the polished hardwood floor, feeling suddenly self-conscious about how out of place his meager possessions looked in such opulent surroundings. "This is... far more than I expected."

"I'm delighted you approve," Makoto replied, his voice warm with satisfaction. He stepped further into the room, gesturing toward a door on the far wall. "Through there, you'll find a private bathroom with all the amenities you might need. The closet is already stocked with clothes that should fit you—I took the liberty of estimating your measurements." A hint of mischief colored his tone. "I hope you don't mind."

Lucian raised an eyebrow but found himself smiling despite his usual reserve. "You seem to have thought of everything."

"I try to be prepared for all eventualities," Makoto replied with a slight bow. "Oh, and one more thing." He reached into his vest pocket and produced a small silver card, handing it to Lucian. "This will grant you access to all areas of the penthouse, as well as the private elevator."

Lucian accepted the card, turning it over in his hands. It was heavier than it looked, made of some kind of metal rather than plastic, with intricate engravings along its edges.
"Thank you," he said, slipping it into his pocket. "When do we start working on the case?"

"After you've had a proper rest," Makoto said firmly. "Tomorrow morning will be soon enough. I'll have breakfast prepared at eight, and we can discuss the details then." He moved toward the door, pausing at the threshold. "Should you need anything during the night, do not hesitate to come find me. My main room and office is the double doors just down the hallway~”

"Sleep well, Lucian," Makoto added softly, his mask somehow conveying a gentle smile despite its currently fixed expression. "Tomorrow marks the beginning of our adventure together."

Lucian stood in the doorway, watching Makoto's retreating form. Something about the man's presence lingered in the room like a subtle perfume, both intoxicating and mysterious. "Makoto," he called out impulsively, surprising himself.

The masked figure paused mid-step, turning with graceful precision. "Yes?" His voice held a note of curiosity, perhaps even hope.
"I just..." Lucian hesitated, rubbing the back of his neck as he searched for words. "Thank you again for taking a chance on me. Not many would."

Makoto tilted his head, silver hair cascading over one shoulder. For a moment, the perpetual smile of his mask seemed to soften. "The pleasure is entirely mine, Detective."
When he turned back, there was something different in his posture—a vulnerability that hadn't been present during their earlier conversations.

“Goodnight, Lucian.”

“Goodnight Makoto.”

With that, he closed the door, leaving Lucian alone in the luxurious room. The soft click of the latch echoed in the silence, and Lucian stood motionless for a moment, absorbing the reality of his new circumstances.

He moved to the window, watching as raindrops traced meandering paths down the glass. The city below glittered like a sea of stars, a stark contrast to the perpetual gloom that hung over Kanai Ward. From this height, the city seemed almost peaceful, its secrets hidden beneath layers of rain and neon lights.

Lucian's reflection stared back at him, his crimson eyes more pronounced in the darkened glass. He looked tired, the weight of his journey evident on his face. His Forte stirred within him, a constant reminder of his condition. The hunger was always there now, a dull ache in these late hours of the night.

With a sigh, Lucian turned away from his reflection and headed toward the bathroom. Perhaps a hot shower would help clear his mind and soothe the growing discomfort in his veins.
The bathroom was as luxurious as the rest of the suite—gleaming marble surfaces, brushed metal fixtures, and ambient lighting that could be adjusted with a touch panel on the wall. Plush towels hung from heated racks, and an assortment of high-end toiletries lined a recessed shelf.

A dominating shower enclosure of clear glass occupied one corner—large enough to comfortably fit two people. He turned the shower on, letting steam fill the room as he stripped off his travel-worn clothes. His body ached, muscles tense from the long journey and the stress of uncertainty.

He caught sight of himself in the mirror and hesitated, scrutinizing his reflection with a mix of curiosity and unease. His body had altered subtly since the transformation—leaner, more defined, yet marred by discolored scars that sharply contrasted with his pale skin. He felt a strange blend of pride and shame, a confusing tide of emotions that made him turn away. He hoped the hot shower would somehow cleanse him of this turmoil.

As he stepped under the hot spray, Lucian closed his eyes and let the water cascade over him, washing away the grime of travel and the lingering scent of the train.
The water cascaded down Lucian's body, creating rivulets that followed the contours of his muscular frame. Steam rose around him, enveloping his form in a gentle mist as he tilted his face upward, allowing the hot spray to wash over his features. His crimson eyes closed in momentary peace, dark lashes resting against his cheeks.

Lucian ran his fingers through his dark hair, letting it fall loose from its ponytail. The wet strands clung to his neck and shoulders, framing his face in a curtain of midnight. Droplets collected on his long eyelashes before cascading down his chiseled cheekbones, following the sharp line of his jaw.

The water traced paths along the sculpted planes of his torso, each muscle clearly defined beneath his alabaster skin. His body told stories of his past—a tapestry of experiences etched into his flesh. A jagged scar ran diagonally across his left pectoral, its discolored tissue a stark reminder of a case gone wrong years ago. Another marked his right side, just below his ribs, this one more deliberate in its precision, a wound received during his final mission with the WDO. Countless smaller marks mapped his journey as a detective—each one a memory, a lesson learned.

As the hot water soothed his tired muscles, Lucian's mind drifted to Makoto. The masked man was an enigma—charming yet secretive, powerful yet disarmingly warm. There was something about him that both intrigued and unsettled Lucian, a magnetic pull he couldn't quite understand. Perhaps it was the promise of answers, or maybe something more instinctual, more primal. His Forte responded to Makoto's presence in a way Lucian hadn't experienced before—not quite hunger, but a heightened awareness that tingled beneath his skin.

As he reached for the soap, Lucian paused, noticing the tremor in his hands. The hunger was growing stronger, a persistent ache that radiated from his core. He pressed his forehead against the cool tile wall, trying to steady his breathing as the sensation intensified. His fangs extended involuntarily, pressing against his bottom lip.

"Control it," he whispered to himself, his voice barely audible over the drumming of water. "You are in control."

But was he? Since his transformation, the line between control and chaos had blurred. The homunculus blood that now coursed through his veins seemed to have a will of its own—demanding, insistent, primal. Yet despite the persistent nagging, something felt missing. It wasn’t just the hunger, it felt like a part of his very being was dangling right in front of him and all he could do was beg for it like a dog.

Lucian took a deep breath and steadied himself enough to grab the soap, lathering his body methodically as if the routine might anchor him. The scent of lavender and sandalwood from the array of products enveloped him, a stark contrast to the metallic tang that perpetually lingered at the back of his throat. He tried to focus on the sensory experience—the temperature of the water, the texture of the soap against his skin, the steam filling his lungs with each breath—anything to distract from the gnawing emptiness inside.
After what felt like both an eternity and an instant, Lucian reluctantly turned off the shower, the sudden silence heavy in the steamy bathroom. He stepped out, wrapping one of the plush towels around his waist while using another to dry his hair. The bathroom mirror had fogged completely, hiding his reflection—a small mercy he was grateful for.

Lucian wiped a circle clear with his palm, just enough to see his face. His eyes glowed like embers in the dim light, unnaturally bright. The hunger had left its mark on his features, sharpening them, making him look predatory even when he tried to appear neutral.

"What are you becoming?" he whispered to his reflection.

No answer came, only the soft drip of water from his hair onto the marble floor.

Opening the door to the bedroom, he found himself enveloped in cooler air that raised goosebumps on his damp skin. He approached the wardrobe Makoto had mentioned, curious about what awaited him inside. The doors swung open silently on well-oiled hinges, revealing an array of clothing that looked both expensive and tasteful.
His fingers trailed over silk shirts and tailored suits before finding a drawer of sleepwear. He settled on a simple pair of black silk pajama pants. He slipped them on, the cool fabric a pleasant contrast against his skin.

Lucian padded across the plush carpet to the spacious bed, pulling back the heavy covers. The sheets felt impossibly smooth against his fingertips—a luxury he hadn't experienced in years of cheap motels and temporary lodgings. As he slid between the cool silk sheets, his body recognized comfort his mind couldn't quite trust. The mattress seemed to embrace him, conforming perfectly to the contours of his tired body.

The room was quiet save for the gentle patter of rain against the windows and the occasional distant rumble of thunder. Lucian stared up at the ceiling, watching shadows dance across it as lightning briefly illuminated the night sky.

Despite his physical comfort, his mind refused to quiet. Images of the day replayed in vivid detail—the train ride, the rain-soaked platform, and most persistently, Makoto. The masked man's gentle touch when he'd taken Lucian's coat, the musical lilt of his laughter, the way his head tilted when he was curious—all these details lingered in Lucian's mind with unusual clarity. There was something captivating about the mysterious CEO that made Lucian both wary and intrigued.
Then there was the case—an escaped prisoner with only a blood trace as evidence. Was this truly a coincidence, or had Makoto somehow orchestrated all of this? The timing seemed almost too perfect. Just as Lucian found himself at his lowest point, a mysterious benefactor appeared with promises of help and purpose.
Yet what choice did he have? The WDO had declared him dead, his body was changing in ways he couldn't control, and the hunger was becoming increasingly difficult to manage. If Makoto could truly help him understand and control his condition, wasn't that worth the risk?

Lucian closed his eyes, trying to quiet his racing thoughts. The silk sheets whispered against his skin as he shifted, searching for a comfortable position. Outside, the rain continued its relentless descent, a soothing symphony that gradually lulled him toward sleep.

As Lucian drifted into sleep, across the penthouse, Makoto stood before the window in his private chambers, gazing at the rain-drenched cityscape of Kanai Ward. He had removed his mask, placing it carefully on its ornate stand—a ritual he performed only in complete solitude. His bare face reflected in the glass, features delicate yet striking, with eyes that held centuries of secrets.

With practiced movements, he unfastened the buttons of his vest and laid it across a nearby chaise lounge. The green carnation ring caught the dim light as he flexed his fingers, recalling the sensation of Lucian's hand in his own—warm, strong, slightly calloused.

The feeling lingered in his hand as he contemplated the events of the evening. Detective Lucian Foresight—a name he had first encountered in classified WDO reports months ago. The file had immediately caught his attention: a detective with vampiric abilities, declared deceased after exposure to homunculus blood.

It was exactly the kind of case that demanded Makoto's personal attention—not just for the scientific curiosity it sparked, but for the deeper implications it held for his long-term plans for Kanai Ward.

Makoto moved to his desk, where a crystal decanter held a deep crimson liquid. He poured a small measure into a glass and swirled it thoughtfully, watching how it clung to the sides like blood. The scent rose to meet him, rich and complex, reminiscent of aged wine but with undertones that no vineyard could produce.

"You're quite the find, Detective Foresight," he murmured to the empty room, taking a delicate sip.

Makoto's reflection smiled back at him from his glass, a private expression quite different from the perpetual grin of his mask. His true face was youthful, almost ageless, with high cheekbones and otherworldly violet eyes.

"To think, after all this time..." Makoto whispered, his gaze drifting toward the hallway where his new guest slept. "The blood of my kind flows through your veins, Detective. What secrets will it reveal to you? What will you become?"

Chapter Text

Lucian groggily stumbled out of bed, a wide yawn escaping his mouth as his sharp fangs peeked past his lips, glistening faintly in the soft light. He changed into his usual attire with a practiced ease, smoothing out the creases in his shirt. His fingers deftly tamed his unruly bed head, gathering the dark strands into a neat ponytail that framed his pale face. As he dressed, he meticulously pulled his favorite mesh top over his head, each movement calculated to avoid snagging on the intricate web of piercings adorning his ears and brow.

He found himself alone in the expansive penthouse, the absence of Makoto’s vibrant eccentricity palpable in the stillness. His eyes scanned the penthouse, and the silence enveloped him like a heavy, invisible shroud. The soft, muted glow of Kanai Ward's perpetually overcast morning seeped through the wide, unadorned windows, casting a dim light that barely distinguished day from night. Outside, the distant hum of the city created a gentle symphony beneath the persistent patter of rain against the glass, a rhythmic whispering that seemed to echo the city’s somber mood. The passage of time felt elusive, as if the days and nights bled into one another in this perpetually gloomy cityscape.

He ventured around the open space of the main room, finally settling on another gaudy envelope on the bar counter addressed to him. His fingers brushed against the letter. A few short lines and Makoto’s teasing lilt spelled out in each letter, promising his swift return and hinting at the day Lucian might spend waiting. Beneath it, folded with pristine care, lay a wine-red leather jacket and an invitation to the city outside.

The card’s playfulness felt like a sigh escaping his lips. “I’ll be back soon,” it read, each word precise and full of his mischief. “Stay dry out there~”

Lucian imagined the ink drying even before the elevator doors closed, Makoto smirking behind his mask, relishing the anticipation his absence might provoke. Lucian unfolded it, admiring the ornate rose and vine design and the expensive feel of the leather. He smiled wryly, envisioning how it would look against his mesh undershirt, how it might wear him more than he wore it. It was almost too much, too exact, like everything else Makoto did.

Lucian slipped on the jacket, noting how perfectly it fit his frame, as if Makoto had memorized every contour of his body. Of course he had. Nothing seemed to escape those calculating eyes behind that mask.
With his current freedom, he opted to survey the penthouse for other surprises. He moved through the vast space freely, noting everything with a sharp eye. The sprawling architecture was littered with Makoto’s touches—an odd sculpture here, a carefully placed stack of enigmatic documents there. Lucian imagined the devilish satisfaction in Makoto's voice as he described the intricacies of his collection. He paused when he saw the breakfast. It was elegant. Precise. It was undeniably perfect.
Makoto’s thoughtfulness was impossible to ignore. It manifested in delicate arrangements of fruits, pastries, and a finely steeped tea that wafted its floral warmth into the cool air. Lucian poured himself a cup, lingering in the sweetness of the moment as much as in the sugar.

The tea was lush with flavors that bloomed on his tongue—jasmine with hints of something darker, more mysterious. Just like its maker. Lucian sipped slowly, appreciating how even in his absence, Makoto had orchestrated his morning with meticulous attention.

He carried his cup to the floor-to-ceiling windows, watching rain streak down the glass. Kanai Ward sprawled beneath him, a labyrinth of neon-lit streets and shadowy alleys. From this height, the homunculi were indistinguishable from humans—perfect copies living borrowed lives. Lucian's eyes narrowed as he followed the paths of umbrellas moving like dark petals through the perpetual downpour.

The last drops of tea slid down his throat, warm and comforting against the chill that permeated even this luxurious sanctuary. Lucian set the empty cup down with a soft clink against the saucer, decision made.
"Time to see what secrets you're hiding, Kanai Ward," he murmured to himself, tracing a finger along the condensation-slick window. Lucian turned on his heel,making absolutely sure he had his keycard before stepping onto the elevator.

The elevator descended with near-silent efficiency, dropping him seventy floors in a stomach-lurching plunge that ended with a gentle chime. The lobby stretched before him—all polished marble and tasteful minimalism, devoid of the personal touches that made Makoto's penthouse so distinctive.

Stepping outside, the immediate assault of rain against his new leather jacket made Lucian smile despite himself. The coat repelled water perfectly, another of Makoto's thoughtful provisions. He pulled the collar up, and picked a direction and began to walk.

The streets hummed like insects in Lucian's ears, tiny currents of intent winding through Kanai Ward’s sprawl as he drifted from block to narrow block. Everything seemed suspiciously content, except for the footsteps he heard pursuing him, clinging to him like the mist in his wake. He turned a corner and disappeared into the crowded motion of downtown, losing his shadow in the press of bodies before sidestepping into an alley to catch it. When the figure rounded the corner, Lucian leaned against the slick brick and waited for it to meet his eyes.

In the breath before she spoke, Lucian studied his pursuer with keen detachment. She moved quickly but without fear, and her wide-eyed look of surprise suggested that Lucian was the one who had been caught. It was an expression she only wore for a fraction of a second, a mask like Makoto’s. She was young. Lucian guessed her to be in her late teens, but with Kanai Ward’s complicated history, he wasn’t entirely sure. Her hair was styled in a long braid ,the grayish hair paired with a tasteful cotton candy pink streak. She smirked, then laughed a knowing laugh that sent Lucian's curiosity reeling.

"You’re hard to keep up with," she said, skipping straight to familiarity. "Didn’t think the vampire detective would be so quick."

"And you?" Lucian probed. "Are you quick, or just determined?"

"I'm Kurumi," she offered without pause. "Call me a friend. Or, call me whatever you want, as long as you’re not calling for backup."
Lucian’s guard slipped, if only for a moment. He took a step back, sizing her up as the rain began to trickle down the back of his neck. "A friend with unusual taste in friends," he noted. "Why were you following me?"
Kurumi beamed, then tilted her head with playful admonition. "I just have a habit of sticking my nose into things,” she teased. “I’m Kanai’s Wards greatest informant.”

"The greatest informant, hm?" Lucian raised an eyebrow, his piercing red eyes flickering with interest despite his guarded stance. "That's quite a claim in a city full of secrets.

"Not a claim—a fact," Kurumi replied, twirling the pink streak of her hair between her fingers. “I hear you’re working for Makoto, so I was curious as to why.”

“Word travels fast huh? I just got here.” Lucian frowned. “Are you two…familiar?”

Kurumi chuckled, “We have some history for sure, we don’t see too much of each other these days though. I travel all over now, but I love coming back to my home here in Kanai Ward”

Her words were laced with invitation and challenge, leaving Lucian to wade through the familiarity of it all. He contemplated her fearless disposition, and how easily she’d managed to throw him off balance. Kurumi was the sort of puzzle he should have seen coming, but didn’t. He studied her further, finding subtle hints of Makoto’s enigmatic character woven into her sly confidence. There was a boldness to her that both surprised him and intrigued him.
"So," Kurumi continued, tilting her head slightly, her eyes gleaming with curiosity, "how are you liking the city so far? Does Makoto get to keep you around, or are you just passing through?"

Lucian’s eyes narrowed with a mix of caution and amusement, his gaze steady and appraising. "I haven’t made up my mind yet," he lied, his voice smooth yet noncommittal. "And it sounds like you might have a vested interest in that decision."
"Well, maybe I do," she replied enigmatically, her lips curling into a cryptic smile before she let out a short, soft laugh that seemed a touch too deliberate to be entirely innocent. "Why don’t you let me treat you to a coffee? If you’re here, I’m guessing it has something to do with a certain somebody breaking out of prison. I might just have some information you’ll find intriguing~"

She turned before he could reply, already certain of his decision. Lucian watched as she slipped ahead, never quite out of sight, never quite waiting for him to catch up. He couldn’t ignore the trail of breadcrumbs she laid in her wake. His own intentions seemed vague and slippery, trailing off in multiple directions as he decided to follow.

The clamor of the city grew louder as they reached the rooftop café. It was filled with brightly mismatched tables and patrons who wore the look of those trying to escape detection or rain, or both. Kurumi motioned to a table at the edge, where a large umbrella provided some shelter.

“What do you like?” She hummed, gearing herself to grab an order for them at the small bar in the corner of the cafe.

“Black coffee is fine”

Lucian took the seat and waited for her to get the order, allowing himself a moment of vulnerability as he took in the view. It was breathtaking. Below them, Kanai Ward stretched into every corner of the horizon. Above, heavy clouds simmered and shifted, continuing to spill themselves out onto the city. He forced his attention back to Kuromi when she sat across from him, smiling sweetly and sliding his cup over.

He took a thoughtful sip. It was hot and a bit too bitter but appreciated in the gloomy weather. “Thanks,” he mentioned stiffly, still trying to gauge what the young informant wanted.
She sat in front of him with an air of youthful nonchalance, sipping her sugary drink through a brightly colored straw. Her feet swung back and forth beneath the table, exuding a carefree energy, as if they were two teenagers sharing an after-school coffee and exchanging secrets. Her next words only reinforced this playful, innocent scene. "So, got a girlfriend?" she inquired with a teasing curiosity.

Lucian's expression remained impassive, though a flicker of amusement danced in his crimson eyes. "No girlfriend," he replied, his tone deliberately flat. "I find relationships... complicated.”

"Hmm, interesting." Kurumi leaned forward, her elbows resting on the table. "What about boyfriends, then? Or are you and Makoto..." She let the question hang in the air, her smile widening with mischievous intent.

Lucian nearly choked on his coffee, setting the cup down with a controlled precision that belied his inner turbulence. He fixed Kurumi with a steady gaze, trying to discern if she was fishing for information or simply trying to provoke him.
"Makoto and I have a strictly professional relationship," he stated, his voice cool and measured. "He just hired me for the case and as protection. We're... professionally acquainted."

"Is that what they're calling it these days?" Kurumi's laughter rippled through the air, light and teasing. She stirred her drink with deliberate slowness, the pink streak in her hair catching the dim light as she tilted her head. "For someone 'professionally acquainted,' you sure wear his gifts well. That jacket suits you."

Lucian's fingers unconsciously brushed against the supple leather of his coat. He hadn't mentioned it was from Makoto. "You're observant."
"Part of the job description." She winked, then leaned forward conspiratorially.

"Speaking of jobs," Kurumi leaned in, her eyes glinting with curiosity, "now that I know you're on the case, do you want to hear about who broke out?" Her voice carried a hint of intrigue as if inviting Lucian into a secret world.
Lucian raised an eyebrow, folding his arms across his chest in a gesture of skepticism. "You think there's information you know that Makoto won't provide me?" he questioned, his tone both probing and cautious.
Kurumi smirked, a playful yet knowing expression dancing across her face. "No, not exactly. But perhaps there's information he simply won't mention," she replied, her voice low and conspiratorial. "He's the type to tell the truth but not the whole truth." Her words hung in the air like a tantalizing mystery, promising layers yet to be uncovered.

It was the sort of answer Lucian expected from someone in Makoto's orbit—frustratingly cryptic, a seed of hopefulness at its core. As they continued their conversation, Lucian noted Kurumi’s cleverness, her relentless barrage of insight and hints that left him with more questions than before. He drank his coffee, trying not to drink the truth out of every word.

“All right, I’ll bite,” he sighed, his voice tinged with resignation. “What do you want from me?” His curiosity was piqued, even as he tried to mask it with nonchalance.
“Hmm, you’ll just owe me one~” she replied, her tone teasing and playful, like a cat toying with a mouse.

Lucian raised an eyebrow at her seemingly childish request, yet despite himself, a small smile crept across his lips. “Fine, I’ll owe you one,” he conceded, the corners of his mouth turning upward in reluctant amusement.
She laughed in response, the sound bright and musical, clearly delighted by his acquiescence. Her eyes sparkled with mischief as she continued, “Alright, so the man who broke out of jail is named Yomi Hellsmile, though I’m sure Makoto will tell you that much.”

She leaned in closer, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, as if the walls themselves had ears. “What he may not tell you is that Makoto was the very one to put him behind bars in the first place. Both Makoto and Number One himself made the decision to imprison Yomi.” Her words hung in the air, laden with intrigue. “Yomi swore up and down he would get revenge, So that’s why he probably hired you on as a bodyguard.”
“Wait, so Makoto and Number One are familiar?” Lucian's brow furrowed with confusion.

“More than familiar,” she replied, her tone filled with layers of hidden stories, “they have worked together for years, on and off.”

Lucian studied her with a skeptical gaze, searching her face for the truth behind her words. “How do you know that?”

A mischievous smile spread across her lips, her eyes dancing with secrets. She winked, “Well, truthfully, Number One and I are well-acquainted. That's how I know.”

The revelation left Lucian even more astounded, his mind racing with questions. “How do you know Number One? I never even saw what he looked like before he left the WDO.”

Kurumi's wink was playful, shrouded in mystery. “That’s a girl’s secret~” she teased, leaving Lucian with more questions than answers.
Lucian leaned back in his chair, his crimson eyes narrowing slightly as he processed this new information. The pieces were beginning to form a pattern, but one with deliberate gaps that seemed designed to lead him in circles.

A cheerful ringtone cut the silence, and Kurumi apologized as her phone rang. She answered with casual familiarity, her expression shifting subtly as she listened to the voice on the other end. Lucian couldn't make out the words, but he noticed how her posture straightened, how her playful demeanor momentarily gave way to something more serious.

"Duty calls," she sighed dramatically, rising from her seat. "The life of Kanai Ward's greatest informant is never dull." She pulled a small card from her pocket and slid it across the table. "My number. For when you realize how much you need my help."
Lucian picked up the card, examining the elegant script and simple design. No address, just a phone number and her name in flowing letters.

