Lucien shifted, his boots scraping against the floor with a faint, uneasy drag. Fidgeting with his lips, he pulled the mahogany chair back, its legs grating against the floor with a sharp, jarring screech.

  Under the Baron's piercing, unrelenting gaze, he sat down, his posture straight and rigid, his eyes flicking over the parchments on the table. His words caught in his throat, strangled by the weight of the moment.

  What the hell am I doing?

  Coughing, he met the Baron's eyes. For a moment, they simply stared at each other.

  Is this the first time, I have seen eye to eye, with him?

  Surprisingly, the Baron was the first to speak.

  "…You have changed, Lucien…"

  Lucien's eyes flickered.

  His fingers twitched, a brief hesitation before he finally spoke. "…I have made a decision…"

  The baron arched an eyebrow for a moment, but his expression told Lucien he thought little of it.

  Or maybe he just didn't care.

  Reclining in his highchair, he narrowed his eyes and spoke.

  "…What is it?"

  Staring in his eyes, knuckles edged around the chair. He spoke hastily."…I'm leaving the household…"

  The Baron stilled, his expression unreadable. His lips parted slightly "Is that so?" he muttered, drumming his fingers on the table. "Then leave. Do not expect a farewell."

  Rather than being taken back or some kind of reaction, he seemed relieved.

  His feature softened and spoke. "Good. That spares us both."

  Lucien felt something rising with him, it was as if a rusted chain, long forgotten, suddenly tightened around his chest again, like a dam riddled with cracks, the pain threatened to spill over.

  He knew that having any expectations for Baron was disappointing.

  But, even then, for some reason, being dismissed as a fleeting nuisance, unworthy of a second thought.

  Something cwed its way up from the depths of his being, rising fast, threatening to spill, to erupt into scream.

  The wounds were long forgotten—or so he thought. Yet they ached with every passing moment, spasming like a ghost of old pain.

  Gritting his teeth. He demanded. "...I want funds and equipment's..."

  The Baron didn't sigh, didn't scoff, didn't even hesitate. He simply reached for a bnk parchment, dipped his quill in ink, and began writing.

  "Funds and equipment," he repeated, his tone devoid of emotion. "How much?"

  Lucien hesitated for a fraction of a second, caught off guard by the ease of it. The Baron barely seemed to care—no resistance, no mockery, just efficiency.

  Once Lucien answered, the Baron scribbled down the amount, sealed the parchment with wax, and set it aside. He gnced at Lucien with the same distant indifference.

  "It will be arranged," he said ftly. "Anything else?"

  His tone suggested he wasn't granting a favor—just clearing an obligation off his desk.

  Lucien blinked. Once. Twice. His fingers tightened around the armrest of his chair.

  That's it? No ridicule? No dismissive wave of the hand?

  The Baron hadn't even hesitated, treating his request like another mundane task to be crossed off a list.

  Lucien opened his mouth, then closed it. A strange taste lingered on his tongue—relief, perhaps, but ced with something bitter.

  The tension in his head eased, fading as if it had never been there to begin with.

  He really doesn't care, does he?

  Something in his heart felt like a cup of cold, over-brewed tea—steeped in resentment, tasting of nothing but bitterness.

  Lucien seized the parchment, his grip tight. pushing his chair back, its legs dragged against the floor with a slow, grating screech—heavy, reluctant.

  He walked with heavy steps, each one swallowed by the silence, as if even the floor refused to acknowledge his presence.

  His fingers curled around the doorknob. Then—a voice cut through the silence.

  "Wait."

  His grip tightened. He blinked, then slowly turned back.

  Baron sat stiffly, his gaze sharp and unyielding. The air thickened, an invisible pressure settling on Lucien's shoulders. The room grew heavy, dense, as if the very walls were closing in, sealing him inside beneath the weight of the Baron's stare. An unnatural stillness hung in the air, a quiet oppression that made the space feel smaller, heavier—like a cage tightening around him.

  His words sliced through the silence, crisp and sharp, as if meant to cut rather than be heard.

  "Don't forget who killed Lena."

  The name struck like a bde. The air turned brittle, the weight in the room shifting. Lucien stood there, his face darkening, his breath turning shallow.

  His fingers twitched on the doorknob, his breath caught between a shallow inhale and an exhale that never came.

  He turned on his heel, moving as if fleeing—though from the room or the words, he wasn't sure.

  His heartbeat pounded in his ears, a deafening drum against the suffocating silence. Against his chest, the locket pressed cold and heavy, as if the metal itself carried the weight of his grief.

  The Baron didn't move, didn't call him back. Whether he was watching or had already looked away,

  Lucien didn't know. He didn't dare check.

  Lucien stormed through the gates.

  The guard took a step forward, his mouth half-open as if to question him—but at the sight of Lucien's face, he faltered.

  His eyes, usually burning with something sharp, were empty. Heavy.

  The guard swallowed his words and stepped aside.

  Lucien moved with heavy, quick steps, his boots striking against the stone floors with dull, resounding thuds. He didn't slow, didn't hesitate—his body moved as if propelled by something deeper than thought, something raw and unrelenting.

  His hands trembled as he shoved open the door to his room. The hinges groaned in protest, but he ignored it. The moment he stepped inside, he pressed the door shut behind him, his breath ragged.

  Zexusgo