She carefully smoothed out the invisible wrinkles from her clothes, her fingers tracing over the fabric with deliberate precision. "Oh, there's one last tidbit you might find intriguing—Yomi had quite the network of contacts that were discovered after he was imprisoned, some of whom vanished without a trace. He was delving into some rather inhuman experiments. While individuals like Dr. Huesca were silenced early on, many others still roam freely to this day."
Lucian's eyes narrowed. "You're just going to drop that and leave?"

"Consider it a freebie," she said with a wink. "For our next chat, remember you owe me one."

She pulled her hood over her head, shielding herself from the relentless rain that pattered softly against the fabric. As droplets danced around her feet, she took a few playful, prancing steps away, the wet ground squishing beneath her boots. Suddenly, she paused, spinning back with a glint of mischief in her eyes. "Oh! One more thing!" she exclaimed, her voice carrying a teasing lilt. Lucian raised an intrigued eyebrow, curiosity piqued by her sudden proclamation. "Makoto loves the tall, dark, and handsome type~" she added with a knowing wink, leaving the words to linger in the damp air.

Before Lucian could respond, Kurumi was already bouncing away through the rain, her laughter trailing behind her like a ribbon in the wind.
He stared at the space she had occupied, his mouth slightly agape, then closed it with a sharp click of teeth.

"Tall, dark, and handsome huh?," he muttered, an unwelcome warmth creeping up his neck despite the chill of the rain. He pocketed her card with more care than he intended, fingers lingering on the embossed lettering.
Lucian drained the last of his coffee, grimacing at the bitter dregs. The rain had intensified, drumming against the umbrella above him with increasing urgency. He checked the time, Makoto should be home by now.

Lucian stood, adjusting his new leather jacket against the persistent drizzle. As he made his way back toward Makoto's penthouse, his mind churned with the information Kurumi had shared. The connection between Makoto and Number One, Yomi's imprisonment, the mysterious vanished contacts—it felt like being handed puzzle pieces from different boxes, all somehow meant to form one coherent picture.
The city's perpetual rainfall intensified, sheets of water cascading from the heavens as if trying to wash away secrets that had stained Kanai Ward for decades. Lucian ducked under awnings when possible, his boots splashing through puddles that reflected neon signs in distorted, dancing patterns.

Finally he reached the foot of Kanai Tower, pausing to look up at its looming presence. He sighed, shaking off Kurumi’s teasing final words as they resurfaced again before sauntering into the lobby. The security let him through with ease, and with a tap of his card he shuffled into the elevator and began his ascent.

When the elevator doors slid open to reveal the penthouse, Lucian immediately sensed Makoto's presence. Lucian's hair was damp despite his best efforts, droplets sliding down his neck and making his mesh shirt stick to his chest.
The sound of bubbling water reached his ears before he spotted its source. Following the gentle hum, Lucian rounded the corner only to find where Makoto was relaxing.

Lucian froze, his breath catching in his throat. Makoto lounged with his arms spread along the edge of the indoor tub, water lapping at the pale expanse of his chest. His white mask remained firmly in place, the stark contrast against his bare skin somehow making the sight more intimate, more forbidden.

"Welcome back," Makoto purred, his voice carrying over the gentle bubbling of the water. "Enjoying the jacket?"

Lucian swallowed hard, suddenly aware of how tight his throat felt. "It fits... perfectly," he managed, his eyes betraying him by lingering a moment too long on the expanse of exposed skin. Makoto's bare shoulders were slender yet defined, glistening with droplets of water that traced teasing paths across his collarbones. His mask, as always, revealed nothing, but Lucian could feel the weight of his gaze.

"Come join me," Makoto offered, raising a hand from the water to beckon him closer. "You look like you could use a warm soak after being out in that dreary rain all day."

Lucian's pulse quickened, his fangs pressing against his lower lip as he attempted to maintain his composure. The invitation hung in the air between them, heavy with implication.

"I should report on my findings first," Lucian said, struggling to keep his voice even as he shed the leather jacket, carefully hanging it on a nearby hook. "I've been gathering information about Yomi Hellsmile."

"Always the detective," Makoto tilted his head, water droplets sliding down the smooth surface of his mask. "Your dedication is... admirable. But surely your investigation can wait for an hour?" His fingers traced lazy patterns on the water's surface, creating ripples that expanded outward. "The water is divine."

Lucian's gaze traveled from the ripples in the water back to Makoto's masked face, caught between professional duty and the magnetic pull of temptation that seemed to radiate from the other man. His new jacket suddenly felt too warm against his skin, even from its position on the hook.

"My investigation can wait," Lucian conceded, surprising himself with his own words. “Let me get changed.”

Makoto's soft laughter followed him as he retreated to the guest room, the sound echoing off the marble walls and settling somewhere beneath Lucian's skin. He closed the door behind him, leaning against it for a moment as he gathered his composure.

"What am I doing?" he whispered to the empty room, running a hand through his damp hair. The conversation with Kurumi replayed in his mind. Professional relationship. Strictly professional. Yet here he was, about to join Makoto in his bath.
Lucian stripped off his clothes methodically, trying to focus on the practicality of the situation rather than the quickening of his pulse. The mesh shirt clung to his torso, requiring a bit more effort to remove
His fingers trembled slightly as they worked at his belt, his mind racing with conflicting thoughts. He was here for a job—to investigate Yomi Hellsmile and protect Makoto. Professional boundaries existed for a reason.

And yet.

He already found himself changed into black swimming trunks, returning to his mysterious new boss to join him in the water. His pale skin was luminous in the dim lighting. Steam rose from the water in lazy spirals, creating an otherworldly atmosphere that felt removed from time and consequence.

"Decided to join me after all," Makoto observed, his voice like honey. "I was beginning to think you might decline my invitation.

"I was... deliberating," Lucian replied, aware of how his voice had dropped to a lower register. He approached the edge of the tub, steam curling around his ankles like possessive fingers.

Makoto shifted slightly, making room. "Deliberation is wise. Though sometimes..." he trailed off, watching as Lucian slipped into the water with a barely suppressed shiver of pleasure. "Sometimes instinct serves us better."
The water enveloped Lucian like a warm embrace, his muscles instantly relaxing as heat penetrated to his core. He settled opposite Makoto, maintaining what he deemed a professional distance despite the intimate setting.

“So where did you vanish this morning?” Lucian asked, trying to steer the conversation to safer waters. The steam rising between them created a hazy barrier, softening the edges of reality.

"Curious, aren't you?" Makoto tilted his head, water droplets sliding down his neck in rivulets that Lucian's eyes couldn't help but follow. "Just some business that required my personal attention. Nothing for you to worry about... yet."
That final word hung between them, pregnant with meaning. Lucian sank deeper into the water, letting it lap at his collarbones.

"I met someone interesting today," he ventured, watching Makoto's reaction. "An informant named Kurumi."

Makoto's posture shifted subtly, almost imperceptibly, but Lucian caught it—a momentary tension before he relaxed again. "Ah, our little butterfly has fluttered back to Kanai Ward," he mused. “Her and I go back, she is very close to Number One.”
"I gathered as much from our conversation," Lucian replied, watching the water ripple between them. "She seemed eager to share information about Yomi Hellsmile—and about you."

Makoto's laugh was melodic, almost musical as it echoed off the tiled walls. "Did she now? And what fascinating tales did our little informant spin for you?"
Lucian studied the masked figure before him, weighing his next words carefully. "She mentioned you were responsible for putting Yomi behind bars. That you worked with Number One to imprison him."

Steam curled between them like a physical manifestation of the tension in the air. Makoto's fingers traced lazy circles in the water, creating hypnotic ripples that expanded outward.
"Not entirely inaccurate," he finally conceded, his voice softer than before. "Though the truth, as always, is more complex, Kurumi always did have a loose tongue. I wonder what else she told you."

“She mentioned your taste in men.”

The words had slipped out before Lucian could stop them, hanging in the humid air between them. For a moment, silence reigned, broken only by the gentle bubbling of the water.
Then Makoto laughed—a genuine sound of surprise and delight that seemed to catch even him off guard. He leaned forward slightly, water cascading down his chest as he moved.

"Did she now?" His voice was honey-sweet with amusement. "And what exactly did our little butterfly have to say about my... preferences?"

Lucian felt heat creep up his neck that had nothing to do with the bath. "Something about tall, dark, and handsome," he replied, aiming for nonchalance and missing by a mile.

"How presumptuous of her," Makoto said, his voice carrying an undercurrent of amusement. "Though not entirely incorrect." The single eye of his mask seemed to bore into Lucian with sudden intensity.

Lucian felt as if he were suddenly trapped in a current far stronger than the gentle bubbling of the bath. Heat pooled low in his stomach, and he cursed his body's betrayal. He'd faced down monsters and madmen without flinching, yet here he was, undone by a single sentence and the weight of that masked gaze.

"Does that make you uncomfortable, detective?" Makoto asked, his voice dropping to a near-whisper. "The idea that I might find you... appealing?"

"I'm here to do a job," Lucian replied, his voice strained with effort to maintain composure. "Professional boundaries exist for a reason."

"Ah, professionalism." Makoto sighed dramatically, tilting his head back slightly. "Such a convenient shield against vulnerability." His fingers traced the surface of the water, inching ever closer to where Lucian's hand rested against the edge of the tub. "But I wonder—is it truly professionalism that concerns you.”

With those final words, Makoto rose gracefully from the water, his body tilting at an angle that unveiled his complete nudity, which had been hidden beneath the surface all along. Lucian's eyes widened as he took in the sight of Makoto's slender and delicate frame, each contour impossibly smooth and glistening with droplets that caught the light like tiny jewels. Makoto stood with an elegance that shielded his front from view, but Lucian was given an unobstructed view of his lithe back and narrow waist, a study in graceful lines.

"Why don’t we begin our investigation of the prison, my dear detective?" Makoto suggested, his voice a playful melody. "Since you seem oh so drawn to your duty~"

Lucian swallowed hard, his mouth suddenly dry despite the steam-filled air surrounding him. He averted his gaze, though the image of Makoto's bare form had already burned itself into his mind.

"We can leave for the prison within the hour," Lucian managed, his voice embarrassingly hoarse. He remained in the water, unwilling to rise just yet, his body's reaction to Makoto's display still all too evident.

"Perfect," Makoto purred, wrapping a plush white towel around his waist with deliberate slowness. "I'll get dressed. Take your time, detective." The last words carried a knowing lilt that made Lucian's fangs press sharply against his lower lip.
As Makoto's footsteps faded down the hallway, Lucian sank deeper into the water, letting it close over his shoulders. He exhaled slowly, trying to regain his composure as his heart hammered against his ribs. The warmth of the bath did nothing to cool the heat spreading through his body, a heat born of something far more dangerous than hot water.

"Focus," he muttered to himself, closing his eyes briefly. "You're here to solve a case, not..." He left the thought unfinished, unwilling to give voice to the desires stirring within him.
But the image of Makoto's lithe form rising from the water refused to dissolve, lingering at the edges of his consciousness like a persistent shadow. Lucian waited until his heartbeat steadied before rising from the bath, water cascading down his body as he reached for a towel.

He wrapped a towel around his waist, water droplets tracing paths down his flushed chest and back as he padded to the guest room.

He dressed methodically, each layer of clothing a barrier between himself and the magnetic pull of Makoto's presence. The leather jacket—Makoto's gift—was the final piece, an unwelcome reminder of the tangled web he was willingly walking into. He smoothed his hands over the supple material, hesitating for a moment before pulling it on. The leather settled against his shoulders like a second skin, its weight both comforting and condemning.

When he emerged from the guest room, Makoto was waiting by the elevator, fully dressed in his customary ornate red suit. The white mask revealed nothing of his thoughts, but Lucian could feel the weight of his gaze.
"Ready, detective?" Makoto asked, his voice carrying a hint of amusement. "You look... refreshed."

Lucian nodded, maintaining a careful distance as they stepped into the elevator together. The small space seemed to shrink further, charged with an electricity that made the hairs on Lucian's arms stand on end beneath his jacket.

"The jacket suits you perfectly," Makoto observed, his voice carrying a hint of satisfaction. "As I knew it would."

"Thank you," Lucian replied stiffly, adjusting the sleeves with practiced nonchalance. "About the prison—what should I expect?"

Makoto chuckled softly, the sound echoing in the confined space of the descending elevator. "Expect the unexpected, detective. Kanai Ward's prison is... unconventional, to say the least." His mask's eye seemed to gleam with private amusement. "The facility was designed to hold those whose crimes extend beyond the realm of ordinary justice."

The elevator doors slid open to reveal the familiar private garage beneath the building. A sleek black car waited, its engine purring to life as they approached.

"A driver?" Lucian inquired, eyeing the tinted windows suspiciously.

"One of my more reliable employees," Makoto replied, opening the rear door with a flourish. "After you."

Lucian slid into the plush leather interior, immediately noting the privacy partition between the front and back seats. Makoto followed, settling beside him with an elegant grace that seemed to highlight the confined space between them. Their knees almost touched, the proximity sending an unwelcome thrill through Lucian's body.

The drive to the prison was a study in restraint. Lucian kept his eyes fixed out the window, hyper-aware of Makoto sitting beside him. The car's interior felt too small, too intimate, charged with an electricity that made Lucian's skin prickle beneath his leather jacket.

"You seem tense, detective," Makoto observed, his voice like silk in the confined space. "Still thinking about our bath?"

Lucian felt heat rush to his face, his jaw clenching as he fought to maintain his composure. "I'm thinking about the case," he replied tersely, his voice strained with the effort of professional detachment. "About Yomi Hellsmire. About what we might find at the prison."

"Of course you are," Makoto replied, the smile evident in his voice despite his mask. "Such dedication. Such... focus." His gloved hand moved to rest on the seat between them, fingers splayed just inches from Lucian's thigh. "It's one of your most admirable qualities."

"Yomi Hellsmile's escape concerns me more than... recreational activities." Lucian frowned, not daring to meet the masked gaze of the other man.

"Is that what we were doing? Recreating?" Makoto tilted his head, the single eye of his mask gleaming with amusement. "How fascinating that you'd characterize it that way."

Before Lucian could formulate a suitable response, the car slowed to a stop. Through the tinted windows, he could make out a towering structure of dark stone and steel rising against Kanai Ward's perpetually gray sky. Unlike the neon-lit buildings they'd passed, the prison seemed to absorb light rather than reflect it, a black hole in the city's landscape.

"Charming place," Lucian remarked dryly as they approached the main gate. "I can see why Yomi was so eager to leave."

Makoto's laugh was melodic, floating through the tense air between them. "The architecture is rather severe, isn't it? Though I've always found there's a certain... honesty in structures built for containment rather than comfort."
The massive iron gates creaked open at their approach, revealing a courtyard slick with rain. Guards in dark uniforms stood at attention, their faces impassive as they recognized Makoto. Lucian noted how they averted their gaze from the mask, a gesture that seemed born of respect tinged with fear.

"Mr. Kagutsuchi," a stern-faced woman greeted them, her uniform more elaborate than the others. "We weren't expecting you today."

"Spontaneity keeps institutions sharp, Warden Eden," Makoto replied smoothly. "This is Detective Foresight. He's investigating Yomi's escape on my behalf."

The warden's eyes narrowed as she assessed Lucian, her gaze lingering on his crimson eyes and facial piercings. "I see. Follow me."

They were led through a series of security checkpoints, each more rigorous than the last. The prison's interior was a labyrinth of cold stone corridors and reinforced steel doors, the air thick with disinfectant and something else—a faint metallic scent that made Lucian's nostrils flare.

"You'll want to see the cell, I presume." Eden continued, her heels clicking down the hallway as they ventured further.

"Among other things," Makoto replied, the single eye of his mask revealing nothing of his thoughts. "We'll also require access to the surveillance footage from the night of the escape, as well as a complete list of all personnel who were on duty."
The warden's lips thinned into a tight line. "Of course, Mr. Kagutsuchi. My staff is already working on preparing that."

They moved quietly across the grounds, Lucian’s gaze keen and alert for any hint of what they might find. Once inside the maximum security zone, they were met with the specter of a long, echoing corridor. Every footfall ricocheted down the concrete expanse like the ghost of a spent bullet. Lucian absorbed the scene, letting the enormity of the empty building settle into him as they walked the deserted length.

Eden halted in front of a heavily fortified door, her stance rigid with the weight of her professional responsibilities. "This is where he was kept," she announced, her voice flat and unwavering as she placed her palm on a biometric scanner.The door responded with a soft pneumatic hiss, effortlessly gliding open to reveal a rather unremarkable cell. Lucian's eyebrows arched in surprise; he had envisioned something stark and unforgiving, befitting the containment of a notorious criminal. Instead, the room bore a striking resemblance to an unused guest room, albeit one secured behind multiple layers of advanced biometric locks.

Lucian strode inside first, his demeanor transforming to one of focused intensity. His piercing crimson eyes swept across the room, dissecting every detail with practiced ease.
Each step felt deliberate, a reminder of Lucian’s certainty even in uncertainty. The cell, now vacated, told a story he was determined to read. His eyes traced the room's periphery, moving from the tangle of upturned furniture to the meticulous arrangement of loose papers left behind. He sifted through them with detached urgency, familiar words and phrases hinting at Yomi’s vast and relentless plans. Though cryptic and incomplete, they gave Lucian enough to know he’d find no new information. This was part of Yomi’s game, the kind of taunt only a man who lived to provoke would leave.

"Thorough," Makoto remarked as Lucian replaced the papers and focused elsewhere.

"But missing something," Lucian said, eyeing the disheveled bedding and carefully noting how deliberate the mess appeared. "Too staged. Too clean."

"You’re saying there was an accomplice?" Makoto prompted.

Lucian knelt down, examining the floor with meticulous attention. His fingers traced along a barely perceptible groove in the concrete, following it to where it disappeared beneath the bed frame. "Or more than one," Lucian replied.
"The escape wasn't spontaneous," he murmured, half to himself. "This was methodical, planned over time." He glanced up at Makoto, whose masked face revealed nothing. "Someone helped him from the inside."
Warden Eden stiffened visibly at the accusation. "Impossible. My staff undergoes rigorous psychological screening and—"

"And yet," Lucian interrupted smoothly, rising to his full height, "here we are." His crimson eyes narrowed as he studied the cell once more. "I'd like to see the surveillance footage now."

The warden's mouth tightened into a thin line, but she nodded curtly. "This way."

They followed her through a maze of corridors, the fluorescent lights overhead casting harsh shadows on their faces.

The surveillance footage room was a stark contrast to the rest of the prison—a small chamber lined with monitors displaying grainy feeds from every corner of the facility. A nervous technician sat before the main console, fingers hovering over keys as they entered at the warden's command.

"Show us the footage from the night of the escape," Eden ordered, her voice clipped with barely contained tension. "Cell block D, all angles, starting twelve hours before the incident."
The technician nodded, tapping rapidly at the keyboard. The central monitor flickered to life, displaying a time-stamped feed of Yomi's cell. Lucian leaned forward, his crimson eyes narrowing as he studied the footage with predatory focus.
For the first several hours, nothing seemed amiss. Yomi paced his cell, occasionally writing in what appeared to be a journal, his movements casual and unhurried. The routine of prison life played out in monotonous detail—meals delivered, lights dimming, the occasional guard passing by the reinforced door.

"There," Lucian pointed suddenly, his finger hovering over the screen. "At 2:17 AM. The guard checks the cell but doesn't follow protocol."
Makoto leaned in closer, his masked face mere inches from Lucian's. "Explain."

"The standard procedure would be to verify the prisoner visually through the observation window," Lucian noted, his voice steady despite the proximity. "This guard merely glances at the biometric panel before moving on."

"Check his movements throughout the facility that night."

The technician's fingers flew across the keyboard, pulling up multiple camera angles that tracked that specific guard through the prison. His patrol route appeared normal until—
"He disappears from camera view for approximately six minutes here," Lucian noted, tapping the screen. "Between sectors 4 and 5. Where is that located, Makoto?”

"That is our old genetic ward, where prisoners would be apart of the genetic harvesting for homunculus research before it was shut down”

Lucian's eyes narrowed, a cold realization settling in his gut. "So he had access to the old research facilities. Interesting."

"Indeed," Makoto replied, his voice carrying a hint of something Lucian couldn't quite identify—concern, perhaps, or possibly satisfaction. "The genetic harvesting program was officially discontinued years ago. Those labs should have been sealed."
The warden shifted uncomfortably behind them. "They were sealed. Access requires multiple clearances and—"

"Clearly not sealed enough," Lucian cut in, his attention still fixed on the monitor. "Can you show us what happened next?"

The technician's fingers trembled slightly as they advanced the footage. At 3:42 AM, the cameras in Yomi's cell block flickered, the image distorting for precisely eight seconds before returning to normal. When the picture stabilized, nothing appeared changed—except for one crucial detail that caught Lucian's keen eye—Yomi's journal, previously clutched in his hands, was now lying on the bed beside him.

"Rewind and slow it down," Lucian commanded, leaning closer to the screen. The technician complied, and they watched the eight seconds of distortion frame by frame. Through the static, Lucian detected a shadow moving across the cell, too quick for human perception at normal speed.

"There's your accomplice," Lucian murmured, his voice barely audible. "Someone with access to the surveillance system and knowledge of the camera's blind spots."

Makoto tilted his head, the single eye of his mask fixed on the frozen image. "Impressive deduction, detective." His voice carried a note of genuine appreciation that sent an unwelcome warmth through Lucian's chest.

"We’ve seen enough," Lucian concluded. "At least, enough to know we won’t find more this way."

"Warden, has the blood sample been prepared?" Makoto inquired, his voice steady but laced with a hint of urgency.

The warden stiffened, her professional demeanor cracking slightly. "Yes, Mr. Kagutsuchi. We've preserved everything as instructed." She gestured for them to follow, leading them down another corridor that sloped gradually downward, away from the main prison complex.

They followed the warden through another series of corridors, descending deeper into the facility. The air grew noticeably cooler, carrying the sterile scent of disinfectant and something else—a metallic tang that made Lucian's nostrils flare. His fangs tingled with an unwelcome sensation, his vampiric instincts responding to the unmistakable presence of blood.

It was there Lucian paused, trying to ignore the nausea already rising in his throat. The potent memory of blood and what it did to him threatened to overpower his resolve. He hadn’t tested himself this way since leaving, and hadn't tasted anything this strong. It was too easy to imagine losing control. It was too easy to imagine that maybe he wouldn’t.

"You can handle it," Makoto murmured, as if reading Lucian's thoughts. His touch was gentle yet reassuring, a warm hand placed firmly on the small of Lucian’s back, encouraging him to move forward. The gesture was like a silent promise of support, a steady presence urging Lucian onward.

As they stepped into the room, a vast array of samples dotted the shelves like a peculiar collection of trophies. Each specimen was thankfully sealed away in its own glass container, yet the lingering, metallic scent of blood hung in the air, making Lucian's mouth go dry and his senses keenly alert. The dim lighting cast long shadows across the room, adding to the eerie atmosphere. "Warden, please leave us to this alone," Makoto requested, his voice cutting through the silence with an edge of authority and quiet determination.

The warden hesitated, her eyes darting between Lucian and the room of samples. "Mr. Kagutsuchi, protocol dictates that I—"

"I'm well aware of protocol," Makoto interrupted, his voice carrying a subtle edge that belied his otherwise calm demeanor. "And I'm also aware of who funds this facility. Leave us."

The warden's jaw tightened, but she nodded curtly and retreated, the door sealing behind her with a pneumatic hiss. Lucian exhaled slowly, fighting the primal urge that coursed through his veins. His fangs ached, pressing against his lower lip as he struggled to maintain his composure.

"Fascinating reaction," Makoto observed, his voice carrying no judgment, only curiosity. "How long has it been since you've been in proximity to this much blood, detective?"

Lucian's crimson eyes flashed with momentary irritation. "Long enough," he replied tersely, forcing himself to approach the central examination table where a single vial stood apart from the others. "Is this what we came for?"
"Indeed." Makoto moved to stand beside him, their shoulders nearly touching. "A sample of Yomi's blood, found en masse in his cell after his escape."

Lucian's eyes narrowed, studying the vial with clinical detachment despite the hunger clawing at his insides. "Found en masse? That's a significant amount of blood loss." His voice remained steady, professional, even as his body betrayed him with a subtle tremor.

"Yes, a curious detail, isn't it?" Makoto circled the table, his gloved fingers hovering just above the vial without touching it. "Enough blood to suggest a fatal wound, yet where did the star of our show vanish off to?”

"According to the initial report, when the guards discovered Yomi was missing, they found nearly two liters of his blood pooled on the floor of his cell." His voice remained clinical, detached. "Most of it was cleaned up, but this sample was preserved for analysis."

Lucian leaned closer, studying the dark liquid contained within the glass. Despite its mundane appearance, something about it felt wrong—the color too vibrant, the viscosity slightly off. His vampiric senses detected subtle differences that human observers would miss entirely.

"This isn't normal blood," he murmured, his eyes narrowing. “A Homunculi?”

"Precisely," Makoto's voice carried a hint of approval. "The original Yomi Hellsmile is long gone." He circled the table, his movements fluid and deliberate. "This blood carries cellular markers consistent with homunculi physiology," Makoto continued, "but there's something else—a mutation, perhaps, or an intentional alteration we can’t quite discern."

"Thus, you called upon the quintessential 'tall, dark, and handsome vampire' for assistance," Lucian remarked with a dry chuckle, his voice tinged with amusement.

Makoto's laughter filled the sterile laboratory, a melodic sound that seemed at odds with their grim surroundings. "Your sense of humor remains intact despite the... temptation." He gestured toward the vial. "I'm impressed by your restraint."

"Restraint is a necessity in my line of work," Lucian replied, forcing his attention back to the blood sample. "Though I admit, this is testing my limits." He leaned closer, nostrils flaring as he detected something else—a faint, almost imperceptible scent beneath the metallic tang of blood. "There's something else here. An alchemical agent, perhaps?"

"Your senses are remarkable," Makoto murmured, stepping closer until the fabric of his suit brushed against Lucian's leather jacket. "What do you detect?"

Lucian forced his attention back to the blood sample, fighting the dual discomfort of Makoto's proximity and the primal hunger gnawing at his insides. “I’ll have to taste to find out.
”
Lucian gently swirled the viscous liquid in the small glass vial, watching as it caught the light with each rotation. Slowly, he popped the cap, releasing a pungent aroma that assaulted his senses with the force of a speeding truck. The scent was intoxicating, causing his fangs to protrude eagerly from his gums, a primal response to the tantalizing promise within. His eyes darted toward Makoto one last time, a silent exchange passing between them.

"Don't worry," Makoto assured him, his voice a silken caress in the sterile room. "I won't judge what comes next."

Lucian gave a weak nod, a ghost of the confidence he once had in his abilities, and steeled himself for the moment of contact. His head spun as he put the blood to his lips. Everything rushed back with shocking clarity. Too much, too fast, too soon.

The first drop touched his tongue like liquid fire, sending shockwaves of sensation coursing through his body. His crimson eyes widened, then narrowed to slits as the complex flavors unfolded across his palate. It was blood, yes—but altered, infused with something ancient and deeply wrong.

The feeling was overwhelming, an electric storm of insight and memory that scrambled Lucian’s senses and brought him to his knees. He saw Yomi, the man’s brash laughter ricocheting off the walls of Lucian’s consciousness. He saw the route Yomi took, the mysterious figure who freed him, and the blood spilled in the cell. He saw the havoc of Yomi’s escape, the door left open and the chaos it released, the years and years of power lost and found in a single moment. And then, he saw red.
Makoto swiftly dropped to his knees beside Lucian, his hands outstretched just in time to catch him before he crumpled to the earth. "Lucian!" he exclaimed, his voice tinged with urgency and concern. "What is it?"
The blood and the visions tore through him, each second stretching impossibly long. "H—" Lucian tried to speak, tried to give Makoto what he needed, but the word died on his lips as a wave of violent hunger rose within him, drowning all sense and reason. It hurtled through him like a living thing, twisting every thought, every word, every heartbeat. Lucian clung to the last shreds of his composure, feeling them slip with the last images of Yomi burned into his mind. The sound of Makoto's voice grew distant, then vanished entirely.

•••

Lucian stirred, each thought coalescing around the sound of Makoto’s voice. He awoke to find himself where he had least expected—in the penthouse, in the dark, in the waning tension of Makoto’s attention and the safety of his presence. The room was a quiet pulse of shadows and city lights, their luminescent whispers floating across Lucian’s face as he blinked himself back to consciousness.

He winced, fragments of memory returning like shards of broken glass—the blood, the visions, the overwhelming hunger that had threatened to consume him entirely. "How long was I out?" He murmured, his voice raw and unfamiliar to his own ears. He tried to sit up but found his limbs heavy, uncooperative.

"Nearly six hours," Makoto replied, his masked face hovering at the edge of Lucian's vision. "You had quite the reaction." He sat perched on the edge of the bed, close enough for Lucian to feel his presence but not quite touching him. "Any longer, and I would have had to resort to more drastic measures. A prince's kiss, perhaps."

The teasing tone was wrapped in genuine concern, Lucian noted, though he wasn't sure if that concerned him more or less. He turned the last fragments of memory over in his mind, piecing them together until the clear image of Yomi and his escape crystallized against the chaos of before.

"You actually got me back here," Lucian said, his voice tinged with amazement and disbelief. "How did you manage that?"

Makoto shrugged nonchalantly. "I hoisted you over my shoulder, like a sack of very fashionable potatoes."

Lucian let out a short laugh, but it quickly turned into a wince as pain lanced through him. "I lost control," he confessed, speaking both to himself and to the man beside him.
"Just a little," Makoto reassured him, unfazed by Lucian’s condition and yet entirely attentive to it. "And only for a brief moment."

Lucian turned to Makoto, his eyes a swirling mix of disbelief and reluctant trust, like storm clouds hovering over calm seas. The air between them felt precarious, as if teetering on the edge of an unseen cliff. "What if this is how it’s going to be?" Lucian asked, his voice tinged with an undercurrent of anxiety. "What if it’s always this way, and I’m always like—"

"We’ll figure it out," Makoto interrupted, his tone firm and reassuring, with an emphasis on we that Lucian had almost forgotten how to hear, like a long-lost melody.

"And what about Yomi?" Lucian pressed, his curiosity mingling with concern.

Makoto moved closer, exuding a calm confidence that was anything but uncertain. "We have options," he said, his voice steady and full of conviction. "A lot of them. And I think I know where to start."

The space between them seemed to shrink, the air charged with something more than just the lingering effects of Lucian's blood-induced vision. Makoto reached out, his hand hovering momentarily before gently brushing a strand of hair from Lucian's face. The simple gesture carried a weight that made Lucian's breath catch in his throat.

"You don't have to face this alone," Makoto murmured, his voice softer than Lucian had ever heard it. "Not anymore."

Lucian found himself leaning into the touch before he could think better of it, his usual defenses momentarily lowered by exhaustion and the strange intimacy of their situation. Makoto's hand was cool against his skin, a stark contrast to the warmth spreading through his chest.

The world seemed to slow around them, the penthouse falling silent but for their breathing and the gentle patter of rain against the windows. Lucian's eyes met Makoto's mask, searching for the gaze he knew was hidden behind it.

“Take off your mask," Lucian whispered, the words escaping before he could stop them. His voice was hoarse, barely audible even in the silence of the room, yet it seemed to hang between them with the weight of a confession.

Makoto went still, his hand freezing against Lucian's cheek. "That's quite a request, detective," he replied, his voice maintaining its melodic quality despite the underlying tension. "Especially from someone who values professional boundaries so highly."

Makoto slowly retracted his hand from Lucian, his fingers lingering in the air momentarily before he shifted his attention to his mask. "But... you have done such a commendable job so far, I suppose a little treat is in order," he remarked with a hint of amusement in his voice. Carefully, Makoto lifted the mask just enough to reveal a single, penetrating eye, which gazed down at Lucian with an enigmatic intensity. The eye, piercing and sharp, seemed to hold a world of secrets within its depths, offering Lucian a fleeting glimpse of the mystery behind the mask.

The eye that gazed down at Lucian was a deep, mesmerizing violet that seemed to glow with an inner fire. It was framed by impossibly long lashes and bore a mischievous glint that matched the playful tone of Makoto's voice, yet held depths of intelligence and secrets Lucian could only begin to fathom.

"Satisfied?" Makoto asked, his voice softer without the full mask to muffle it.

Lucian found himself transfixed, unable to look away from that single revealed eye. It was like staring into a flame—dangerous, beautiful, hypnotic. "Not entirely," he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper.
Makoto chuckled, the sound rich and warm. "Greedy, aren't we? I suppose that's what makes you such an effective detective." He lowered the mask back into place with deliberate care.

Lucian couldn't look away, transfixed by his partial glimpse of the man behind the mask. "Why do you hide?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

Makoto tilted his head, the mask once again concealing his expression completely. "Some questions are better left for our second date, detective," he replied, his voice carrying that familiar teasing lilt. "Besides, a man should maintain some mystery, don't you think?"

Before Lucian could respond, Makoto rose from the bed in one fluid motion. "You should rest," he suggested, his tone shifting to something more practical. "The blood sample affected you more strongly than I anticipated. Your body needs time to recover."

"When I'm recovered," Lucian said, his voice gaining strength despite his fatigue, "we need to discuss what I saw in that vision. Yomi's escape wasn't random. Someone helped him—someone with resources and knowledge of the prison's layout."
Makoto paused at the bedroom door, his silhouette outlined against the dim light from the hallway. "Of course, detective. All in good time." He turned slightly, the single eye on his mask catching the faint illumination. "But first, allow your body to heal. The answers will still be there tomorrow."

With that, he slipped through the doorway, closing it behind him with a soft click that seemed to echo in the suddenly empty room.

Lucian stared at the ceiling, his mind racing despite his body's exhaustion. The vision from the blood sample played in his mind like fragmented film reels—disjointed scenes that refused to form a coherent narrative. Yomi's laughter, the mysterious figure, the blood... and something else, something he couldn't quite grasp. A laboratory, perhaps? Faces he didn't recognize, experiments he couldn't comprehend.
His eyelids grew heavy as fatigue claimed him once more. The last thought that drifted through his mind before sleep took him was of Makoto's revealed eye—that mesmerizing violet iris that had gazed at him with such intensity, such knowing. What other secrets lie behind that mask? And why did Lucian feel so compelled to discover them all? Sleep finally took hold, the gentle rain tapped softly against the windows encircling him, each drop a whispered lullaby bidding him a quiet goodnight once more.

Chapter Text

The next morning arrived much like the previous one, with Lucian slowly extracting himself from a restless slumber and reluctantly facing the dawn of a new day. His mind throbbed with the remnants of yesterday's turmoil, and even after enduring another scalding shower, his skin felt foreign and unfamiliar. Despite the lingering discomfort, he donned his usual attire, meticulously chosen yet routine, and stepped out of his room in search of Makoto. The penthouse initially greeted him with an unsettling emptiness, its opulent living area devoid of Makoto's unmistakable energy and presence. The air felt still, almost heavy with the absence of his friend, amplifying the silence that enveloped the luxurious space.

Lucian paused in the heavy silence, his gaze sweeping the empty corridor as he pondered where the other man might have disappeared to this time. The air hung still, almost expectant, as if holding its breath. Behind him, down the dimly lit main hall, a lone sheet of paper fluttered gently from the slightly ajar doors of Makoto's office, its edges catching the light as it danced silently to the floor.

Lucian raised a single eyebrow in curiosity as a discarded piece of paper caught his attention, quietly sauntering over to the grand double doors of Makoto’s office. He bent down to pick up the sheet, noting with surprise its blankness, a stark contrast to the tumultuous scene he was about to enter. "I’m running out of paper…” he heard, the CEO's voice breaking the silence with an almost comical exasperation.

Lucian nearly chuckled at the absurdity of the statement spoken aloud. He gently pushed open the door, his eyes widening in astonishment at the spectacle before him. The office, which he had always known to be a showcase of elegance and sophistication, was now transformed into a labyrinth of paper chaos spun by Makoto. The once pristine space was now overwhelmed with a jumble of handwritten theories, scattered documents, and hastily torn-open packages, each addressed to Makoto and brimming with peculiar Amaterasu technology. The room was a testament to frenetic genius, a whirlwind of innovation and disorder.

A storm of ideas whipped around Makoto as Lucian entered the room. The ex-detective paused, momentarily captivated by the frenzy. Sheets of paper clung to surfaces like fragile, newborn creations, and Makoto was at their center, frantically alive. Lucian leaned against the doorframe, taking in the scene with a mix of amusement and exasperation.

"Good morning, Makoto" Lucian hummed, a smile tugging at the corners of his lips. Makoto’s name rolled naturally off his tongue, finally drawing the masked man from his research. “You look like a mad scientist right now.”

Makoto laughed, a sound like broken glass wrapped in silk. He finally looked up, his mask catching the dim light of his office. The oversized black-and-white eye seemed to follow Lucian's movements with an awareness separate from its wearer. His hair, usually so meticulously groomed, was now pulled up in a haphazard ponytail, with stray strands rebelliously escaping to frame his face. The sleeves of his shirt, usually crisp and immaculate, were rolled up past his forearms, revealing the faint ink stains on his skin. The top three buttons of his shirt were undone, exposing a hint of his collarbone and suggesting a rare moment of dishevelment in his otherwise orderly appearance.

"Ah, Lucian. I've made significant progress," he declared, his voice tinged with a weary triumph. He swept an arm over the cluttered workspace, as if unveiling a trove of hidden treasures. The table was strewn with papers, tools, and half-finished contraptions, each a testament to his tireless efforts. His voice, usually vibrant and commanding, now carried an undertone of exhaustion, and his once-precise movements had become languid and heavy.

"I can see that. Have you slept at all?"

Makoto waved away the question with a casual flick of his wrist, his fingers already dancing over a fresh page of scrawls. "A minor concern," he said dismissively, his voice tinged with excitement. "This is far more interesting."
Lucian moved closer, curiosity piqued, and peered over Makoto's shoulder. The desk was a chaotic landscape of notes and sketches, each sheet teeming with cryptic symbols and equations. "So what is this fascinating breakthrough?" Lucian asked, intrigued.

"Your condition," Makoto replied, his voice a fervent staccato. He paused, his focus sudden and sharp, like a predator on the hunt. "Actually, I need to draw more of your blood. Would you mind?"
Before Lucian could even form a response, Makoto had sprung up with a burst of energy, retrieving a syringe with unrestrained enthusiasm. He moved with such feverish intent that Lucian almost laughed, the room buzzing with Makoto's electric urgency.

"You’re quite something," Lucian said, watching as the syringe filled with dark red, the liquid swirling like a storm in a vial. "Is this safe in your sleep-deprived state?"

"Perfectly," Makoto replied, not missing a beat. His hands were steady as he carefully labeled the vial, each movement precise and deliberate. It was a token in his grand puzzle, a vital piece of the mystery he was determined to solve. He dove back into his seat, surrounded by the madness of his own making.

Lucian shook his head, bemused by the spectacle of it all. He sat across from Makoto, letting his eyes wander over the dizzying array of notes and diagrams. Each was an echo of Makoto's intricate mind, looping in on itself with stunning complexity. Lucian found himself impressed and overwhelmed, unable to keep pace with the web of logic Makoto spun.

Time slipped away, marked by the furious scritch-scratch of a pen racing across paper and the soft ticking of the clock on the wall. Finally, Lucian leaned forward, his thoughts beginning to drift back to the vivid images he had glimpsed from Yomi’s blood.

"Makoto," he said, his voice gently insistent. "About what I saw yesterday—"

"Mm?" Makoto murmured, his focus remaining fixed on his work, yet Lucian noticed the subtle slump in his shoulders, the languid ease seeping into his movements like a slow, creeping fog.

"I might be able to help. If you'd listen for a moment," Lucian suggested, though he quickly sensed the futility in his words as Makoto seemed to surrender to the pull of exhaustion.

Makoto was indeed drifting. His pen halted mid-sentence, its tip hovering just above the paper like a marionette whose strings had been severed. His head dipped slowly, heavily, until it came to rest softly upon a stack of reports, surrendered to the overwhelming weight of weariness.

Lucian sighed, observing the rise and fall of Makoto's shoulders with each steady breath. Rarely did he see the enigmatic man so vulnerable, the calculated façade crumbling under the weight of exhaustion. The white mask remained fixed in place, its singular eye now unnervingly vacant without Makoto's consciousness animating it.

"Finally," Lucian murmured, standing to drape his leather coat over Makoto's slumped form. Even in sleep, Makoto's grip on his mask was loose but present, a final barrier against vulnerability. He watched for a moment as Makoto lay undisturbed. Lucian whispered, though he knew Makoto couldn’t hear, "You can't solve everything at once, you know."

The rain outside intensified, drumming against the windows like impatient fingers. He moved quietly around the room, gathering scattered notes into neater piles, careful not to disturb their creator.

The office was a testament to boundless ambition and relentless willpower. Lucian breathed deeply, committing to the daunting task of imposing order on the chaos.

Stacks of notes, like unstable towers, were gradually brought under control. He marveled again at the intricacies woven into every page, glimpsing words and phrases that tantalized and eluded him: "Perfected Homunculi," "Rebirth," "Cycle." The more he saw, the more he realized how little he truly understood. But Makoto's drive was contagious, and Lucian found himself eager to unravel even a fraction of the mystery.

He paused at a particular diagram that caught his eye – a detailed rendering of what appeared to be his own blood cells, but altered, transformed into something else entirely. Beside it, Makoto's hurried scrawl noted:
"Lucian's anomaly progresses. Cell transformation is accelerating at 22% beyond the predicted rate. Subject maintains control through the shift—unprecedented. Blood composition indicates partial homunculi characteristics without complete conversion. Forte seems to be more complex, perhaps complete genetic reshuffling to harbor new blood types. Why?"

Lucian's breath caught in his throat. He knew Makoto was studying his condition, but seeing the clinical language laid bare was jarring. Subject. Anomaly. Homunculi characteristics. The words swam before his eyes, simultaneously revealing too much and not enough.

His fingers hovered over the page, tempted to turn it, to delve deeper into Makoto's theories about what he was becoming. A chill crept up his spine as he remembered the first transformation—the searing pain, the horrifying sensation of his body rebelling against itself, reshaping into something both familiar and alien.

As if sensing Lucian's unease, Makoto stirred slightly, mumbling incoherently. The mask shifted, revealing just the edge of his jawline—a rare glimpse beneath the persona. A soft groan escaped Makoto as he shifted in his sleep, one hand reaching out to clutch at nothing. The gesture seemed oddly vulnerable, almost childlike. For all his brilliant machinations, Makoto still seemed lost in dreams, his defenses temporarily lowered.

Lucian gently replaced the papers, feeling like an intruder. He shouldn't be reading these notes without permission, especially when they concerned his own body. Yet the temptation lingered, a persistent itch beneath his skin. Moving the notes aside, he settled into the chair opposite Makoto's desk. He would wait. Whatever revelations lurked in those pages, whatever Makoto had discovered about his condition, it would be better to hear it directly from the researcher himself
.
The constant rainfall outside provided a soothing backdrop to his troubled thoughts. Kanai Ward's perpetual downpour—a blessing that kept the homunculi docile. Lucian gazed through the rain-streaked window at the city below, its neon lights bleeding into puddles like liquid jewels. He wondered how many people walking those streets were truly human, how many were replacements born in that catastrophic experiment two decades ago.

And now, what was he becoming? Something in between?

A soft whimper drew his attention back to Makoto who had begun to twitch in his sleep, head turning restlessly against the papers. His fingers twitched against his desk and his breathing quickened. Nightmares, Lucian realized. Even in sleep, Makoto's mind wouldn't grant him peace.

Without thinking, Lucian reached across the desk and placed his hand gently over Makoto's. The CEO’s skin was cool to the touch, almost unnaturally so. At the contact, Makoto's breathing steadied, the tension in his shoulders easing slightly.

"What are you dreaming about?" Lucian whispered, studying the mask's unblinking eye. "What haunts you?"

The question hung in the air, unanswered. Lucian withdrew his hand slowly, but the brief connection lingered like an afterimage. He'd never touched Makoto before—not like this, with tenderness rather than necessity. Something about it felt significant, though he couldn't articulate why.

Finally, he rose to his feet, feeling the weight of the task ahead. The room was still a whirlwind of disarray, with papers strewn across the floor like fallen leaves and furniture pushed haphazardly against the walls. Determined to bring some semblance of order to the chaos, he moved with deliberate care, picking up each item as though it were a piece of a larger puzzle. Meanwhile, Makoto lay resting peacefully, his breath steady and calm, unaware of the quiet storm of activity around him. The soft light from a nearby lamp cast gentle shadows, adding a touch of warmth to the otherwise tumultuous scene.

Hours slipped by, marked by the slow rhythm of rain tapping gently against the glass and the crisp shuffle of paper echoing through the room. The sound of raindrops created a soothing, almost hypnotic melody, while the paper rustled like whispers of secrets being shared. Lucian worked with the patient diligence of someone fully aware that his efforts were destined to be temporary, a brief moment of clarity and order before the inevitable chaos of the storm returned.

He stepped back to survey the room, which was now bathed in the soft glow of a solitary lamp casting shadows that danced along the walls. Where there had once been a blur of inspiration and chaos, there was now a kind of symmetry, a harmonious balance achieved through careful thought and deliberate action. It was as if he had sketched out a map of Makoto's mind, captured in organized disarray, each thought and idea connected by invisible threads. The room was a tapestry of creativity and order, a testament to Lucian's meticulous work.

With one final glance at Makoto's sleeping form, Lucian felt a sudden restlessness take hold. The penthouse, despite its immense size, seemed too confining, too still. He needed air, needed to walk through the rain-slicked streets and clear his head. The revelations in those notes—what he was becoming—demanded space to process.

In sleep, the CEO seemed almost peaceful—a stark contrast to his usual calculated intensity. Lucian approached quietly, adjusting his leather jacket more securely around Makoto's shoulders. Makoto stirred slightly at the touch but didn't wake.
"You push yourself too hard," Lucian murmured, studying the white mask that never seemed to leave Makoto's face. The single eye stared vacantly to the side, no longer following his movements. He hesitated, then gently brushed a strand of silver hair away from the edge of the mask.

He found a blank sheet of paper among the organized chaos and hesitated, pen hovering. What to say? After a moment, he began to write, his handwriting a stark contrast to Makoto's frantic scrawl:

Makoto,
Your dedication is admirable, if concerning. Try sleeping in a bed next time—they're quite revolutionary inventions. I've stepped out to gather my thoughts. Please take care of yourself, I still owe you for the other day.
-Lucian

He left the note where Makoto would see it upon waking, then made his way to the elevator. As he descended from the penthouse, Lucian felt the weight of what he'd learned pressing against his chest. Homunculi characteristics. Cell transformation. The clinical detachment of the notes couldn't mask their implications.

Outside, the perpetual rain of Kanai Ward greeted him like an old friend, cool droplets kissing his skin. He didn't bother with an umbrella—the rain had never bothered him. Perhaps now he knew why.

The neon signs of Kanai Ward flickered overhead, their electric glow bleeding into puddles like wounded stars. Each step carried him deeper into the labyrinth of alleys and thoroughfares that comprised the city's heart. People hurried past with their heads bowed against the rain, umbrellas bobbing like black mushrooms in a perpetual twilight.

The rain slicked Lucian’s hair to his skull and wrapped his thoughts in damp layers. He moved through the city with quiet urgency, threading through narrow streets and the threads of other people’s lives.

Everywhere Lucian turned, the city buzzed with muted energy. He let the sound and motion wash over him, another downpour to absorb and untangle. Reflections of neon lights blurred into abstract art on the wet pavement, and the people who passed him by wore slickers and hoods in every color imaginable.

A familiar ache began to pulse at the base of his skull—the precursor to what he now recognized as change. His reflection in a shop window caught his attention; his eyes had taken on a crimson glow, barely noticeable to passersby but unmistakable to him. He ducked into an alley, pressing his back against cold brick, breathing deeply through the discomfort.

"Subject maintains control through the shift—unprecedented," Makoto had written. Was that admiration in those clinical notes? Or merely scientific curiosity?

Lucian closed his eyes, focusing on the pulse throbbing in his temples. The transformation was coming faster now, more insistent. He could feel it like a tide rising within him, washing against the shores of his humanity. Whatever he was becoming, it hungered for release.

"Control," he whispered to himself, pressing his palms flat against the brick. "Maintain control."

The rain intensified, as if responding to his distress. Droplets hammered against his skin, each one a tiny shock of sensation that helped anchor him to the present. He concentrated on that feeling, using it to push back against the tide of change threatening to overtake him.

Minutes passed. The crimson glow in his eyes gradually dimmed, and the pressure in his skull subsided to a dull throb. Lucian exhaled shakily, running a hand through his rain-soaked hair.

"You look rough~" A familiar, teasing voice pierced the quiet like a playful arrow. Lucian turned his head to the right and found Kurumi standing before him, her usual smile lighting up her face. Her eyes twinkled mischievously, and her presence seemed to bring a gentle warmth to the otherwise still atmosphere.

"Kurumi," Lucian acknowledged, straightening his posture despite the lingering discomfort beneath his skin. "What brings you to this particular alley on this particularly wet afternoon?"

"I could ask you the same thing," she replied, sidling closer to share her umbrella. "Not everyone enjoys getting soaked to the bone like you do." The petite information broker twirled her transparent umbrella, sending droplets spiraling around them like miniature comets.

Lucian accepted the gesture, though the umbrella barely covered his tall frame. "I needed to clear my head."

Kurumi stepped closer, the scent of artificial strawberries wafting from her as she invaded his personal space. "Word on the street is that you and Makoto investigated the prison last night.”

Lucian matched her smile, an ease settling over him. "You caught me."

Kurumi's eyes narrowed playfully. "And? Find anything interesting? Or is that classified information now that you're playing house with Makoto?"

"Haha, very funny," Lucian replied dryly. The rain drummed steadily on the umbrella above them, creating a small sanctuary of sound in the otherwise noisy city. "And I'm not at liberty to discuss ongoing investigations."

"So formal," she pouted, twirling a strand of her pink hair around one finger. "But…”

She leaned in, a conspiratorial gleam in her eyes. "Still owe me one, remember?"

Lucian sighed, running a hand through his damp hair. "I do, but it's complicated."

"Complicated is my favorite flavor," Kurumi grinn.ed "Come on, let's get somewhere drier. You look like you could use a drink anyway."

Before he could protest, she had linked her arm through his, steering him out of the alley and toward a small, neon-lit establishment tucked between two larger buildings. The sign above the door flickered intermittently: "Midnight Pulse."
The interior was dimly lit, with booths upholstered in worn synth-leather and a bar that gleamed with polished metal. Despite the early hour, a handful of patrons hunched over their drinks, each seemingly lost in their own thoughts. Perfect for conversations that shouldn't be overheard.

Kurumi gestured to the sole wandering waiter, a particularly gloomy-looking man with cascading teal hair. “Two Pulse drinks.” The waiter nodded thoughtfully and disappeared behind the bar, shortly returning with two tall purple concoctions.
Lucian eyed the vibrant drink skeptically. "What exactly am I about to consume?"

"The house specialty," Kurumi chirped, sliding into the booth opposite him. "Don't worry, it's mostly non-toxic."

The liquid swirled hypnotically in the glass, shimmering with an iridescence that couldn't be entirely natural. Lucian took a cautious sip and was surprised by the pleasant warmth that spread through his chest, chasing away the lingering chill of the rain.

"So," Kurumi leaned forward, elbows on the table, "How’s your professional relationship going?"

Lucian sighed deeply, the sound carrying a hint of exasperation. “Always gossip first with you, it seems,” he remarked, shaking his head slightly.

Kurumi laughed in her familiar, melodious way, a sound that was both infectious and full of mischief. “Well, I’m a girl, duh. I've got to get my tea fix somehow,” she replied with a playful wink. “Aren’t I supposed to have my government-assigned gay man to yap to?”

Her comment managed to crack his usually stoic demeanor, causing a faint flush to creep onto his cheeks. “What makes you so sure I’m gay?” he replied, his voice level but with a subtle hint of defensiveness.

Kurumi's eyes widened with feigned shock, a hand dramatically pressed to her chest. "Oh? Have I misread the situation? The way you look at him when you think no one's watching... well, it's quite the telltale, Lucian." She took a long sip of her drink, the liquid casting purple reflections across her face. "Besides, your sexual preferences are hardly Kanai Ward's best-kept secret."

Lucian shifted uncomfortably, the booth suddenly feeling smaller. "We're working together. That's all."

"Mmhmm," Kurumi hummed, unconvinced.

"It's not like that," Lucian insisted, though the words felt hollow even to his own ears. What was it like, then? He couldn't quite define the strange orbit he and Makoto had fallen into—researcher and subject, allies by necessity, something else entirely?

"Sure, sure," Kurumi waved dismissively. "Anyway, about the prison—spill."

Lucian took another sip of his drink, considering how much to reveal. Kurumi was an information broker; after all, everything had a price with her. But she was also the closest thing to a friend he had in this rain-soaked city.

Lucian hesitated, sorting through the labyrinth of his impressions. He shared his suspicions, his confusion at the web that seemed to connect everything in this city back to the same source. And as he spoke, Kurumi watched him with sharp, knowing eyes. “We’ll be investigating the genetic ward as soon as it’s unsealed,” He finished, taking a long, thoughtful sip of his drink.

"Quite the tangle," she mused when he finished. “Wouldn’t a ward like that be a dead-end though? Still hardly solves how they escaped. Do you think a Forte is involved?”

Lucian met her gaze, curiosity piqued. "You're more perceptive than you let on." He held his chin in thought as he considered his next words. “Honestly, I was thinking the same thing, multiple accomplices, an unknown Forte, and evident knowledge of the facility…” He trailed off, remembering some of the flashing images when he consumed Yomi’s blood. “Not sure I trust that Warden either.”

Kurumi's eyes gleamed with interest.” The Warden? What did you notice about her?"

Lucian's fingers drummed against the glass, leaving condensation marks like tiny fingerprints. "Just a feeling. She was too... accommodating. And something about the way she spoke about the case..." He shook his head. "It's nothing concrete."

"Feelings are worth something in this city," Kurumi replied, her usual playfulness momentarily subdued. "Especially yours." She leaned forward, voice dropping to a whisper that barely carried across the table. "You know what they say—Fortes develop instincts about other Fortes."

Lucian froze, the purple liquid in his glass suddenly unappetizing. "What exactly are you implying?"

Kurumi's smile was enigmatic, a thin crescent moon in the dim bar light. "Nothing you don't already suspect, detective." She tapped her temple thoughtfully "I see things. Information is my business. And lately, you've been giving off... interesting readings."

Lucian's jaw tightened. "Elaborate."

"Your aura's changed since we last met. It's... shifting." She tilted her head, studying him with unnerving intensity. "Most people in Kanai have stable signatures—either fully human or fully homunculi. You're... fluctuating. Like watching oil and water trying to mix."

Lucian's heart pounded against his ribs. He'd suspected Kurumi knew more than she let on, but hearing her speak so plainly about his condition made the reality of it impossible to ignore. The crimson in his eyes flickered briefly, a reaction he couldn't suppress. "How long have you known?"

"Suspected for a while. Known for certain?" Kurumi took another sip, the purple liquid catching the light as she tilted her glass. "Since you walked into this bar. Your energy signature is... unmistakable up close."

"And what exactly do you think I am?" Lucian's voice remained steady.

Kurumi's gaze softened as she looked him over. "That's the fascinating part. I don't know." She leaned forward, suddenly serious. "You're not fully homunculi, but you're not just human anymore either. You're something... in between. Something new."

Lucian struggled to piece together the fragments of information he had come across while sifting through Makoto's paperwork. This was precisely what Makoto had been studying, yet the significance of it all eluded him. He was torn between a sense of familiarity and a nagging uncertainty about what it truly meant.

"You've seen this before, haven't you?" Lucian asked, studying Kurumi's expression for any hint of deception.

She twirled her drink thoughtfully, the purple liquid creating a small whirlpool in the glass. "Not exactly. But I've heard whispers. Rumors about... evolution."

"Evolution?"

"Think about it," Kurumi leaned closer, her voice barely audible over the ambient noise of the bar. "The homunculi were created almost twenty years ago. They've been living, breathing, and existing in Kanai Ward all this time. What if they're not static creations? What if they're changing?"

Lucian felt a chill that had nothing to do with his damp clothes. "And where do I fit into this theory?"

“Dunno.” She replied simply, “Though i’m beginning to think you were brought here for a reason.”

"Brought here?" Lucian's brow furrowed. "You make it sound like I'm some piece in a game being played."

Kurumi shrugged, a playful smile dancing on her lips despite the gravity of their conversation. "Aren't we all? This city doesn't do coincidences, Lucian. Never has."

The purple liquid in his glass seemed to pulse with the rhythm of his heartbeat. Lucian stared into its depths, searching for answers that refused to materialize.

"What I want to know," Kurumi continued, leaning back in her seat, "is what our masked friend thinks about all this. He's been studying you, hasn't he?"

Lucian's head snapped up. "How did you—"

"Please," she interrupted with a dismissive wave. "Makoto doesn't take personal interest in just anyone. And he's been collecting quite a number of unusual specimens lately. The kind that would interest someone studying... transformation."
Lucian tensed, his fingers tightening around his glass. "You've been watching him."

"I watch everyone interesting," Kurumi corrected. "And Makoto has always been on my radar. Especially when he starts requisitioning equipment typically used for genetic manipulation and cellular stabilization."

The implications hung heavy in the air between them. If Kurumi was right, Makoto wasn't just studying Lucian's condition—he was actively researching how to affect it. Control it, perhaps. Or accelerate it.

"How much do you trust him, Lucian?" Kurumi asked, her voice uncharacteristically gentle.

Lucian stared into his drink, watching the swirling purple liquid as if it contained the answer.

The question lingered between them, heavy and unanswered. Trust had never come easily to Lucian, not in his former life as a detective, and certainly not in the tangled web of Kanai Ward. Yet there was something about Makoto that defied his usual caution.

"I don't know," Lucian sighed. The truth of it settled uncomfortably in his chest. "I should distrust him. Everything about him is deliberately obscured—his face, his intentions, his past. “But, I trust that his intentions aren't malicious," Lucian finally answered, choosing his words with deliberate care. "Beyond that... I'm still figuring it out." Lucian let out another forlorn sigh, recalling Makoto's exhausted form slumped over his desk, vulnerable in sleep.

Kurumi nodded, seemingly satisfied with his response. "Fair enough. Just be careful, okay? Makoto's brilliant, no question about that. But brilliance and obsession make dangerous bedfellows."

"Like everything in this town," Kurumi added. She leaned back, satisfied. "Keep your eyes open. You might see more than you expect."

Lucian nodded, absently tracing a finger along the rim of his glass. The purple liquid inside had settled, no longer swirling with the same hypnotic energy as before. "I've always kept my eyes open. It's the seeing that gets complicated."
She laughed, the sound bright against the muted ambiance of the bar. "Fair enough, though speaking of which…”

She reached into her pocket and slid a small data chip across the table. "Consider this a gift. Got it from a good friend of mine~”

“A friend?” Lucian questioned, examining the chip between his fingers.

A piercing ring abruptly cut through their conversation, causing Kurumi to cast an apologetic glance in Lucian's direction. "Speak of the devil~” she remarked with a lighthearted lilt. Swiftly, she answered the call, her voice instantly adopting a more cheerful tone. Lucian managed to catch a fleeting glimpse of the contact name displayed on her phone screen before she raised it to her ear; it read "Yuma."

“Hey! How’s the trip over?”

“I’m sure riding that train again isn’t great.”

“Yup, I just gave it to him.”

“Ok, i’ll see you soon then, bye!”

She hung up and turned her attention back to Lucian, downing her drink in a few swift gulps. “Again, duty calls!” She smiled, standing up to leave.

"Wait," Lucian called as she draped her hood back onto her head. "This chip—what's on it exactly?"

"Everything I could find on Yomi's network—contacts, meeting locations, financial transactions. Should give you a decent map of his underground operations." Her eyes twinkled mischievously. "You might even find a connection to those prison accomplices you're chasing."

Just like last time, she turned to leave but stopped, turning back to Lucian with another teasing comment forming on her lips. "Oh, and check out the bakery on Tendo Street. Best sweets in the city. Might even get you some brownie points with Makoto."

Lucian watched her go, a blur of pinkish hair and calculated enthusiasm bouncing toward the exit. The information chip weighed heavily in his hand, a tangible reminder of the web of connections that defined Kanai Ward. He remained seated, contemplating his half-finished drink and the revelations of the past hour.

"Evolution," he muttered to himself, the word foreign on his tongue. Was that what was happening to him? Not a transformation into something else, but an evolution beyond both human and homunculi?
The bar seemed suddenly too confining, the air too thick with secrets and unspoken truths. Lucian left payment on the table and stepped back into the perpetual rain, welcoming the cool droplets against his skin. The downpour had intensified, sheets of water cascading from the heavens as if determined to cleanse the city of its sins.

Lucian paused for a moment, allowing the cool rain to wash over him as he absorbed the conversation and pondered its myriad implications. The droplets danced on his skin, a gentle reminder of the world around him, before heeding her advice and beginning his journey to Tendo Street.

The shop was nestled snugly between a bustling electronics store and a forlorn, empty storefront. Its exterior was vibrant and welcoming, with a glowing sign that beckoned passersby to step inside. Once inside, Lucian was enveloped by a warm, sugary ambiance that was both comforting and inviting. The shelves overflowed with an assortment of colorful confections, each one more tempting than the last. Lucian couldn't suppress a smile as he imagined Makoto’s eyes lighting up at the sight of this unexpected gift, knowing well the CEO's well-known fondness for sweets.

"I’ll take a box," Lucian said to the young woman behind the counter, carefully selecting an assortment of flavors that caught his eye. He paid for his purchase and stepped back into the world, feeling almost buoyantly light-hearted.
The rain had tapered off to a soft, whispering mist as he made his way back, cradling the box of sweets in his arms. As he wove through the bustling streets of Kanai Ward, Lucian’s mind was a whirlwind of thoughts, each revelation from the conversation intertwining with the next. The more he tried to piece everything together, the more elusive the truth became. Yet, this mystery only served to deepen its irresistible allure, drawing him further into its enigmatic grasp.

Lucian moved through the mist-softened streets, cradling the box of sweets like a fragile heart. The rain had gentled to a quiet whisper, leaving him with the intimacy of his thoughts and the promise of the day ahead. He let the rhythm of his footsteps steady him, let the wet air fill his lungs, cool and cleansing. The chaos of the city thrummed beneath the stillness, alive and waiting. He lost himself in its pulse, in the pull of everything he’d learned and the even stronger pull of what he hadn’t yet. And then a familiar shape emerged from the fog, a figure more distinct than any vision. Lucian smiled, slowing his pace. "I should have known," he called out.

Makoto approached with his unhurried grace, the rain glistening on his hair and mask. "There you are," he said, voice carrying warmth even through the chill. "We received the call."

Lucian arched a brow, his expression a blend of curiosity and mild disbelief. "Already?" he inquired, his voice carrying a note of surprise.

Makoto nodded affirmatively, halting just in front of him. "The old genetic ward has been unsealed," he announced, his tone imbued with a mix of excitement and seriousness. "They say it’s ready for us to investigate." In his arms, he cradled Lucian's jacket, the one he had left behind on a sleeping Makoto. With a gentle movement, Makoto stepped closer, carefully draping the jacket over Lucian’s shoulders in an intimate, almost tender gesture. The fabric brushed softly against Lucian's skin as Makoto added with a playful smile, “You gave me quite the surprise when I awoke to a clean office.”

Lucian felt a small smile tug at his lips, the sweet shop box still cradled against his chest. "I hope the organization wasn't too jarring. I know you have your own system."

"It was... unexpected," Makoto admitted, his singular eye studying Lucian with an intensity that seemed to pierce through the mist surrounding them. "But not unwelcome. Thank you."

They stood for a moment in the gentle rainfall, two figures suspended in a private bubble amidst the bustling anonymity of Kanai Ward. Water droplets clung to Makoto's silver hair like tiny crystals, and his mask gleamed with a pearlescent sheen in the diffused light.

"I thought you might be nearby," Makoto mentioned, entirely untroubled. "So I came to get you."

"By yourself?"

Makoto’s gaze was a challenge. "It seems so."

"You could have been in danger." Lucian’s tone was an uncharacteristic scold.

But Makoto’s attention had already shifted. He eyed the box Lucian held, a mischievous gleam sparking behind the mask.

Lucian sighed, caught between exasperation and fondness. "Are you even listening?."

Makoto extended his umbrella, an offer and a request. Lucian hesitated, then gave in, swapping the box for the umbrella. "How kind of you," Makoto said, irony dripping from every syllable.
Before Lucian could protest, Makoto was lifting the lid, peering inside like a child on his birthday. "Delightful," he murmured, picking a cherry tart from the mix.

Lucian watched, a sense of disbelief and amusement washing over him. "At least wait until we get back to the car."

"That would be no fun at all," Makoto countered, slipping closer to Lucian, the box clutched protectively between them.

He moved with the care of a thief, stealing bites while the mask hid his face. Lucian could almost imagine the expression behind it, the sly delight, the half-lidded eyes. Makoto savored the moment, teasing with his silence, drawing Lucian in with every second that stretched between them.

"Exquisite," Makoto said at last, letting his breathy voice linger.

Lucian tried to mask his intrigue. "I take it, you approve."

Makoto held the tart to Lucian's lips, a provocation and an invitation. "See for yourself."

Lucian hesitated, the proximity unsettling in its intensity. The warmth of Makoto's body, the soft whisper of the rain around them—it closed in like a shared secret.
He leaned forward, surrendering to the moment, taking a slow, careful bite. The flavor burst over his senses, a rush of sweet and sharp.

Makoto was transfixed by the sight, by the glimpse of Lucian's fangs as he devoured the tart. He touched a finger to Lucian's lips, wiping a trace of cherry from the corner, the gesture teasing and intimate.
Lucian's breath caught as Makoto's finger brushed a fang, sending a jolt through him. He drew back, trying to collect himself, to remain composed when every part of him threatened to spiral out of control.

Makoto gave him no room to recover. "Adorable," he said, a smile audible even behind the mask.

"You are impossible," Lucian managed, his voice flustered. He struggled for balance, for words, knowing how easily they could tip. The world seemed to narrow, the rain a quiet shield, the city a backdrop to their unfolding story. And then he felt it—a tingle on the edge of awareness, a sense that they weren't alone.

He tensed, eyes darting, searching the haze for a presence he hadn't noticed until it was almost too late. His instincts flared, rusty from the indulgence, from the temporary surrender to something so deeply unguarded.
Makoto caught the change in him, the shift from openness to alert. He turned his head, following Lucian's gaze, curiosity piqued. "Problem?"
"Not sure," Lucian replied, voice now all detective. "I thought someone was watching."

They waited, a heartbeat, two. The city stretched around them, unbroken by any sign of intrusion. Lucian took a slow breath, easing the tension. "False alarm."

Makoto's tone was lightly mocking, unbothered by the momentary hitch. "And I’m the one who takes risks?"

Lucian shook his head, letting his composure return, letting Makoto's levity wrap around him. "You're going to get us both into trouble."

Makoto moved ahead, a beckoning figure. "Isn't that the plan?"

They fell into step, side by side, a magnetic draw between them. The journey back to the car was filled with small moments—the brush of shoulders, the exchange of glances, a playful tug when Lucian tried to reclaim the box of sweets. Kanai Ward's mist-shrouded streets seemed to exist for them alone, the rest of the world fading to a distant hum.

•••

Warden Eden waited as Lucian and Makoto arrived, her lips formed a hard line, and her posture was pristine as ever. She was half-obscured by the rain and the gates, another specter of Kanai Ward's haunted past, and her precise words cut through the downpour like thin, cold blades.

"I've compiled everything you asked for," she said. "You'll find it illuminating."

Lucian took the files, curiosity tempered by skepticism. He glanced at Makoto, sharing the question that hung between them. Why was the warden so accommodating, so eager?

"Appreciate it," Lucian replied, voice cautious.

Eden tilted her head, a smile creeping in at the edges. "No need to mention it."

"And the genetic ward?" Makoto's tone was cool, as if he knew more than he let on.

"Nobody's been inside since the unsealing." The warden gestured towards the looming building, its shadows long and sinister against the wet ground. "I'm sure you'll find what you're looking for."
Lucian and Makoto exchanged another glance, a silent communication passing between them. There was a sense of unreality in how smooth it was going, as if they'd stepped into a trap without seeing the strings.

Makoto slipped the files into his coat, addressing the warden with an edge of irony. "Quite accommodating of you."

"It's what I'm here for," Eden replied, the weight of unspoken meanings in every word.

They left the warden behind, her shape ghostly and indistinct in the rain, and headed towards the unsealed ward. The door groaned open, and a shiver passed through the air as they stepped inside. Lucian noted the traces of tampering, the familiarity of it, the precision. It had a fingerprint. Yomi’s.

"Was it too easy?" Lucian wondered aloud.

"More convenient than I'd expected," Makoto agreed, the warden still on his mind.

The lights flickered to life, sterile and stark, illuminating the horror within. Blood stained the walls in violent arcs, dark and crusted with age. In the center of the room, an old corpse lay slumped, its chest carved out in a grotesque, jagged triangle. Its face was frozen in a silent scream, a snapshot of its final terror.

Beside it lay the missing piece of flesh, a ghastly, bloody cutout, decaying on the stark, white linoleum floor, its putrid aroma seeping into the air like a sinister whisper. Makoto’s gaze swept over the gruesome scene, his macabre interest piqued by the grotesque tableau before him. "Well, not what I initially expected," he remarked, his voice tinged with a mix of intrigue and disbelief.

Lucian nodded, his face contorting slightly as the rancid stench assaulted his senses. "Must have been here for a while," he noted, his voice muffled by the sleeve he brought to his nose.

Crouching beside the lifeless form, Lucian examined the remnants of a violently ended existence. The face, marred and unrecognizable, bore no resemblance to any known employee present in the building at the time. "From what I can tell from the face, this doesn’t match any employees that were in the building at the time. Who in the world is this?" he wondered aloud, his mind racing with questions.

Makoto joined him, stepping gingerly to avoid the spreading pool of blood. "Certainly a grotesque way to die," he commented, his voice laced with a mixture of revulsion and fascination.

Together, they scoured the room, their eyes hunting for clues amidst the desolate wreckage. It was a barren wasteland, littered with abandoned equipment and the shattered remains of aspirations long since extinguished. No signs of life stirred within its confines, no hidden exits revealed themselves, nothing to suggest the elusive manner in which Yomi had orchestrated his escape.

"Anything?" Makoto's voice echoed off the cold, unyielding walls, each syllable hanging heavily in the stagnant air.

Lucian shook his head, a frown of frustration edging its way onto his features. "He knows how to cover his tracks," he muttered, his tone betraying a grudging respect for their elusive quarry. He returned his focus to the body, hoping for a breakthrough where all else failed.

"The blood," Lucian said, thinking aloud. "It's older than the others."

"Then try it," Makoto suggested, the excitement of discovery evident.

Lucian bent closer, feeling the pull of his Forte, the siren call of untapped truths. He touched the drying blood with a careful finger, despite it being long dry, it seemed to meld to his touch to allow him a taste. He lightly brushed it against his tongue, hoping the full effect of this person's dying moments wouldn’t overwhelm his mind.

The world spun, a torrent of images and sounds. Panic. Betrayal. Pain. It was too chaotic to parse, too raw and frenzied. A woman, her features a blur, her scream a knife. He struggled to hold onto the pieces, to make them fit. Strangely enough none of the memories felt recent, they were faded like it was a memory they held onto for a long time.

"She wasn’t here when she died," Lucian gasped, pulling back. "That can't be right...."

"Oh? Explain." Makoto pried.

Lucian held his head, the sensation still swimming just behind his eyes. "I saw somewhere different, nothing in those fleeting memories I sensed came through here, I'm sure of it.”
“Now that begs the question of how the body got here.” Makoto held his chin in thought.

Lucian nodded, wiping his brow, feeling the strain. His instincts drew him to the grotesque hunk of flesh, the morbid puzzle piece lying apart from its source.

He crouched again, sensing a deeper story. "What if...?"

His hand moved to the bloody chunk, to the dried stain of its once-vital essence. Aga,in he touched it carefully, hesitating before putting the new sample to his lips. He braced for the impact, steeling himself against the inevitable tide. It crashed over him, a tidal wave of sight and sound.

Clarity. Precision. An orderly life, an authoritative stride. A guard, a plan, a cell. Yomi's.

Lucian staggered back, breathless and spent. "Different body," he said, the words hoarse and certain. "It's the guard."

Makoto was at his side, supporting him with a surprising gentleness. "Yomi's first casualty."

"Most likely," Lucian replied, reeling from both the visions and the intensity of Makoto’s nearness. "But not the last."

Makoto’s eyes were keen, understanding Lucian’s fear and fascination. "Don’t push it. We’ll piece it together."

He straightened, issuing a command to the empty room, as if the walls themselves would obey. "Have it cleaned up. Send it to Ward 4."

The warden's silhouette appeared in the distance, as if she'd been waiting. Lucian felt the presence like a cold draft, chilling in its persistence.
"Is she watching us?" Lucian wondered, eyeing the spectral figure.

"Let her watch," Makoto said, his confidence unwavering. "She knows what happens to traitors."

They left the blood and death behind, the thick metal door clanging shut with a finality that echoed in their minds. Lucian carried the weight of what they'd found and what they hadn't. Yomi was a shadow, a ghost, and it was all so calculated that he wondered if they had already lost.

The rain soaked them as they reached the gates, and the warden lingered at the edge of sight, a reminder and a threat.

Makoto glanced at Lucian, an unspoken question hanging between them. Lucian answered it with a weary smile, acknowledging the danger and the necessity of seeing it through.
The warden faded into the distance as they left, a figure cut from the rain and the past.

The air was charged and raw, and Lucian felt a twist of unease as they moved farther from the prison, farther from the grisly truth they'd unearthed.

Makoto watched him, intent and careful. "We need to review everything."

Lucian nodded, lost in the web of his thoughts. "We're close. I can feel it."

Makoto’s presence was an anchor, keeping him steady in the storm of uncertainty. "Not too close," Makoto warned, knowing the thin line they walked.

"We'll see," Lucian said, letting determination replace doubt.

The prison shrank in the distance, and the tension grew as they imagined Yomi's next move.

Warden Eden waited until she was sure they were gone, then pulled out her phone, a predator lurking behind a polite façade. She dialed with steady fingers, a chilling certainty in her voice. "They're leaving now," she said. "You know what to do."

•••

The car glided through Kanai Ward's rain-soaked streets like a black needle through gray cloth. Lucian and Makoto sat side by side, silent and intent, as they pieced together the riddle of Yomi Hellsmile. Their words cut the quiet like surgical blades, sharp and precise.

"Three accomplices," Lucian said, laying out the theory like evidence. "At least. Maybe more."

Makoto nodded, his mask bright with the thrill of unraveling. "The guard was key. But not alone."

"And the warden?" Lucian's voice was edged with doubt, but also conviction.

"Most likely," Makoto agreed. "She was practically handing us clues. Too eager."

Lucian's thoughts spun, weaving connections and suspicions. "So, how did he do it? Break out with the whole prison locked down?"

"A different escape route," Makoto speculated. "Maybe another inside man."

The car hummed around them, a cocoon of noise and thought. Lucian looked out at the rain-streaked city, seeing past the surface, seeing the web Yomi had spun and where it might lead.
"Then we need to know how it all fits," Lucian said, half to himself, half to Makoto. "Before he makes his next move."

Makoto leaned closer, a conspirator and a confidant. "We'll be ready."

The certainty in Makoto's voice sent a shiver down Lucian spine, a mix of fear and excitement. He had always worked alone, always relied on himself. But now—

"Yomi will make it personal," Makoto added, his voice softer than usual.

Lucian considered this, feeling the weight and the truth of it. "For both of us?"

"For everyone," Makoto said, and the gravity of his words settled like a stone.

Lucian nodded, accepting the inevitability. "He's a step ahead. But we might still catch him."

"We will," Makoto promised, a quiet intensity in his voice.

They rode in silence for a moment, the only sound the rain and the low rumble of the engine. Lucian's mind was a labyrinth of doubts and possibilities, and he let Makoto's certainty guide him, a light in the darkness.
Makoto’s hand brushed lightly against Lucian’s, a touch so brief it might have been accidental if not for the deliberate way he left it there. A pause in the storm. Lucian felt the warmth of Makoto's presence seep through the chaos of his thoughts, a grounding weight that held him steady against the uncertainty.

He shifted, turning his body to face Makoto more fully, letting down his guard just enough for the moment to feel real and vulnerable. "And what happens if we don’t?" Lucian asked, his voice unusually soft, almost resigned.

Makoto's gaze was unyielding beneath the mask, but there was a tenderness in the way he held Lucian's eyes. "That's not an option," he replied, and Lucian felt the promise behind those words wrap around him like a net.

Lucian met his gaze, red eyes locked on the mask that hid so much and so little. "You seem confident," he sighed, a smile tugging at the corner of his lips

“I don’t make promises I can't keep, detective.” He hummed in response.

Makoto's hand rested more firmly on Lucian’s. His slender digits weaved their way between Lucians, a fleeting touch that was electrifying in its brevity, like a spark igniting in the still air. "You're full of surprises," he murmured, his voice a blend of teasing warmth and something almost reverent.

Lucian was on the brink of responding, ready to dive into this newfound depth between them, when the car screeched to an abrupt halt. The world outside crashed in, jarring and immediate, like a wave breaking over them.
Lucian's senses went into overdrive, instincts flaring like alarm bells. "Something's wrong," he stated, already in motion, his body a coiled spring ready to act.

He pushed open the door, peering out into the rain that spattered his face with cold droplets. The streets lay deserted, a gleaming emptiness stretching endlessly in every direction, the cityscape eerily silent and still.
"Lucian?" Makoto's voice cut through the tension, an anchor in the storm, grounding him.

Lucian glanced back, a flicker of uncertainty shadowing his eyes. "Stay there," he instructed, his tone firm yet protective.
He stepped out into the rain, the water soaking into his clothes as he scanned the shadow-laden streets for any signs of threat or danger, anything that could have stopped them so suddenly.

And then he saw it.

Yomi Hellsmile stood in the middle of the road, a specter from the past come to life. He held a gun with a casual arrogance, a silent taunt and a deadly promise shimmering in the air between them.
"Well, if it isn't the bloodsucker," Yomi called out, his voice dripping with mockery and disdain. "Looking for me?"

Art by BonesandMuses on Bluesky and Twitch

Chapter Text

At the edge of the rain-drenched city, in the dark and empty streets where light and sound refused to tread, Lucian felt Yomi's presence like a knife at his throat.

“It’s so good to finally meet you," Yomi said, his voice dripping with blatant sarcasm. He stood defiantly in the center of the road, a horde of parked and destroyed cars discarded at the side and road piled around the both of them. Lucian shrugged off his leather jacket and handed it to Makoto. “Stay here.” he uttered simply.

The mesh of his undershirt clung greedily to his frame as the rain soaked him. He slicked back his now drenched hair, staring Yomi down with his intense crimson gaze.

“Come quietly Yomi. Or else," Lucian said, his voice calm despite the storm raging around them.

Yomi laughed, the sound cutting through the rainfall like glass. Or else? Is that the best you could do Bloodsucker?." He ran a hand through his overgrown red hair, faded blue tips decorated the ends."You have no idea what you're fucking dealing with."

Behind Lucian, Makoto clutched the leather jacket to his chest, his mask glistening with raindrops. The white surface caught the dim light of a distant streetlamp, making him look like a specter watching from the parked car.

"I'm giving you one last chance," Lucian said, taking a step forward, his boots splashing in a puddle that reflected the neon lights from a distant sign. "You’ve already fallen from grace, just give up."

Yomi's smile widened, revealing teeth that seemed too sharp in the dim light. "Fallen? I’ve risen, Lucian. While you've been playing detective as that masked freaks little pet," he gestured toward Makoto with a dismissive flick of his wrist, "I've been evolving, getting stronger."

Rain cascaded down Lucian's bare shoulders, tracing the contours of muscle beneath mesh. He remained expressionless, but his eyes—those burning crimson pools—narrowed slightly.

"What have you done, Yomi?" Lucian's voice remained steady, but there was an edge to it now, a tension that hadn't been there before. The rain between them seemed to grow heavier, as if responding to the mounting pressure in the air.

Yomi's laughter died, replaced by a cold smirk. "What haven't I done?" He spread his arms wide, raindrops shattering against his open embrace. "I've tasted power that you can't even imagine, Lucian. I’m embracing this filthy blood within me, i’ve been reborn.”

"We're not so different, you and I," Yomi said, taking a deliberate step forward. "We're both monsters wearing human skin. The difference is, I've stopped pretending."

Lucian's muscles tensed, rainwater streaming down his face. "You're wrong. There's always a choice."

"Is there?" Yomi laughed, the sound hollow and bitter. "Ask your master back there about choices.”

Lucian scoffed, ignoring Yomi’s constant egging and producing an imposing looking knife from its sheath on his thigh. It seemed to cut through the rain, the red edge glistening dangerously.

"You think that blade scares me?" Yomi's voice dropped to a whisper that somehow cut through the downpour. "I've been cut by worse than you, Bloodsucker."

Lucian twirled the knife between his fingers, the motion fluid and practiced. "This isn't about fear, Yomi-”

Lucian was deftly interrupted with a gunshot, the bullet grazing past Lucians cheek and embedding itself in the hood of the car. For a moment Lucian froze for split second, having just barely dodged Yomi’s sudden attack.

Yomi sneered, an expression so wide and spiteful it threatened to split his skull in two. "Reflexes of a predator," Yomi purred, the gun still smoking in his hand. "But you'll need more than that to survive tonight."

Blood trickled down Lucian's cheek, mixing with rainwater before disappearing into the mesh of his shirt. He didn't bother wiping it away.

“You think I'd give you time for your stupid fucking speech?" The gun in his hand gleamed, black metal drinking in what little light existed in this forsaken corner of Kanai Ward. "Always so righteous, so controlled. It makes me sick."

With inhuman speed, Lucian lunged forward, his body a blur through the rain. The knife sliced through the air where Yomi had been standing a millisecond before. But Yomi was already moving, matching Lucian's supernatural quickness with his own.

"Too slow," Yomi taunted, firing three more shots in rapid succession.

Lucian twisted his body unnaturally, water spraying from his movements as he dodged each bullet with millimeters to spare. The rain seemed to part around him, his movements leaving momentary tunnels in the downpour.

Behind them, Makoto shifted nervously watched the inhuman dance unfold. The leather jacket in his grasp seemed to grow heavier with each passing second, soaking up not just rain but the tension crackling between the two combatants.

Makoto's fingers dug into the leather jacket, knuckles whitening beneath the rain-soaked fabric. Behind his mask, his eyes darted frantically between the two combatants, calculating trajectories, analyzing patterns—searching desperately for an intervention point that wouldn't end in disaster.

This wasn't supposed to happen. Not here. Not now.

Another shot rang out, and Makoto flinched as it ricocheted off a metal dumpster inches from where Lucian had been standing. The carefully constructed illusion of control—his control—was unraveling with each passing second.

"Lucian…" he whispered, his words drowned by the pouring rain. His mind raced with disastrous scenarios, each more dire than the last. He believed he had everything under control, thought he had more time.

Lucian and Yomi collided in a blur, too fast for ordinary eyes to track, their weapons slicing through the rain. Metal clashed with a sound like thunder, with sparks briefly flaring before being extinguished by the relentless rain.

Lucian and Yomi met in the center of the street, knife against gun in a clash of steel. The sound resonated like thunder through the deserted streets, a metallic echo against the constant drumming of rain. Their faces were mere inches apart, locked in a deadly standoff, water cascading between them.

"You're more skilled than I thought," Yomi sneered, his breath hot on Lucian's face. "Too bad you're just that masked freak's puppet."

With effort, Lucian broke free, spinning away as Yomi fired another shot that pierced the asphalt where he'd just been standing. The rain seemed to slow around them, each droplet hanging in the air for a moment as they moved with superhuman agility. "I’m just getting started," Lucian retorted.

"What a coincidence, so am I," Yomi taunted, his voice laced with sarcasm as he skillfully pulled out a syringe filled with a murky blue liquid. The syringe glinted menacingly in the dim light, its contents swirling with an unsettling vibrancy.

Before Lucian could grasp Yomi's intentions, the needle was already plunging into Yomi's neck with a swift, practiced motion. The murky liquid disappeared into his veins, leaving a faint blue trail beneath his skin, like a dark river weaving through his body.

A guttural moan escaped Yomi, a mix of pleasure and pain. His body convulsed violently, the rain sliding off him in unnatural patterns as if repelled by his skin. The blue hue beneath his flesh pulsed with each heartbeat, spreading like ink through water.

"What have you done?" Lucian demanded, gripping his knife tighter.

Yomi's laughter erupted, distorted and inhuman. His eyes, once merely cruel, now glowed with an internal blue fire that pierced through the darkness. "Just a little homunculi blood, mixed with something... special."

His skin rippled like water disturbed by a stone, muscles shifting beneath in ways that defied human anatomy. "It's evolutionary, Lucian. While you've been resisting what we are, we’ve been perfecting it."

Lucian took an involuntary step back, his crimson eyes widening. Behind him, he heard Makoto's sharp intake of breath.

Yomi's body underwent a dramatic transformation, his newly formed muscles swelling beneath the soaked fabric of his uniform, stretching it to its limits in several places. His red hair, now vibrant and gleaming with an intense, blood-like sheen, framed a face that wore a sinister smile, growing increasingly inhuman with each passing moment. The raindrops that pelted his skin appeared to sizzle and vanish upon contact, as if his very essence was too intense for them to withstand. "I've always wondered what would happen if I enhanced myself further," he mused, his voice carrying a newfound resonance. "Turns out the answer is... perfection."

In a blur of motion that defied human limitations, Yomi crossed the distance between them slashing at Lucian with a hidden blade, his new strength making the air whistle as the blade cut through it. Lucian barely managed to evade, feeling the rush of displaced air against his rain-slicked skin. The serrated edge caught the mesh of his shirt, tearing through it like tissue paper and leaving a shallow gash across his chest.

"Too slow," Yomi taunted, his voice resonating with an unnatural echo.

Blood—darker and thicker than human—welled from the wound, mixing with rain as it ran down Lucian's torso. He hissed, more in surprise than pain, and countered with a vicious upward thrust of his knife. The blade found only air as Yomi danced away, moving with unnatural grace.

Yomi gloated, his enhanced voice echoing strangely in the rain. "There's something poetic about making you bleed, Bloodsucker."

Lucian lunged forward, using Yomi's momentary distraction to his advantage. His knife sliced through the air, finding purchase in Yomi's shoulder. But instead of the expected cry of pain, Yomi merely smiled wider, the wound already knitting itself closed around the blade.

"Did you really think that would hurt me?" Yomi's voice dripped with icy disdain as he seized Lucian's wrist with a grip that felt more like a vice than a human hand. The knife clattered to the ground as Yomi twisted, his strength defying the limits of mere mortals. "I've transcended pain," he declared, his words as cold as the night air. With a swift, dismissive motion, he hurled Lucian aside, the latter's body skidding across the rough asphalt like a discarded rag doll.

Before Lucian could fully regain his senses, Yomi fired a shot, the bullet whizzing past as Lucian rolled desperately to safety. He scrambled to his feet, adrenaline coursing through his veins, and sprinted past Yomi, eyes locked on the glinting blade lying on the ground. Snatching it up, he whirled around, poised to confront his adversary once more. But his heart sank as he realized Yomi had vanished into the shadows.

"Still too slow, shit for brains~" Yomi's taunting voice echoed through the night, a spectral whisper that sent shivers down Lucian's spine.

Suddenly, three gunshots rang out in rapid succession, each bullet finding its mark with deadly precision in Lucian’s back.

A strangled cry tore from Lucian's throat as his body jerked forward, each impact like a hammer blow against his spine. The pain blossomed hot and vicious, spreading through his nervous system in waves of agony. He stumbled, dropping to one knee in a puddle that instantly turned crimson.

"Look at you now," Yomi crooned, materializing from the shadows, his enhanced form seeming to absorb the darkness around him. "The great Lucian Foresight, on his knees in the dirt."

Rain washed over Lucian's wounds, each droplet a fresh torment against the raw flesh. His breath came in ragged gasps, crimson eyes narrowing against the pain. The bullets had torn through muscle and grazed bone, but had missed his vital organs. Small mercy, that.

"Lucian!" Makoto's voice called out from behind, genuine concern breaking through his usual measured tones.

"Stay back!" Lucian snarled, his voice raw with pain. Blood dripped between his lips, spattering onto the rain-slicked ground.

Yomi laughed, the sound distorted and inhuman. "Yes, stay back, little CEO. Your pet detective isn't done bleeding out yet." He circled Lucian like a predator, his movements fluid and unnaturally graceful. "I want him to understand what true power feels like before I kill him."

“Is this what you wanted?" Lucian asked, voice surprisingly steady despite the blood soaking his back. "To become a monster?"

Yomi circled him slowly, savoring his victory. "Monster? No. God would be more accurate." He knelt beside Lucian, grabbing a fistful of his rain-slicked hair and yanking his head back. "Look at me. This is evolution, Lucian. This is what we could both become."

Lucian glared defiantly up at the looming figure of the man, his brow furrowed in agony. "I’d rather die," he spat with venomous determination. Yomi's laughter rolled through the rain-soaked street like a clap of thunder, each chuckle a testament to his enjoyment, much like a predator savoring the helplessness of wounded prey. "Well then, die you shall," he declared with a sinister grin, his knife raised high above his head, poised to plunge it mercilessly into Lucian’s heart.

In sync with the booming thunder, two sharp gunshots echoed through the air. The first found its mark on Yomi’s blade, sending it spinning away into the darkness, while the second embedded itself into Yomi’s neck, causing him to release Lucian and stagger backward, blood mingling with the relentless rain. Makoto stood with unwavering poise beside the open car door, his gun still smoking from his precise shots. “That’s enough, Yomi,” he commanded with steely resolve.

"You fucking bastard, you really think bullets will do anything to me-" Yomi's voice faltered, shifting to a cry of intense agony as the bullet wound sizzled, causing his skin to bubble grotesquely. Makoto didn't waste a moment, dashing forward to pull Lucian to his feet, allowing him to lean heavily on his shoulder. “We need to make some distance,” he urged, his tone infused with a confidence that hinted at a plan, the urgency of their situation humming like an electric current between them.

The pair stumbled away, their feet barely finding purchase on the uneven ground, as Yomi's anguished screams echoed behind them. His claws tore into his own flesh in a desperate attempt to unearth the source of his torment. A torrent of swears and insults erupted from his lips, the sound gradually fading into the distance as the two fugitives wove through the labyrinth of abandoned cars, seeking a refuge where they could conceal themselves from his wrath.

Finally they collapsed to the ground, hidden in a nest of vehicles. Makoto wasted little time. The rain beat out a heavy requiem as Makoto fumbled to stop the blood. The pavement glistened darkly where they lay hidden, and Lucian's clothes glistened darker.

Makoto tore a sleeve from his own shirt and tied it around Lucian's torso. It did little to stop the flood.

Lucian's breath came in shallow gasps, his crimson eyes glazed with pain. "What... did you shoot him with?"

"A special compound. Derived from my own research." The masked man continued working, pressing another improvised bandage against Lucian's back. "It disrupts the homunculi regeneration process. Temporarily."

"Temporarily," Lucian echoed, a bitter laugh escaping his bloodied lips. "Fantastic."

Lucian felt the red warmth soak him, felt it in his lungs, felt it in his mouth. Felt it in his throat, the taste of irony. There was no way to fight it. There was no way to fight any of it. "Just go," Lucian said. He had to pause for air, but there wasn't any. "There's still time," he said, hoping Makoto would leave him.

Lucian's crimson eyes grew duller with each passing second, the light within them flickering like a dying flame.

"No," Makoto's voice was firm, resolute beneath the white mask. "I'm not leaving you here."

Rain continued its relentless assault, washing away blood only for more to take its place. In the distance, Yomi's enraged screams had transformed into something more controlled, more methodical. He was hunting them.

Makoto's mask seemed to emit a faint glow in the dim, shadowy light, as he tore another strip from his shirt, this time pressing it down with urgency on the deepest, most relentless of Lucian's wounds. Despite the tremor that Lucian could feel in Makoto's fingers, they moved with the unyielding precision of a skilled surgeon, each motion deliberate and exacting.

Makoto's grip on Lucian tightened, as if the sheer force of his hold could tether Lucian's life to this world. As if his grasp alone could keep the universe from unraveling. "I want to try something," Makoto said, his voice tight with intensity and resolve. "And I don't know if it'll work."

Determination burned in Makoto's voice. He wasn't surrendering. He was poised, ready, and driven by desperation. Lucian watched as Makoto unbuttoned his shirt, the gravity of the moment underscored by the seriousness and fear in his tone. "We were going to try anyway," Makoto said, his voice exuding an eerie calm and control, as if he had nothing left to lose.

At first, Lucian didn't comprehend. But then, clarity washed over him. Makoto brought Lucian closer, exposing himself, bare and vulnerable, yet resolute. Lucian's eyes widened in shock, disbelief, and a gnawing hunger. He felt the sensation build within him, a force he tried to ignore, to suppress. He could see the rhythmic throb of Makoto's pulse beneath his skin, tantalizingly close.

The allure of blood was undeniable.

"We were going to try anyway," Makoto repeated, his determination now steely and unwavering. "Don't worry." His voice carried a sureness, a confidence that was almost palpable. "There could be side effects," Makoto admitted, fully aware that no side effect could be worse than death. Certain that Lucian would not perish. Not this time.

Lucian forced himself to swallow everything, even this overwhelming moment. He felt the surge of something new coursing through him, a sensation both vivacious and ravenous. Yet, more than anything, he felt the gnawing suspicion. It was as tangible as the blood, as undeniable as Makoto's hand pressing firmly against his wound. "I was researching if it would help your symptoms, if only I had more time," Makoto said, his voice a blend of seriousness, fear, and an unwavering calm.

"There's no time," Makoto urged, his voice dropping to a whisper. "I can hear him getting closer."

Lucian's piercing red eyes locked onto Makoto's mask, searching for truth behind the porcelain facade. Even dying, he could sense the calculated nature of this moment, the careful orchestration. His fingers, slick with his own blood, gripped Makoto's wrist.

"You're certain it won't kill me?" Lucian said, choking the words out. Choking everything out, hoping it wasn't too late.

"It might," Makoto said. "But do we have any better options?."

Makoto again pulled Lucian close, holding the back of his head so he could feed. “Please, Lucian”

Lucian's instincts screamed at him to resist, but the primal need for survival overrode everything else. His lips parted, and with a hesitant, shuddering breath, he pressed his mouth against Makoto's exposed skin.

The first taste was electric.

Copper and salt flooded his senses as his teeth pierced flesh. Makoto's blood wasn't like anything he'd experienced before—it burned like liquid fire, racing through Lucian's veins and setting every nerve ending ablaze. He heard Makoto's sharp intake of breath, felt his fingers tighten in his hair, but couldn't stop the desperate gulps that pulled life from one body into another.

Images flashed behind Lucian's eyes like lightning—fragments of memories that weren't his own. Faces he didn’t recognize, places he could hardly imagine. A kaleidoscope of sensations overwhelmed Lucian as he drank, he felt Makoto’s anxiety with each sip.

"That's it," Makoto whispered, his voice strained yet encouraging. "Take what you need."

Makoto shuddered and Lucian held on tight, needing him still, needing him alive. The taste was unlike anything Lucian had experienced. Better than his fantasies. Better than his dreams. Better than he feared. Better than he hoped. The taste was fire and life, coursing through him, burning through him, destroying him, rebuilding him.

He felt the pain rise inside him, felt the red heat of it rise in his own chest, his own hands, his own lungs. The blood was scorching him from the inside. He heard the sizzle of his own burning veins, smelled the black smoke of it rise off his skin. But he was not afraid.

Lucian fought the new desire inside him. He knew if he started again, he'd be unable to stop. He'd take it all. He'd take it all and more. "There's no time," Makoto said, and he offered himself a second time, ready. Lucian's claws stretched involuntarily as he reached for him, bloodlust now a real thing in him, alive and kicking and screaming.

Lucian pushed Makoto away and pushed the new pain deeper. It filled his chest. It filled his body. It filled his every limb with fire. For a moment, the pain of the new blood was worse than anything. For a moment, Lucian thought it was truly going to kill him. But then it began to heal him. It began to power him.

It coursed through him like liquid energy, stitching together the wounds that had threatened to end him. Lucian felt the bullets being pushed out of his flesh, heard them clink against the pavement as his body rejected the foreign metal. The sensation was excruciating yet exhilarating—death receding with every heartbeat.

"He's getting closer," Makoto whispered, his voice weaker now but still commanding. His hand trembled against Lucian's shoulder before boldly finding purchase on the other man’s cheek with a gentle caress

"Can you stand?"

Lucian took Makoto's hand in his own, the touch electric through his newly sensitized skin. Each raindrop that struck him felt like a separate entity, each carrying its own unique signature of sound and sensation. The world had become impossibly sharp, impossibly clear.

"I can do more than stand," Lucian growled, his voice transformed—deeper, resonant with newfound power. The rain that had felt like needles against his wounded flesh now seemed to caress him, each droplet a whisper of strength as it slid down his healing body.

He rose to his feet in one fluid motion, pulling Makoto up alongside him.

"What did you do to me?" Lucian asked, flexing his fingers as his nails grew to a point "Your blood... it's not normal."

Makoto swayed slightly, steadying himself against a car. "Later," he promised, his voice thinner than before. "Right now, we need to—"

"Found you," Yomi's voice cut through the rain like a blade.

Lucian and Makoto didn't even have time to catch their breath. Yomi was already there, a vengeful red blur seething with wrath and venom. He tore through the rain like a force of nature, the relentless roar of his voice cutting through the storm. His madness found them even in their hiding place, an unholy light blazing in his eyes.

The rain seemed to pause its relentless descent as Yomi emerged—a monstrous silhouette against the darkness. The wound in his neck had partially healed, leaving an angry, puckered scar where Makoto's bullet had entered. His eyes, now completely consumed by that unnatural blue fire, fixed on Lucian with murderous intent.

"Well, well," Yomi snarled, his voice distorted and layered as if multiple beings spoke through him at once. "Looks like the little CEO finally decided to give you a taste." His gaze flickered to Makoto, who was leaning heavily against a car, visibly weakened from blood loss. "How generous."

Lucian stepped forward, placing himself between Yomi and Makoto. The rain that had been hammering down on them seemed to bend around his form, as if repelled by the power now surging through his veins.

"You're not touching him," Lucian said, his voice resonating with newfound authority. His eyes, once merely crimson, now blazed like twin infernos in the darkness

Yomi's laughter echoed unnaturally across the abandoned street. "Look at you, all powered up. Was his blood that good? Did it make you feel alive, Bloodsucker?" He circled them predatorily, muscles rippling beneath his torn clothing. "Too bad it won't last. Whatever he gave you, I've had more. I've had better."

"This ends now," Lucian said, rolling his shoulders as the last of his wounds sealed themselves. In a flash of impossible speed, Lucian met Yomi head-on. Blades clashed with a vicious scream of metal against metal, the shockwave blasting the rain away in a brief, perfect sphere.

They broke apart and clashed again, moving so quickly that the rain appeared suspended around them. Each collision sent shockwaves rippling through the air, shattering nearby car windows and setting off alarms that wailed like distant banshees.

Lucian held his ground, his confidence growing with every heartbeat. The pain was still there, a dull throb that reminded him how close he'd come to losing it all, but it was nothing compared to the energy crackling in his limbs. The city around them faded into a blur of rain and shadows as he focused entirely on Yomi.

"Impressive," Yomi hissed, genuine surprise flashing across his transformed features as Lucian matched him blow for blow. "You’re less human than I thought."

Lucian didn't answer, focusing instead on the rhythm of their deadly dance. The world had slowed around him, raindrops hanging suspended in air before being sliced apart by their blades. He could see everything—the microscopic twitches in Yomi's muscles before each attack, the individual beads of sweat mixing with rain on his opponent's face.

Behind them, Makoto slumped further against the car, one hand pressed to his neck where Lucian had fed. His breathing was shallow, mask tilted slightly askew, revealing a sliver of pale flesh beneath.

Yomi's eyes caught the movement, his lips curling into a cruel smile. "Your master doesn't look so good, Bloodsucker." He feinted left, then slashed right, his blade catching Lucian across the forearm. The wound sealed almost instantly, but Yomi had achieved his goal—distraction.

"You think I don't know what he did?" Yomi snarled, pressing his advantage as they locked blades again. "He's made you his puppet. Just like all the others."

Lucian twisted away, the rain swirling around him like a living cloak. "You don't know anything about him."

Lucian lunged, his movements a chaotic blur of speed and fury. The force of his attack sent shockwaves through the waterlogged street, but Yomi was ready. He moved with a precision that bordered on prescience, sidestepping Lucian's wild strikes and countering with calculated ferocity.

They danced through the storm, their silhouettes cutting through the darkness like wraiths. The air hummed with tension, charged by the violent rhythm of their conflict. Lucian's newfound agility kept him one step ahead, his body responding with a swiftness that felt almost predestined.

Rain hammered against the slick pavement, each drop a tiny drumbeat on the asphalt as Lucian and Yomi faced off. “Fuck this!” Yomi spat into the night, eyes burning a hellish red beneath caked-on rain. He lunged forward in a whirlwind of steel and fury, each strike ringing out like a bell tolling doom. Lucian staggered, boots skidding on the wet cobblestones, chest heaving as he fought to hold his ground.

Lucian’s lungs screamed for air, each ragged breath fogging in front of him. He felt alive—more alive than ever before—but every thunderous heartbeat reminded him that his newfound power had limits. The line between hunter and hunted had blurred into nothingness, and for the first time he didn’t know which side he was on.

Yomi grinned, rainwater running from his crimson hair in thin rivulets. His voice cut through the downpour like a blade. “You’re nothing but a monster,” he taunted, lips twisting into a cruel smile. “Thought you’d be different?”

Lucian locked eyes with him, droplets sliding from his brow. “We’re not the same,” he said, voice crisp despite the adrenaline.

“Aren’t we?” Yomi barked a harsh laugh that reverberated off the brick walls. “You’re not fooling anyone—not even yourself.”

They met again in a collision of fury. Each blow rang with the echo of Yomi’s words, fueling Lucian’s fire even as doubt wormed its way into his gut. He tightened his fists, reminding himself who he was, what he’d fought to become—even while the rain blurred his vision and his new form ached with every movement.

A flash of steel flashed in the streetlight, missing Lucian by an inch. Yomi’s blade sliced the air with a hiss. “This was always your fate,” he sneered, leaning in until Lucian could feel his hot breath. “Why lie to yourself?”

Lucian’s muscles coiled with determination. “You won’t break me,” he growled.

“We’ll see,” Yomi replied, eyes glittering with dark promise.

With a sudden roar, Lucian surged forward, driving Yomi back. Rain spattered around them, strobing in the intermittent glow of a lone, flickering lamp. But even as Lucian pushed, the poisonous seeds of doubt took root—whispering that perhaps Yomi was right.

Yomi’s assaults grew more frenzied, each strike faster than the last. Lucian’s arms shook from the impact; the road trembled with each clang of metal. Yet Yomi laughed—an animal’s cry of malice. “You really think you can beat me?” he taunted, voice rough with triumph.

Lucian braced himself, lashing out in return. “Stronger than you know.”

His strike caught Yomi off guard, blood blossoming across the redhead’s cheek. Yomi staggered, fingers slick with red, eyes wide for the first time in the fight.

“You little shit,” Yomi spat, pressing his advantage with renewed ferocity. “Is that all you’ve got?”

They collided again, bodies bruising, rain mixing with sweat and blood like ink on concrete. Neither would relent. Lucian’s mind screamed for silence, to shut out Yomi’s barbs, but each taunt landed like a hammer blow. He reminded himself of Makoto’s faith—and of the man’s quiet confidence in him.

Yomi circled, predatory, boots splashing through puddles. “Tossed by the WDO,” Yomi hissed, voice low and venomous, nodding toward the shadows where Makoto watched. “Now you’re a cute little labrat, you’ll be discarded soon enough.”

Lucian’s jaw clenched, heart thudding painfully. His focus wavered. Maybe Makoto would tire of him. Maybe Makoto would cast him aside like the rest. The thought was ice in his veins.

Yomi struck again, forcing Lucian to scramble back. “What does he even see in you?” he mocked. “He’ll throw you away soon enough.”

Lucian closed his eyes, pain radiating from every limb. He forced himself to breathe, to push the doubt aside. “You’re wasting your breath,” he answered, voice steadier than he felt.

Yomi’s laughter rolled down the alley. “Not if I’m right.”

Their blades crossed in a shower of sparks. Lucian’s arms shook from the effort. Rain stung his eyes, each heartbeat pounding like a war drum in his ears. Yomi feigned a stumble, baiting him. When Lucian lunged, Yomi twisted and slashed—steel carving a hot line into Lucian’s side. Agony exploded through Lucian’s ribs. He collapsed to one knee, blood matting his shirt, vision tilting.

Yomi’s cruel voice rang out, triumphant. “Predictable.” He closed in, blade aimed for the kill. But Lucian gritted his teeth, forced his body to move. He twisted, ducking under Yomi’s next strike, and smashed a fist into Yomi’s jaw. The crack of bone against bone echoed like thunder. Yomi staggered, surprise flickering across his face.

“How?” he rasped, hand to his swelling cheek.

“You underestimated me,” Lucian panted, lungs burning as he squared his shoulders.

Rain fell in silver sheets around them, exploding on the pavement. Lucian felt fatigue creeping into his limbs, but he couldn’t show weakness—not when Yomi was feeding off it.

“Special, are you?” Yomi snarled, voice dripping with contempt. “Just another freak he’ll abandon!”

Lucian’s limbs trembled as dread twisted in his chest. He’d always wondered why Makoto chose him. What if Yomi was right? The thought snapped through his mind like a whip, and he froze.

Yomi seized the moment. His blade found purchase in Lucian’s abdomen, hot pain searing outward. Lucian gasped, stumbling back, vision swimming. He pressed a hand to the wound, blood seeping through his fingers.

“My words hurt more than my blade,” Yomi whispered darkly, eyes gleaming with savage delight.

Makoto’s voice cut through the storm—clear, unwavering. “Don’t listen to him, Lucian! You know who you are!”

Yomi whirled to face Makoto, laughter wild and unhinged. “Truth? You wouldn’t recognize it if it slit your throat!”

That distraction was Lucian’s lifeline. He lurched forward, every muscle screaming, and joined the fray once more. Yomi’s gaze flicked between them, calculating. “You two against me? You’ll lose more than your pride.”

Lucian saw Yomi hesitate—just a heartbeat of doubt. That was all he needed. He lunged and landed a savage blow to Yomi’s ribs, sending the redhead reeling. Makoto sprang into action, drawing his gun and firing. The round struck Yomi in the shoulder; he howled as steam hissed from his torn flesh, but he didn’t slow. His body knit itself back together with uncanny speed.

“You fucking assholes,” Yomi snarled, rage flaring. “You think you can stop me? I’ve already won.”

Lucian’s breath caught. “What—what do you mean?” he gasped, blood flooding his vision.

Before Yomi could answer, a mysterious silvery blade phased through the car behind Lucian and slashed through him. The blade was cold as ice, precise as fate. Lucian’s legs gave way; he sank to his knees as pain shredded his world.

“Lucian!” Makoto’s cry cut through the agonized roar in Lucian’s head.

Blood poured from the wound in Lucian’s abdomen, warm and terrifying against the chill of the rain. His consciousness fluttered at the edges, world narrowing to the hiss of water and the echo of Yomi’s laughter. “This is what it means to be truly fucked,” Yomi crooned, looming over him like a demon cast in shadow.

Makoto crashed to his side, lifting Lucian into his arms. Each heartbeat of Makoto’s chest against Lucian’s ear was a tether to life. “You’re not done,” Makoto hissed, voice steady even as rain pelted them.

Lucian’s vision tilted; the road blurred into sheets of rain and the harsh gleam of neon signs. He felt weightless, suspended between waking and darkness. He clung to Makoto’s arms like a lifeline.

Makoto’s eyes darted to Yomi, calculating. Without a word, he braced and then leapt, hurling them both off the raised street. They crashed through the railing, plunging into the black churn of the waterway below. Cold swallowed them whole.

Rain and adrenaline clashed in Lucian’s mind as he sank into sudden quiet. The world above faded, Yomi’s triumphant laughter muffled by rushing water. Makoto gripped him, dragging him toward the surface. Lucian choked, vision rolling back into focus as he broke through to the night sky. The rain washed the blood from his face as he gasped for air, Makoto’s presence a fierce promise that this fight—and this life—was far from over.

Chapter Text

Makoto was barely holding on, dragging himself out of the powerful currents of the swirling water with Lucian tightly held in his grip. The river was relentless, its icy fingers trying to pull them back, but Makoto fought against it with every ounce of strength he had left. He managed, just barely, to haul the other man to safety, both of them collapsing onto the muddy bank. Without wasting a moment, Makoto pressed his ear against Lucian’s chest, desperate to hear the telltale signs of life. The soft, erratic fluttering of Lucian’s heart reached his ears, a fragile rhythm that spoke of life hanging by a thread. Lucian’s chest was eerily still, his breaths so shallow that air barely escaped his lips.

Makoto didn’t hesitate for a second. He ripped off his mask, the cool air biting his face as he prepared to give Lucian CPR. "Apologies it can't be under better circumstances," he whispered softly, smoothing Lucian’s damp bangs away from his forehead before leaning down to seal the life-giving kiss. His own lungs burned with the exertion, each breath he blew into Lucian a plea for life, as the other man lay unmoving beneath the weight of the river and the vast, indifferent stars that glittered coldly above.

Minutes stretched into what felt like an eternity, the world around fading into insignificance, until finally, Lucian’s body convulsed, a violent spasm that brought up water and blood in a coughing rush. Makoto gently rolled him onto his side, watching with relief as Lucian’s frail breaths began to deepen, each one a victory. Slowly, crimson eyes fluttered open, their gaze unfocused and bewildered, before they closed again. Yet, even in his unconsciousness, Lucian’s expression was one of serene peace, as if he had glimpsed an angel amidst the chaos.

"You foolish, beautiful man," he whispered, voice raw with emotion he rarely permitted himself to display. "What were you thinking?"

A sharp cough from Lucian echoed beneath the overpass, his chest rising and falling with more life now, though far from safe. Makoto's body trembled as he pulled Lucian further from the water's edge. He paused, watching the other man, as though daring him to stop breathing again. When Lucian continued, still unconscious, Makoto allowed himself to sink into the mud beside him.

For a long time, he listened to the relentless rain battering against the cold, unforgiving concrete, the rhythmic drumming filling the night air. His eyes lingered on the distant city's firelight glow, a flickering beacon of warmth and life in the stark darkness, as he tried to ignore the chill that crept insidiously into his bones. "Not the way I imagined that going," he sighed, the words a soft exhalation into the damp night. Then, with a deep breath, he rose, as resolute as ever, his silhouette firm against the shifting shadows.

His fingers probed through the enveloping darkness and the shimmering puddles, gathering whatever remnants the storm had spared. The banks were strewn with debris—splintered wood and battered plastic, remnants of something once whole—more than enough for Makoto to nurture a small blaze. The flames hissed and snapped, defiant against the wet air, sputtering at first but soon gathering strength and warmth. He warmed his fingers by the nascent fire, feeling the heat seep into his skin, then cast a watchful glance at Lucian's chest before warming his fingers again, repeating the cycle like a ritual.

Makoto knelt beside Lucian, gently peeling back the sodden layers of his coat and shirt, the fabric heavy with rain and clinging stubbornly to the body beneath. "This won't do," he chided softly, eyeing the soaked material with disapproval. One hand hovered above the wound on Lucian's chest, a raw, deep scarlet mess that marred the skin. His expression shifted, gradually softening from one of intense scrutiny to something more tender, and finally settling into a look of steely determination, ready to face what lay ahead.

With practiced movements belying his exhaustion, Makoto removed his own rain-soaked jacket and spread it on the ground beside the fire. He carefully lifted Lucian onto this makeshift bed, positioning him closer to the warmth. The firelight played across Lucian's features, highlighting the sharp angles of his face, now softened in unconsciousness.

Makoto stared down at Lucian's face, his own still unmasked and vulnerable to the night air. The rain beat a steady rhythm around them, each droplet a reminder of the fragile boundary between life and death they had just traversed together. He touched his fingers to his lips, still warm from the desperate act of salvation, and felt something unfamiliar stir within his chest.

"We need to get you somewhere dry," Makoto murmured, though he knew Lucian couldn't hear him. "This overpass won't shelter us forever."

He tore strips from his own undershirt, dabbing at the wound on Lucian's chest. The gash was deep, revealing glimpses of muscle beneath torn flesh. Blood continued to seep out, dark and viscous in the firelight. Makoto's fingers worked with practiced precision, cleaning away dirt and river debris from the edges of the wound.

"You're quite determined to die tonight," he whispered, his voice barely audible above the rain. "I'm afraid I can't allow that, Detective."

Lucian's eyelids fluttered but didn't open. His breath came in shallow gasps that caught in his throat, each one a small battle won against the encroaching darkness.

The rain lessened to a distant murmur, a sound as constant and mournful as the thoughts circling in Makoto's mind. He left Lucian’s side and sat by the waters edge. He cupped his hands into the water to splash his face. Staring down, he found himself reflected in murky currents. The usual mischief in his expression was replaced by something worn and thoughtful.

Makoto watched as his reflection fractured and reformed with each ripple, much like his carefully constructed facades. In the water's dark mirror, he saw not the manipulator of Kanai Ward, but simply a man soaked to the bone, desperate to save another.

"What have you done to me, Lucian?" he whispered to the night air. The question hung between raindrops, unanswered.

A soft moan drew his attention back to the makeshift bed. Lucian was stirring, his fingers twitching against the wet fabric beneath him. Makoto returned to his side in an instant, kneeling close enough to feel the other man's labored breaths against his cheek.

The detective's body had begun to convulse, caught in the throes of some terrible nightmare or perhaps something even more sinister. His chest heaved in erratic, jerking motions, while his fingers curled tightly into fists, as if grappling with an unseen foe. Makoto hovered over him, his usual calm façade shattered, worry etched deeply into his features like cracks in porcelain.

“You must be hungry again…” Makoto uttered softly, watching Lucian’s fangs protrude, searching for something to quell his pain.

Makoto hesitated for only a second before rolling up his sleeve. The pale skin of his wrist caught the firelight, veins visible beneath like delicate blue threads. With practiced movements, he lifted Lucian's head gently, cradling it against his chest while presenting his exposed wrist to the man's parched lips.

"Drink," he commanded, his voice gentle yet firm. "You need strength if you're to survive the night."

When Lucian didn't respond immediately, Makoto pressed his wrist against the detective's mouth, watching as instinct took over. Lucian's eyes remained closed, but his lips parted unconsciously, fangs sinking into Makoto's flesh with surprising gentleness. The first pull was weak, tentative, but the second drew deeper from Makoto's veins.

The sensation sent a shiver down Makoto's spine—not entirely unpleasant, but intimate in a way he hadn't anticipated. He watched, transfixed, as Lucian's throat worked, swallowing his blood. Color was already returning to Lucian's ashen face, a flush of vitality that spread from his lips to his cheeks.

"There," Makoto whispered, watching as Lucian's breathing steadied. "Just enough to keep you with me."

Makoto cradled Lucian's head, lowering it to make sure every bit reached. "There, that's better," he soothed, watching the lines of pain slip from Lucian's brow. A subtle tremor, then nothing at all. "You needn't worry about a thing."

When Lucian had taken what he needed, Makoto gently pulled his wrist away, pressing his thumb against the puncture wounds. They were clean, precise—even in unconsciousness, Lucian was careful. Makoto found himself oddly touched by this.

The rain continued its relentless rhythm, but beneath the overpass, time seemed suspended. Makoto wrapped a strip of fabric around his wrist, his movements unhurried despite the gravity of their situation. He knew they couldn't stay here indefinitely. The river could rise further, and Lucian needed proper medical attention that Makoto couldn't provide with.

Smoke curled above them, joining the rising steam from clothes drying by the fire. Lucian lay still now, his wound already healing faster. Makoto touched the edge of the bandage, making sure it held, then lifted Lucian's head into his lap. It settled there as if it belonged.

The soft pull of exhaustion caught Makoto in its grip. He fought it, speaking into the night and to Lucian's closed eyes.

"I wonder what you're dreaming of," he mused, brushing a strand of damp hair from Lucian's forehead. "Something pleasant, I hope.”

Lucian's eyelids fluttered, crimson irises briefly visible before disappearing again. A soft murmur escaped his lips, something unintelligible that Makoto leaned closer to catch.

"Makoto..." The name was barely audible, a breath more than a word.

"I'm here," he replied, surprised by the gentleness in his own voice. "Though I doubt you'll remember this conversation."

The fire crackled beside them, casting dancing shadows across Lucian's face. Makoto studied him with unguarded curiosity. "You're quite beautiful when you're not putting up a tough front," Makoto said, allowing himself a small smile that no one would see. His fingers traced the contours of Lucian's face, lingering over the sharp cheekbones, the delicate arc of his eyebrows. In unconsciousness, the detective's perpetual guardedness had melted away, revealing something softer beneath.

A deep longing stirred within Makoto, unfamiliar and almost frightening in its intensity. He'd spent years manipulating others, playing the grand game of Kanai Ward without allowing himself to form genuine attachments. Yet here he was, cradling the head of a detective who should have been nothing more than another piece on his board.

A distant rumble of thunder broke the silence, causing Makoto to glance upward at the concrete overhead. The storm was intensifying again. He sighed, knowing they couldn't remain here much longer. The river's edge was creeping closer, threatening to reclaim what it had so reluctantly surrendered.

"We need to move soon," he whispered, though he made no immediate effort to do so. Instead, his hand continued its gentle exploration, fingers trailing along the curve of Lucian's jaw.

The wound on Lucian's chest was already showing signs of improvement, the edges knitting together with supernatural speed now that he'd fed. Vampiric healing—a marvel Makoto had observed but never quite appreciated until this moment. Still, the injury was severe enough that Lucian would need more blood and proper rest.

Despite the fires warmth, Makoto felt freezing cold, his lithe form exposed to elements as his clothing dried.He wrapped his arms around himself, teeth chattering softly. The vulnerability of being maskless left him feeling peculiarly exposed, as if Lucian might wake at any moment and see more than Makoto was prepared to reveal.

"The things I do for you," he murmured, rubbing his hands together near the flames. "And you don't even have the courtesy to be conscious for it."

He wrapped his arms around himself, a rare display of vulnerability with no audience but an unconscious man. His fingers trembled slightly—whether from the cold or the blood loss, he couldn't be certain.

"I don't suppose you'd mind if I borrowed some of your body heat," Makoto murmured, shifting to lie beside Lucian, careful not to disturb his healing wound. "Just until the rain lets up."

He pressed his body against Lucian's side, feeling the vampire's unnatural warmth—a curious contradiction, this heat emanating from one technically dead. Makoto rested his head on his own arm, his face mere inches from Lucian's, studying the detective's features in the flickering firelight.

The mask that usually concealed Makoto's face lay discarded nearby, a white phantom against the mud. Without it, he felt strangely naked, exposed in a way that unsettled him. He'd worn it for so long that its absence felt like missing a limb. The cool night air caressed his exposed features, a sensation both foreign and oddly freeing.

"I wonder what you'd say," he whispered to Lucian, "if you saw me like this. Would you even recognize me without my little disguise?"

A soft sigh escaped Lucian's lips, his head turning slightly toward Makoto's voice. Even unconscious, he seemed drawn to the sound, like a plant bending toward sunlight. Makoto found himself holding his breath, watching as Lucian's features softened further, the perpetual furrow between his brows momentarily smoothed away.

The intimate proximity was dangerous—not physically, but emotionally. Makoto had maintained his distance from others for a long time. How long since anyone had truly seen his face? Not the carefully crafted persona he presented to Kanai Ward, but the real Makoto beneath—the one who now lay shivering beside a man who caught his attention in unexpected ways

"Don't get too comfortable, Detective," Makoto whispered, though there was no bite to his words. "Didn’t you want a professional relationship?."

Yet he made no move to increase the distance between them. Instead, his eyes traced the curve of Lucian's lips, remembering how they had felt against his own during that desperate act of resuscitation. Purely clinical, of course—a necessity to save Lucian's life. But Makoto couldn't deny the lingering warmth that thought evoked, a heat that had nothing to do with the fire beside them.

The fire popped and hissed as a drop of water fell from the overpass above, landing directly in the flames. Makoto watched the brief struggle between elements—water and fire, opposing forces locked in an eternal dance. Much like himself and Lucian, perhaps.

A sudden chill ran through him, causing his body to tremble against Lucian's still form. The blood loss was affecting him more than he'd anticipated. His vision swam momentarily, and instinctively he grabbed his mask to let the cold porcelain rest on his face.

"Just for a moment," he murmured, allowing his eyes to close. "I'll rest for just a moment."

Sleep claimed him swiftly, drawing him into dreams filled with swirling water and crimson eyes. His body unconsciously curled closer to Lucian's warmth, one hand coming to rest lightly on the detective's chest, rising and falling with each breath.

Beneath the overpass, time slipped by unmarked, the steady patter of rain a metronome counting seconds neither man was conscious to observe. The small fire dwindled to embers, casting a faint orange glow that barely illuminated their intertwined forms.

It was Lucian who stirred first, consciousness returning in fragments—pain, warmth, the metallic taste of blood lingering on his tongue. His eyelids felt impossibly heavy as he forced them open, blinking against the dim light. Something rested against his side, a weight both unfamiliar and oddly comforting.

He turned his head slowly, wincing at the stiffness in his neck, and found himself face to face with Makoto. The sight was so unexpected that for a moment, Lucian wondered if he was still dreaming. Makoto's mask stared back at him, and Makoto’s resting form shivering in the cold air.

Lucian's mind struggled to process the scene before him. His last clear memory was of the churning river, the cold embrace of water filling his lungs, and then... nothing. Yet here he was, alive, with Makoto curled against him like a cat seeking warmth.

With effort, he raised a trembling hand to his own chest, fingers encountering makeshift bandages wrapped around his torso. The material was torn from clothing—expensive clothing, if he wasn't mistaken. His gaze returned to Makoto, taking in the disheveled appearance of the normally immaculate man. Even in the dim light, Lucian could see that Makoto was also in a state of undress, his muddies clothes draped by the fire with his own to dry.

Something within Lucian shifted—a tightness in his chest that had nothing to do with his wound. Makoto had saved him. Not only saved him but tended to him, given him blood, created fire, and now lay beside him, shivering in the cold night air. The realization settled over Lucian like a blanket, heavy with implications he wasn't ready to examine.

With painstaking slowness, Lucian reached out, his fingers hovering over the porcelain mask. He hesitated, caught between curiosity and respect for Makoto's privacy. The mask—always present, always a barrier—now seemed like the final threshold between them.

"Makoto," he whispered, his voice hoarse from the river water. When there was no response, Lucian carefully slipped his arm around Makoto's shoulders, drawing him closer to share what warmth he could offer. The movement sent a fresh jolt of pain through his chest, drawing a sharp hiss from between clenched teeth. Still, he didn't let go.

"You're freezing," he murmured, though he knew Makoto couldn't hear him. His fingers brushed against the edge of the mask, feeling it’s cool, smooth surface. Something about seeing Makoto like this—vulnerable, unguarded—stirred emotions Lucian had been careful to keep buried. Professional distance had been his mantra since arriving in Kanai Ward, yet here they were, boundaries blurred beyond recognition.

He gave into the urge and pulled Makoto closer to him, wrapping him in his arms weakly despite the pain it caused. The embers of the fire cast dancing shadows across Makoto's form, highlighting the elegant curve of his shoulder, the vulnerable hollow of his throat. Lucian swallowed hard, his mouth suddenly dry despite the dampness that surrounded them. His fangs ached dully, a reminder of the blood he'd taken—Makoto's blood, freely given to save him.

He couldn’t remember the last time he held somebody like this, or even vice versa. Hid lips still held the taste of Makoto’s blood and something else, a faint taste of chapstick he didnt recognize. With his free hand, Lucian touched his own lips, puzzled by the lingering sensation there. Had Makoto...? The thought sent an unexpected warmth through him that had nothing to do with his vampiric nature or the dying embers nearby.

His fingers lingered at his mouth a moment longer before dropping to Makoto's wrist, where two small puncture wounds marked the skin. Evidence of what had transpired while he was unconscious. Shame and gratitude mingled within him, creating an uncomfortable knot in his stomach.

"You went too far," Lucian murmured, tracing the puncture marks with his thumb. The blood loss would explain Makoto's current state—pale, shivering, vulnerable in a way that seemed impossible for the usually composed CEO. "Why would you risk yourself like this for me?"

“Well I certainly wasn’t going to let you die here”

Makoto’s voice caught him off guard, not even having realized the other man had awoken. A part of him expected for Makoto to pull away, but instead Makot pulled Lucian flush to his body, savoring the warmth between them.

Lucian stiffened at the unexpected response, his crimson eyes meeting the blank stare of Makoto's mask.

"How long have you been awake?" Lucian asked, his voice still rough.

"Long enough." Makoto made no effort to move away, his body still pressed against Lucian's. "You should conserve your strength. That wound was... significant."

"You gave me lots of blood, you could have gotten yourself killed," Lucian replied, suddenly self-conscious of how tightly he was holding the other man. He loosened his grip slightly, though his arm remained draped across Makoto's shoulders.

A soft laugh escaped from behind the mask. "How curious that you're lecturing me about rest when you were at death's door not long ago."

Lucian shifted, wincing as the movement tugged at his wound. "How close was I?"

"To death?" Makoto's voice was soft behind the mask. "Close enough that I had to kiss you back to life."

The words hung between them, heavy with implication. Lucian's eyes widened slightly, his gaze dropping to Makoto's mask as if trying to see through it.

"You... performed CPR," Lucian said slowly, the pieces falling into place. The taste on his lips, the intimacy that seemed to linger between them—it wasn't just blood that connected them now.

"A rather clinical description for such a desperate act," Makoto replied, and Lucian could almost hear the smile in his voice. "But yes, I breathed life back into you. You were quite determined to drown."

Lucian swallowed hard, his mind struggling to process this new information. The river, the drowning, Makoto's maskless face pressed against his own—the fragmented memories began to resurface, hazy but undeniable.

"I don't..." Lucian started, then paused, uncertain what to say. "Thank you doesn't seem adequate."

"It isn't," Makoto agreed, his voice carrying an unusual warmth despite the mask's barrier. "But I'll accept it nonetheless."

A comfortable silence settled between them, broken only by the soft patter of rain and the occasional crackle of dying embers. Lucian found himself studying the mask, wondering about the face behind it. In all his investigations, he'd never uncovered what Makoto truly looked like—the man was meticulous about his privacy.

"You saw my face," Makoto said suddenly, as if reading Lucian's thoughts. "While you were unconscious."

Lucian's breath caught. "I... I did?"

"You were hardly in a state to appreciate it," Makoto replied, a hint of amusement coloring his tone. “You did however look up at me as if I was an angel ready to whisk you away from the mortal realm, so i’ll take that as a compliment~”

The heat of embarrassment rushed to Lucian's face, a stark contrast to the chill of the night air. He couldn't help but wonder what vision had greeted him in those moments between life and death.

"I was hardly conscious enough to form any coherent thoughts," Lucian replied, aiming for a professional tone but missing by a mile. His voice was too soft, too intimate for the distance he was trying to maintain.

"I find that difficult to believe, Detective," Makoto replied, shifting slightly closer. "Your subconscious mind is quite... revealing."

The intimacy of their position suddenly struck Lucian with full force. Here they were, bodies pressed together beneath a desolate overpass, the boundaries between them dissolved by near-death and blood exchange. Professional distance seemed laughable now, a pretense neither could maintain.

"What exactly did I reveal?" Lucian asked, unable to keep the curiosity from his voice.

Makoto's hand moved to rest against Lucian's chest, fingers splayed delicately over the bandaged wound. "You called for me," he said softly. "Not for help, not for rescue. For me specifically."

The confession hung between them, weighted with meaning. Lucian found himself at a loss for words, caught between denial and acceptance of a truth he wasn't ready to face.

“Lucian! Makoto! Where are you!?”

A familiar voice cut through the silence, echoing off the concrete walls of the underpass.

“Is that Kurumi? How did she find us?” Lucian asked, bewildered.

“We’re down here!” Makoto shouted, hoping to draw the informants attention.

A beam of light swept across the underpass, momentarily blinding them. Makoto instinctively tightened his grip on Lucian, as if reluctant to surrender their moment of intimacy.

"Thank the gods," Kurumi's voice rang out, relief evident in her tone. The light bobbed closer, revealing her silhouette against the rain. “We were beginning to think we’d never find you guys-”

She paused as she took in the scene before her—Lucian's bandaged chest, Makoto's state of undress, their bodies entwined by the dying embers. Her expression shifted from relief to something more complex, her eyes darting between them.

"I see I've interrupted something," she teased. “So this is what you meant by professional relationship.”

Lucian's face flushed an impossible shade of crimson, a stark contrast to his usual pallor. He attempted to sit up, wincing as pain lanced through his chest.

"It's not—we weren't—" he stammered, his usual eloquence deserting him entirely.

Kurumi snorted, crouching down beside them. "Save it, Detective. You look half-dead, and Makoto looks..." she paused, eyeing his mask and bare torso, "...well, half-dressed. I don't need the details."

Kurumi smiled triumphantly, setting down a large backpack she'd been carrying. "I brought medical supplies and dry clothes. Figured you'd need both after that stunt you pulled." Her eyes narrowed as she took in Lucian's bandaged chest. "How bad is it?"

"Bad enough," Makoto replied, finally disentangling himself from Lucian with a palpable reluctance that seemed to linger in the air. Spotting another figure approaching, Makoto shakily stood, shielding his eyes with a slender hand as a second, piercing beam of a flashlight sliced through the night, illuminating his face in stark relief.

“Kurumi?” They called.

"Yuma! I found them, over here!" Kurumi called, cutting through the darkness with urgency.

“Yuma?” Lucian echoed, the name stirring a memory from Kurumi’s cellphone like a distant bell chiming in his mind.

“Yuma…” Makoto repeated aloud, his voice taking on a gravity that was rarely heard, the usual lightheartedness replaced by a note of seriousness.

The rhythmic splashing of rain boots squelching through the thick mud grew louder, heralding the approach of a figure. Emerging from the shadows, a man of similar height and build to Makoto came into view. He wore a long, flowing cape that billowed around him like a dark cloud, and a well-worn rain cap perched on his head. His hair, short and neatly trimmed into a stylish undercut, was a soft mauve color, almost a whisper away from Makoto’s own silver locks.

He breathed heavily, his chest rising and falling as he caught his breath, relief flooding his features as he finally reached them. “Thank goodness…” he sighed, his voice a mixture of exhaustion and relief.

Makoto, though visibly tense, greeted him with familiarity. “Hello Yuma, it’s been a while,” he said, his voice carrying a subtle warmth despite the tension in his posture.

Yuma's gaze swept over the scene, taking in Lucian's wounded state and Makoto's dishevelment. His eyes lingered on Makoto's mask, “Not particularly the grounds i wanted a reunion on” He gave a nervous laugh.

Lucian interrupted the two with a sharp noise of pain, small gush of blood trickling down his stomach as he sat up.

“Lucian!” Makoto redirected his attention to Lucian, the concern in his voice unmistakable. He knelt beside him quickly, steadying him in his arms. Yuma followed suit, expertly navigating the medical supplies packed in Kurumi’s bag to slow the bleeding.

Yuma worked efficiently, his medical expertise evident in his efficient examination of the hastily bandaged wound. "I’ve stopped the bleeding again but this needs proper medical attention. The river isn't known for its cleanliness."

"I've done what I could," Makoto replied, an unusual defensiveness coloring his tone.

Lucian watched the exchange with growing curiosity. The resemblance between the two men was striking—not just physically, but in their mannerisms, the careful precision of their movements. There was something here, complex and unspoken.

He grit his teeth as Yuma did some minor cleanup, antiseptic burning as he dabbed the edges of the deep wound. Some of the blood had finally dried, while some still pooled at his waistband of his pants and dripped down either side of him.

Lucian struggled to stay in an upright position, wincing as the movement sent fresh waves of pain through his chest. "You two know each other," he observed, his detective's instincts cutting through the fog of pain and exhaustion.

Makoto's laugh was hollow behind his mask. "One might say that."

Yuma hastily packed everything back in the bag, getting ready for the trek ahead. "We have... history," he explained, his gentle voice a stark contrast to the tension crackling between them. "But that's a story for another time. Right now, we need to get you guys to safety.”

"My apartment is closest," Kurumi offered, already rummaging through her backpack. She pulled out a thermal blanket, its metallic surface catching the beam of her flashlight. "It's not exactly a hospital, but it's dry and clean." She gently wrapped the blanket around Lucian’s shoulders, careful to keep it far away from his gaping wound.

Makoto remained unusually silent, watching Yuma an intensity that seemed to crackle in the damp air. His mask betrayed nothing, but the tension in his shoulders spoke volumes

Lucian's gaze darted between the two men, sensing the unspoken tension that stretched between them like a live wire. Despite his weakened state, his detective instincts were on high alert. There was more to this relationship than simple acquaintance—the way Makoto held himself, almost defensively, and the careful way Yuma avoided direct eye contact while maintaining perfect awareness of Makoto's every movement.

"I can walk on my own," Lucian insisted, attempting to push himself up despite the searing pain that shot through his chest. His legs trembled beneath him, betraying his false bravado.

"Don't be ridiculous," Yuma chided gently, placing a steady hand on Lucian's shoulder. "You've lost too much blood, even with Makoto's... contribution." His eyes flicked briefly to the puncture marks on Makoto's wrist and neck, his expression unreadable.

Makoto stepped forward, his movements fluid despite his earlier exhaustion. "Then i'll help carry him," he offered, his voice brooking no argument.

Yuma hesitated, then nodded. "Together, then."

They positioned themselves on either side of Lucian, each taking an arm over their shoulders. The detective bit back a groan as they lifted him, his wounded chest protesting the movement. The similarity in their height made them perfect supports, their steps automatically falling into sync as they navigated the treacherous mud.

"I've got the car waiting just up the embankment," Kurumi said, leading the way with her flashlight. "It was a nightmare finding you guys in this downpour."

Lucian's head lolled slightly, his consciousness wavering as they began their ascent. The proximity of both men—Makoto's familiar scent now mingling with Yuma. It was strangely similar, it was almost hard to discern the two with something equally pleasant yet distinct, like two variations of the same melody—was oddly comforting. Lucian found himself drifting between awareness and something deeper, the pain in his chest becoming a distant throb as the world around him blurred.

"Stay with us, Detective," Makoto murmured, his voice close to Lucian's ear. "We've come too far for you to fade now."

"I'm fine," Lucian managed, though the words came out slurred. The world tilted precariously, darkness encroaching at the edges of his vision. "Just... dizzy."

Lucian forced his eyes open, focusing on the rain-slicked path ahead. The embankment was steep, mud sucking at their shoes with each laborious step. He could feel both men adjusting their grip, their movements perfectly synchronized despite the obvious tension between them.

The climb up the embankment was treacherous, mud slipping beneath their feet with each step. Rain continued to pour, less violently now but still persistent, soaking through the thermal blanket Kurumi had wrapped around Lucian's shoulders.

"Almost there," Yuma encouraged, his grip firm and steady. "Just a few more steps."

When they crested the hill, Kurumi's car came into view—a sleek, black sedan with tinted windows, its engine still running. Kurumi rushed ahead to open the back door, the interior light spilling out into the rainy night.

"Get him in," she instructed, clearing space in the backseat.

Makoto and Yuma maneuvered Lucian carefully into the vehicle, their movements still in perfect synchronization. Lucian collapsed against the leather seat, his breathing shallow but steady. The warmth of the car's interior was a stark contrast to the chill of the underpass, and he found himself shivering as his body adjusted to the temperature change.

"I'll sit with him," Makoto declared, sliding in beside Lucian before anyone could protest. His hand came to rest on Lucian's forehead, checking for fever with a touch that lingered longer than necessary. He pulled Lucian’s head into his lap and cradled it protectively.

"My apartment, then?" Kurumi asked, meeting Makoto's gaze in the rearview mirror.

"Yes," Makoto confirmed, his voice unusually soft as he adjusted Lucian in his lap. "He needs somewhere safe to recover."

As Yuma settled into the passenger seat beside Kurumi, Lucian caught the subtle exchange of glances between him and Makoto in the rearview mirror—a silent communication laden with unanswered questions. The car lurched forward, tires spinning briefly in the mud before finding purchase on the wet asphalt

The car pulled away from the curb, windshield wipers fighting valiantly against the relentless rain. Inside, the silence was broken only by the rhythmic swishing of the wipers and Lucian's labored breathing. Makoto's arm remained protectively around him, supporting his weight as the car navigated through Kanai Ward's flooded streets.

The soft purr of the engine filled the silence as they drove through the rain-soaked streets of Kanai Ward. Streetlights threw intermittent gold across Lucian's face, illuminating the pallor that still clung to his features despite Makoto's blood.

"How did you find us?" Makoto asked, his fingers absently stroking Lucian's damp hair as he addressed Kurumi in the driver's seat.

"The news," she replied, eyes fixed on the road ahead. "They caught footage of you two fighting Yomi on the bridge. When you both went into the river..." She trailed off, her knuckles whitening on the steering wheel.

“And what brought you here, Yuma? It’s not like you to drop in unannounced.”

In the passenger seat, Yuma shifted slightly. "Kurumi mentioned you were working with a detective," he mentioned. “I’ve heard about your recent projects and wanted to check in.” His voice was soft yet carried a weight that seemed almost accusatory.

"I wasn't aware you kept such close tabs on me, Yuma," Makoto replied, his voice deceptively light despite the tension evident in his posture. His fingers continued their gentle ministrations in Lucian's hair, a stark contrast to the sharpness in his tone.

"I was curious about your new... colleague," Yuma continued, each word measured carefully. "We haven't spoken in some time, Makoto."

Makoto's fingers stilled in Lucian's hair, the momentary pause revealing more than words could. "No, we haven't," he agreed, his tone neutral yet somehow brittle. "Though I'm not sure this is the appropriate moment for a reunion."

Lucian drifted in and out of consciousness, each awakening bringing him back to the strange reality of his head cradled in Makoto's lap, those elegant fingers occasionally brushing damp hair from his forehead. The intimacy of it should have felt alien, inappropriate even, yet in his weakened state, he found himself leaning into the touch.

"How much further?" Makoto asked, not bothering to hide the concern in his voice.

"Five minutes," Kurumi answered, navigating a sharp turn with practiced ease. "My building has a private entrance we can use. No prying eyes."

The car fell silent again, save for the rhythmic swish of windshield wipers and the soft patter of rain against metal. Lucian felt consciousness slipping away once more, the gentle motion of the vehicle and Makoto's warm lap lulling him toward oblivion. Yet he fought to stay awake, his detective's curiosity piqued by the undercurrent of tension flowing between Makoto and this newcomer, Yuma.

Through half-lidded eyes, he studied what he could see of Yuma's profile—the elegant slope of his jaw, so similar to Makoto's, the way his mauve hair curled slightly at the nape of his neck. There was something in his posture, a gentleness that contrasted with Makoto's calculated grace, yet they moved with the same fluid precision. Like two sides of the same coin, familiar yet opposite.

Kurumi guided the car into the private entry and found a place to park close to elevator. Lucian felt himself being lifted again, the movement sending fresh waves of pain through his chest despite the gentle hands supporting him.

The lights above the elevator cast an eerie glow, causing shadows to dance across Lucian's face as Makoto and Yuma carefully maneuvered him from the car.

"Can you get the doors?" Makoto asked Kurumi, his voice betraying the strain of supporting Lucian's weight. Despite his slender build, Makoto showed surprising strength as he bore most of the burden, reluctant to relinquish his hold even with Yuma's assistance.

"Already on it," Kurumi replied, fishing a key card from her pocket and swiping it against the elevator panel. The doors slid open with a soft mechanical hum, revealing a spacious elevator with mirrored walls.

The elevator ascended with a gentle hum, its mirrored walls reflecting their bedraggled group—Kurumi leading the way, her usual vibrant demeanor subdued by concern; Yuma and Makoto, identical in height and similar in build, supporting Lucian between them; and Lucian himself, head lolling forward, crimson eyes struggling to stay focused on the digital floor numbers as they climbed higher.

The elevator dinged softly as they reached their destination, and Kurumi hurried ahead to unlock her apartment door.

"This way," she called, flicking on lights as she led them through a sleek, minimalist living space. "Bedroom's through here

The apartment was unexpectedly spacious, with floor-to-ceiling windows that offered a panoramic view of Kanai Ward below. Rain streaked the glass, distorting the city lights into watery smears of color. Despite the modern furnishings, touches of Kurumi's personality were evident in the colorful throw pillows and eclectic art pieces adorning the walls.

They guided Lucian to Kurumi's spare bedroom, which was sparsely furnished with a queen-sized bed and a sleek bedside table. The sheets were pristine white, almost clinical in their cleanliness—a stark contrast to the mud and blood that stained their clothes.

"Lay him down carefully," Yuma instructed, "We need to clean that wound properly."

Together, they lowered Lucian onto the bed, the detective wincing as his back made contact with the mattress. Makoto's hand lingered on Lucian's shoulder, reluctant to break contact even as Yuma began unpacking medical supplies from his bag.

"I'll need hot water and clean towels," Yuma said, addressing Kurumi who hovered anxiously in the doorway.

"Right away," she nodded, disappearing.

"Get his clothes off," Yuma instructed, his voice professional as he laid out medical supplies on a nearby table. "They're still damp and dirty."

Makoto's hands were unexpectedly gentle as they worked at Lucian's clothing, peeling away the layers with careful precision. "Easy," he murmured when Lucian winced. "We're almost done."

Through the fog of pain and exhaustion, Lucian was acutely aware of Makoto's fingers against his skin, the brush of knuckles across his collarbone as he worked.

Makoto leaned in, speaking softly to just Lucian. “I’m going to have to take it all off, is that ok?” His touch lingered at the waistband of Lucian’s boxers.

Lucian's cheeks flushed crimson, a stark contrast to his pallid complexion. Despite his weakened state, embarrassment cut through the haze of pain and blood loss. He managed a small nod, unable to find his voice as Makoto's fingers lingered at the elastic band.

"I'll... step out for a moment," Yuma said quietly, his eyes meeting Makoto's briefly before he turned away. "Call me when he's ready."

As the door closed behind Yuma, Makoto's hands resumed their task with clinical efficiency, though his touch remained gentle. "Nothing I haven't seen before, Detective," he murmured, a hint of his usual teasing tone returning despite the gravity of the situation.

The last of his clothing fell away, leaving him exposed and vulnerable beneath Makoto's gaze. Despite his nakedness, it was the intimacy of the moment that left him feeling truly bare—the gentleness in Makoto's hands, the careful way he folded each discarded garment despite their ruined state.

"There," Makoto said, his voice gentle as he smoothed the sheet over Lucian's legs. “Though I didn’t take you the type for that type of piercing~”

Lucian's face burned hotter, his embarrassment compounded by the reminder of the small silver bar that adorned his body—a relic from a rebellious youth he seldom acknowledged. He averted his gaze, finding sudden interest in the ceiling patterns. "A lapse in judgment from my early WDO training days," he muttered, his voice barely audible.

Makoto's chuckle was soft behind his mask. "I rather like it. It shows there's more to the stern detective than meets the eye." His fingers brushed against Lucian's bare shoulder, the touch lingering a moment longer than necessary. "Your secrets are safe with me."

The intimacy of the moment stretched between them, fragile and charged with unspoken tension. Lucian found himself wondering what expression lay behind that pristine mask, what emotions those hidden features might reveal.

"You should call Yuma back," Lucian said, his voice steadier than he felt. "The wound needs tending." He was desperate to divert attention from his current state of vulnerability, to reestablish some semblance of control despite their unprecedented intimacy.

"Of course," Makoto agreed, though he made no immediate move to call Yuma back. Instead, his hand remained on Lucian's shoulder, thumb tracing small circles against the skin. "Though I must say, Detective, I rather enjoyed having you to myself for a moment."

Before Lucian could formulate a response, Makoto rose gracefully and moved to the door. "Yuma," he called, his voice returning to its usual measured tone. "He's ready."

Yuma entered with Kurumi close behind, carrying a basin of steaming water and fresh towels. Yuma approached with fresh bandages and antiseptic, his eyes carefully avoiding Lucian's nakedness. "I'll need to clean the wound thoroughly," he explained, his voice gentle but authoritative. "This might hurt."

Lucian braced himself, hands gripping the sheets as Yuma began to work. The first touch of antiseptic against the raw wound sent fire racing through his chest, drawing a sharp hiss from between clenched teeth.

"My apologies," Yuma murmured, his hands steady and sure as they cleaned away river debris and dried blood. "The wound is deep, but clean considering the circumstances. You're fortunate Makoto got to you when he did."

Makoto stood at the foot of the bed, his posture tense as he watched Yuma work. Though his mask revealed nothing, there was something protective in his stance, like a sentinel guarding a treasure.

"The bleeding has mostly stopped," Yuma continued, his voice clinical yet gentle. "But you'll need stitches to properly close this, even with your accelerated healing. The blade nearly went clean through you"

Lucian nodded grimly, his crimson eyes fixed on the ceiling as he steeled himself for what was to come. "Do what you must."

Kurumi hovered anxiously at the edge of the room, her usual buoyant demeanor subdued by concern. "Should I... should I leave?"

"Actually," Yuma replied without looking up from his work, "I could use your assistance. Would you mind holding the light steady while I work?"

Kurumi nodded, moving closer with determined steps. Her eyes widened slightly at the full extent of Lucian's wound, now visible in the harsh light, but she quickly composed herself.

Yuma prepared a curved needle, threading it with practiced ease. "This will be the worst of it," he warned, his purple eyes meeting Lucian's crimson ones with genuine compassion. "I have local anesthetic, but with the depth of this wound..."

"Just do it," Lucian said through gritted teeth.

"Makoto," Yuma paused before he began to stitch Lucian up, "Perhaps you should clean up. You're still covered in river mud and blood."

A tense silence followed. Makoto seemed to hesitate, wanting to stay by Lucian’s side.

“Go on Makoto…you need rest too.” Lucian uttered softly. “I’m sure you don’t want to see me get stitched up”

A shadow of hesitation crossed Makoto's posture, though his mask betrayed nothing of his expression. For a moment, it seemed he might refuse, unwilling to leave Lucian's side. Then his shoulders relaxed slightly, a subtle concession.

"Perhaps you're right," Makoto said, his voice carrying a weariness he rarely allowed others to hear. "I'll be quick." He moved toward the door, pausing to look back at Lucian. "Try not to die while I'm gone, Detective. I've invested far too much effort in keeping you alive already."

Despite the pain, Lucian managed a weak smile. "I'll do my best."

As Makoto left the room, the atmosphere shifted subtly. Yuma's shoulders relaxed fractionally, his movements becoming more fluid as he prepared to begin stitching.

"Ready?" he asked, holding the needle poised above Lucian's wound.

Lucian nodded once, jaw clenched in anticipation. The first puncture of the needle sent white-hot pain lancing through his chest, drawing a strangled groan from this throat.

Kurumi winced sympathetically, her grip on the light wavering slightly before she steadied herself. "You're doing great, Lucian," she encouraged, her voice soft but firm.

Lucian's breath came in short, controlled gasps as he fought to remain still under Yuma's ministrations. Each pull of the thread through his flesh sent fresh waves of agony radiating from his chest, but he refused to cry out again.

Kurumi reached out, offering her hand to Lucian. "Squeeze if you need to," she said, her voice gentle.

Lucian hesitated before accepting her offer, his fingers wrapping around hers with unexpected vulnerability. His grip tightened reflexively around Kurumi's hand with each pull of the thread, his brow furrowing in anguish

"I apologize for the pain," Yuma said, his voice steady as he worked. "Your wound is quite severe. It's remarkable you survived."

As Yuma continued his methodical work, Lucian studied the man through pain-clouded eyes. There was still something in his movements that reminded him of Makoto—a certain precision, a fluidity that seemed almost choreographed.

"How do you know Makoto?" Lucian asked between gritted teeth, seeking distraction from the pain.

Yuma's hands faltered for just a moment, so brief that if Lucian hadn't been watching closely, he might have missed it. Then they resumed their steady rhythm, pulling the thread through flesh with practiced ease.

"We go back a long way," Yuma finally answered, his voice carefully neutral.

Lucian winced as the needle pierced his flesh again, but his detective's mind was already piecing together the fragments of information. The similar build, the synchronized movements, the matching purple eyes.

"You're related to him, aren't you?" Lucian asked, his detective's instincts cutting through the fog of pain.

Yuma's hands remained steady, but something flickered in those purple eyes—a shadow of old memories, perhaps, or carefully guarded secrets. "What makes you say that?" he asked, his voice deliberately light as he tied off another stitch.

"Your eyes," Lucian replied, wincing as the needle pierced his flesh again. "Same color. Same build. You move the same way he does."

Kurumi's grip on Lucian's hand tightened slightly, her gaze darting between him and Yuma with undisguised curiosity.

"Perceptive," Yuma acknowledged after a moment of silence. "Even while in considerable pain. I can see why Makoto finds you... interesting. However, you’re not quite right.”

Lucian's eyes narrowed, the pain momentarily forgotten as his detective instincts sharpened. "Then what's the connection? The resemblance is too striking to be coincidental."

Yuma's hands continued their methodical work, each stitch placed with precision. "We share blood, yes," he finally admitted, his voice soft. "But not in the way you might think. The story is... complicated."

"Most stories in Kanai Ward are," Lucian replied dryly, sucking in a sharp breath as Yuma tightened a particularly painful stitch.

“I doubt he'd appreciate me sharing that information." His eyes met Lucian's, “Perhaps the rest of the story is best heard from Makoto himself.”

"But—" Lucian's question was cut short as the door swung open, revealing Makoto freshly showered, his hair still damp and clinging to his neck. He had changed into what must have been borrowed clothes from Kurumi—a simple black t-shirt that hung loosely on his frame and gray sweatpants. The mask remained firmly in place, its pristine white surface a stark contrast to the casual attire.

The room fell into immediate silence, tension thickening the air as Makoto's gaze moved from Lucian to Yuma, then back again. Though his expression remained hidden, something in his posture suggested he had sensed the topic of their conversation.

"I hope I'm not interrupting anything important," Makoto said, his voice deceptively light as he moved to stand at the foot of the bed.

"Just finishing the last few stitches.” Yuma sighed, his eyes remaining locked onto his work.

Yuma tied off the final stitch with practiced hands, his touch gentle despite the clinical precision of his movements. "There," he said, inspecting his work with a critical eye. "Twenty-seven stitches. The wound should heal cleanly now, though you'll have a scar to remember this night by."

Lucian exhaled slowly, relief washing over him as the ordeal of stitching finally ended. His chest throbbed with a dull, persistent ache, but the sharp, stabbing pain had subsided to something more manageable. He felt drained, hollowed out by blood loss and exhaustion.

"Thank you," he murmured to Yuma, then turned his gaze to Kurumi, whose hand he realized he was still clutching. He let go with a sheepish expression and Kurumi pulled away, flexing her fingers with a dramatic wince. "Quite a grip you've got there, Detective. Save that for Makoto~”

Lucian's face flushed crimson at Kurumi's insinuation, the color spreading from his cheeks down to his neck. Makoto's soft chuckle from behind his mask only intensified Lucian's embarrassment.

"I believe that's our cue to give our patient some privacy," Yuma said, gathering his medical supplies with efficient movements. "The wound needs to be kept dry for at least twenty-four hours. After that, you can shower, but carefully." His eyes met Lucian's with professional concern. "You should rest as much as possible. Your body has been through significant trauma."

"I'll make sure he follows doctor's orders," Makoto said, moving closer to the bed as Yuma stepped away. There was something possessive in his stance, a subtle reclaiming of territory that didn't go unnoticed by anyone in the room.

“That includes you, Makoto. I didn’t just come here to save you guys, we have much to discuss” Yuma frowned shedding his gloves into the trash and wiping them on a clean towel.

Tension crackled in the air like static electricity. Makoto's posture stiffened, the casual grace of his movements momentarily abandoned as he regarded Yuma with a carefully measured stare.

"I'm sure whatever you wish to discuss can wait until Lucian has recovered," Makoto replied, his voice carrying an edge of steel beneath the velvet. "After all, it's only been a few years. What's another day or two?"

Yuma's expression remained placid, but something flashed in his purple eyes—a determination that matched Makoto's own. "Some matters can't wait, especially given recent developments."

Kurumi glanced between the two men, her usual playful demeanor subdued by the palpable tension. "How about we all get some rest first? It's been a hell of a night." She turned to Lucian with a sympathetic expression.

"I'll bring you something to wear," she added, heading for the door. "Unless you prefer to remain as you are. Makoto doesn't seem to mind."

If Lucian could have burrowed beneath the sheets and disappeared, he would have. Instead, he adjusted the thin sheet covering his lower half, acutely aware of his nakedness beneath.

"That would be appreciated," he managed, voice still rough from pain and exhaustion.

As Kurumi left the room, the three men remained locked in a silent tableau—Yuma standing with his medical bag, face unreadable; Makoto beside the bed, his masked presence radiating protective energy; and Lucian caught between them, physically and metaphorically exposed.

"I'll check on you in the morning," Yuma finally said, breaking the silence. His eyes met Makoto's mask, a silent communication passing between them.

"We have much to discuss," Yuma continued, his voice softening almost imperceptibly. "About Yomi. About what happened tonight. About what you’ve been up to.” His gaze shifted to Makoto sternly.

Makoto remained silent for a moment, his fingers tapping a restless rhythm against his thigh—a rare display of agitation from someone usually so composed. "Very well," he finally conceded. "But not tonight.

As Yuma nodded and turned to leave, Lucian caught a fleeting glimpse of something in his expression—concern, perhaps, or a deeper emotion he couldn't quite name. The door closed behind him with a soft click, leaving Lucian alone with Makoto.

"You should rest," Makoto said, moving closer to the bed.

His voice was gentler than usual, the teasing tone replaced with something more sincere. "The blood loss alone would exhaust anyone, not to mention the near-drowning experience."

Lucian couldn’t argue, exhaustion pulled at him like an undertow. His eyelids felt impossibly heavy, his body sinking deeper into the mattress with each passing second.

“Stay with me” Lucian asked the words escaping before he could consider their impact.

Makoto paused, his masked face tilted slightly as if considering the request. The rain continued its gentle percussion against the windows, filling the silence between them. For a moment, Lucian thought he might refuse or deflect with one of his usual teasing remarks.

Instead, Makoto moved to the edge of the bed, lowering himself onto it with surprising gentleness. "As if I would leave you now, Detective," he said softly. "After all the trouble I went through to keep you alive."

The mattress dipped beneath his weight, and Lucian could feel the warmth radiating from Makoto's body—a stark contrast to the chill that still lingered in his own bones despite the room's comfortable temperature.

There was a vulnerability in the moment that neither man acknowledged—Lucian's naked form beneath the thin sheet, Makoto's mask still firmly in place despite the intimacy they had shared. Questions hung in the air between them, unasked and unanswered.

Lucian reached out, tugging Makoto’s sleeve gently so he would lay down beside them as they had been back at the underpass.

"I'm not certain this falls under doctor's orders," Makoto murmured, his voice carrying a hint of his usual playfulness despite the gravity of their situation.

Makoto hesitated just for a moment before carefully lying down beside Lucian, maintaining a sliver of space between their bodies. The pristine white mask caught the dim light as he settled his head on the pillow, facing Lucian.

"You should know," Makoto began, his voice barely above a whisper, "that once I settle in, I'm not inclined to leave until morning."

Despite his exhaustion, Lucian felt a smile tug at his lips. "I'm counting on it."

A comfortable silence settled between them, broken only by the steady rhythm of rain against the windows and Lucian's gradually deepening breaths. The warmth of Makoto's body beside him was a stark contrast to the chill of the river that still seemed to linger in Lucian's bones. Even as they lay side by side, Lucian wanted him closer, recalling the feeling of their bodies flush together. Finally, his hand snaked under the sheets, tentatively finding Makoto’s hand and letting it rest on top.

Makoto's fingers curled around Lucian's, a gentle acknowledgment of the gesture. The touch was strangely intimate, more so than their bodies pressed together had been at the riverbank. Through the thin sheet, Lucian could feel the warmth of Makoto's hand, solid and reassuring against his own.

"You've had quite the eventful evening," Makoto murmured, his voice a soft caress in the dimly lit room. "First a confrontation with Yomi, then a swim in Kanai's most polluted waterway, followed by an impromptu surgery. One might think you're trying to experience everything the city has to offer in a single night."

Lucian's laugh was weak but genuine, ending in a wince as the movement pulled at his freshly stitched wound. "Not my idea of sightseeing," he admitted.

Lucian’s head turned, gazing longingly at the masked man beside him. His mind struggled to summon forth the image of his face, the memory tickling the edge of his consciousness. He closed the distance best he could, his nose and forehead just barely pressed to the surface of the mask.

Makoto stilled completely, the rise and fall of his chest pausing momentarily before resuming at a slightly faster pace. His fingers tightened around Lucian's, not painfully but with an intensity that spoke of carefully restrained emotion.

"You're playing a dangerous game, Detective," Makoto whispered, his voice carrying an unfamiliar note of vulnerability. Despite his words, he made no move to increase the distance between them. “You’re starting to make me think you want to kiss me.”

Lucian's heart stuttered in his chest, the pain of his wound momentarily forgotten as heat rushed to his face. The accusation hung in the air between them, neither confirmation nor denial passing his lips. In the dim light, with exhaustion clouding his judgment and the memory of near-death still fresh, Lucian found himself unable to maintain the professional distance he'd so carefully constructed.

"And if I did?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

The question seemed to catch Makoto off guard. His body tensed beside Lucian's, the hand entwined with his tightening fractionally. For a moment, silence stretched between them, broken only by the gentle patter of rain against the window and their synchronized breathing.

"Then I would question your judgment," Makoto finally replied, his voice uncharacteristically soft. "Or perhaps attribute it to blood loss and trauma."

Despite his words, Makoto made no attempt to pull away. His fingers remained entwined with Lucian's, his body a line of warmth alongside the detective's.

"And what if it's neither?" Lucian asked, his crimson eyes meeting the sole eye on Makoto's mask. "What if it's something I've been considering since before tonight?"

The confession hung between them, fragile and dangerous. Lucian felt exposed in more ways than one—not just his physical nakedness beneath the sheet, but the vulnerability of having voiced a desire he'd barely acknowledged to himself.

Makoto remained perfectly still, as if the slightest movement might shatter the moment. When he finally spoke, his voice carried a complexity of emotion Lucian had never heard from him before.

"Then I would say you're more reckless than I thought," Makoto replied, his words belied by the gentle stroke of his thumb across Lucian's knuckles.

Lucian hardly had the energy to keep volleying back and forth, instead his eyes softened and he uttered a simple request. “Please…”

The word hung in the air between them, heavy with meaning and longing. Makoto's hand released Lucian's, and for a moment, the detective feared he had overstepped. Then, with deliberate slowness, Makoto's fingers traced up Lucian's arm, over his shoulder, coming to rest at the side of his face. The touch was feather-light, almost reverent.

A subtle shift occurred in Makoto's posture, something yielding in the tension of his body. With deliberate slowness, his free hand rose to the edge of his mask. Lucian held his breath, watching as Makoto's slender fingers hooked beneath the pristine white surface.

"Close your eyes," Makoto whispered, his voice carrying an unusual vulnerability. "Please."

Lucian hesitated only a moment before complying, his crimson eyes sliding shut. He felt the mattress shift as Makoto moved closer, the warmth of his breath ghosting across Lucian's lips. The anticipation made his heart race, pulling painfully at his stitches.

The first press of Makoto's lips against his own was gentle, almost hesitant—a stark contrast to the man's usual confidence. Lucian remained perfectly still, afraid that any movement might cause Makoto to change his mind and pull away.

The kiss deepened slowly, Makoto's hand sliding to cup the back of Lucian's neck, fingers threading through his hair. Despite his weakened state, Lucian responded with unexpected hunger, his own hand reaching up to touch Makoto's face. His fingers encountered warm skin instead of porcelain, tracing the contours of a jawline he couldn't see.

The sensation was intoxicating—the softness of Makoto's lips, the gentle pressure of his hand, the warmth of his breath mingling with Lucian's own. For a moment, the pain in his chest receded, replaced by a different kind of ache, one that pooled low in his stomach and spread through his limbs like honey.

When they finally parted, Lucian kept his eyes closed as requested, though it took considerable willpower. He could feel Makoto's forehead resting against his own, his breathing uneven shaky. Unable to stop himself Lucian pulled the other man back in, his free hand finding purchase on the back of Makoto’s neck as his lips crashed against Makoto’s once more.

This kiss was different—more urgent, more desperate. Lucian's fingers tangled in Makoto's hair, pulling him closer despite the pain that flared in his chest. Makoto made a soft sound against Lucian's mouth, something between surprise and pleasure, before surrendering to the detective's unexpected boldness.

Time seemed to slow, the world outside their shared breath fading into insignificance. Lucian's mind registered fleeting impressions—the softness of Makoto's lips, the faint taste of mint, the gentle scrape of teeth against his lower lip. His body responded with a heat that had nothing to do with fever, a warmth that spread from his core to his fingertips, making him acutely aware of his nakedness beneath the thin sheet.

Makoto matched Lucian's intensity, his body shifting closer despite the thin sheet separating them. His hand slid from Lucian's neck to his bare shoulder, fingers splaying across warm skin with possessive intent.

The taste of Makoto was intoxicating—a hint of rain and something uniquely his own, something Lucian couldn't name but instantly craved more of. He gasped against Makoto's mouth as the movement pulled at his stitches, a sharp reminder of his wounded state.

Makoto pulled back immediately, concern evident in his voice. "Your injury—"

"Don't stop," Lucian breathed, his hand tightening on Makoto's neck, keeping him close. "Please."

Makoto hesitated, torn between desire and concern. His hand moved to Lucian's chest, hovering just above the bandaged wound. "I've gone to considerable trouble to keep you alive tonight, Detective. I'd rather not undo all that good work."

Yet even as he spoke, Makoto's body betrayed his words, leaning into Lucian's touch with undeniable hunger. His lips found Lucian's again, softer this time, mindful of the injured man's condition.

“Just let me taste you…a little more…” Lucian begged softly against the other man’s lips.

Makoto's breath hitched at Lucian's pleading tone. The vulnerability in the detective's voice was so unlike his usual professional demeanor that it sent a shiver down Makoto's spine. With careful movements, he leaned in again, his lips grazing Lucian's with exquisite gentleness.

"As you wish," he murmured against Lucian's mouth, his voice carrying a tenderness that surprised even himself.

This kiss was different—deliberate, unhurried, as if Makoto was committing every sensation to memory. His tongue traced the seam of Lucian's lips, requesting rather than demanding entry. When Lucian parted his lips in response, Makoto deepened the kiss with a soft sound of approval.

The taste of Makoto was like nothing Lucian had experienced before—sweet with an underlying complexity that made him crave more. His hand slid up to cup Makoto's face, fingertips tracing the contours he desperately wanted to see. The skin beneath his touch was smooth, warm, human in every way that mattered.

Lucian's fangs extended involuntarily, a response to the heightened emotion and desire coursing through him. He pulled back slightly, embarrassed by his lack of control.

"I'm sorry," he murmured, trying to retract them.

"Don't be," Makoto whispered, his lips finding Lucian's again despite the danger. "I rather like knowing I affect you so deeply."

The admission sent heat pooling in Lucian's core. His body responded with a wave of desire so intense it momentarily eclipsed the pain of his wound.

The taste of each other was a heady mix of desire and restraint. Lucian's fingers traced the contours of Makoto's jaw, mapping features he couldn't see but could feel—high cheekbones, the delicate curve where jaw met ear, the softness of hair falling forward to brush against his fingertips.

Makoto pulled back just enough to catch his breath, his forehead still pressed against Lucian's. "You should be resting," he whispered, though his actions contradicted his words as his hand slid down Lucian's bare shoulder to rest at his waist.

"I am resting," Lucian argued weakly, his voice rough with desire. "Horizontally. In bed. As prescribed."

A soft laugh escaped Makoto, warming the small space between them. "I doubt this is what Yuma had in mind."

Kurumi returned with a soft knock, carrying folded clothes and a glass of water. "Thought you might be thirsty-," she paused, catching the two of them in their vulnerable state.

"Well, well," Kurumi smirked, setting the clothes and water on the bedside table with deliberate slowness. "Should I come back later?"

Makoto's mask was back in place so quickly that Lucian wondered if he'd imagined its absence. The transition was seamless, as if the mask had never left.

"Perfect timing as always, Kurumi," Makoto said, his voice carrying its usual playful lilt, though Lucian detected a slight breathlessness beneath the composed facade. "Lucian was just about to get some rest."

Kurumi's knowing gaze darted between them, taking in Lucian's flushed cheeks and Makoto's slightly disheveled appearance despite the mask's return. "Uh-huh," she replied.

Lucian's face burned with embarrassment, the sheet suddenly feeling woefully inadequate. He was acutely aware of his state—freshly stitched, naked, and flushed with desire—all while Kurumi's knowing eyes took in the scene.

Makoto cleared his throat, the first sign of genuine discomfort Lucian had ever witnessed from him. "Perhaps you could give us a moment, Kurumi?"

She raised an eyebrow, amusement dancing in her eyes. "Sure thing. Just don't tear those stitches, Lucian. I doubt Yuma would appreciate having to redo his handiwork because you two couldn't control yourselves." With a wink that made Lucian want to disappear beneath the sheets, she backed toward the door. "The spare room is made up for whoever needs it. Though I'm guessing that won't be necessary."

As the door clicked shut behind her, silence fell over the room. Lucian stared up at the ceiling, mortification washing over him in waves. His body still thrummed with the aftereffects of their kiss, but reality was rapidly reasserting itself.

“Could you grab me the pants…” Lucian sighed, defeated.

Makoto reached for the neatly folded clothes Kurumi had left, his movements deliberately measured as if to restore some semblance of normalcy to the charged atmosphere. "Of course," he replied, handing the soft gray sweatpants to Lucian.

Lucian accepted the pants with a nod of thanks, suddenly aware of how intimate their position still was—Makoto perched on the edge of the bed, Lucian naked beneath a thin sheet, the ghost of their kiss still warm on his lips. "Could you...?" he gestured vaguely, embarrassment coloring his face.

“Of course~”

With Makoto's help, he managed to slip the pants on beneath the sheet, wincing as the movement pulled at his stitches. The soft fleece felt nice against his skin, and he relaxed into the mattress once again.

“You’re still going to stay right?” He asked Makoto innocently.

Makoto's mask tilted slightly, his body language softening at Lucian's question. "I promised I wouldn't leave, didn't I?" he said, his voice gentler than Lucian had ever heard it. "Though I'm not certain your recovery requires quite so much... supervision."

Despite his teasing words, Makoto settled himself beside Lucian once more, careful not to disturb the detective's freshly stitched wound. The mattress dipped beneath his weight, creating a subtle gravity that drew their bodies closer.

"You saved my life tonight," Lucian murmured, fatigue finally catching up to him as the adrenaline of their kiss faded. His eyelids felt heavy, the pull of exhaustion becoming impossible to resist. Makoto reached over to the bedside lamp, clicking it off and leaving the two of them in comfortable darkness.

"And you gave me yours," Makoto whispered, the words barely audible in the darkened room. His hand found Lucian's beneath the covers, fingers intertwining with a familiarity that belied their brief acquaintance. "My blood flows in your veins now. That's quite an intimate connection, wouldn't you agree?"

Lucian's eyes were already closing, his body surrendering to the exhaustion that had been held at bay by adrenaline and desire. "More intimate than a kiss?" he murmured, the words slurring slightly as sleep began to claim him.

"Different," Makoto replied, his thumb tracing lazy circles on Lucian's palm. "But no less binding."

Makoto was silent for a long moment, his thumb tracing small circles on Lucian's hand. When he finally spoke, his voice was barely above a whisper. "Sleep, Detective. We can discuss heroics and gratitude when you're not half-dead."

Lucian's lips curved into a tired smile as his eyes drifted closed. The pain in his chest had receded to a dull throb, overshadowed by the warmth of Makoto beside him and the lingering sensation of their kiss still dancing on his lips.

The last thing Lucian registered before sleep claimed him entirely was the gentle press of Makoto's mask against his forehead—not quite a kiss, but something equally tender.

"You really are going to be the death of me, Detective," he whispered to the sleeping form beside him. His fingers remained entwined with Lucian's, unwilling to break that tenuous connection even in sleep.