ADRIEN’S POV

Freedom shouldn’t feel this heavy.

I stare at the peeling floral wallpaper of my tiny apartment, my knees pulled tightly against my chest. The scent of dust, old wood, and the distant, comforting aroma of frying onions from downstairs fills the air.

It is entirely ordinary. It is everything I have been clawing to get back to.

So why does it feel like a trap?

When the sleek black car pulled up to the curb of Orion’s mansion hours ago, I fully expected the burly driver to pull a gun on me.

Instead, he unlocked the doors and uttered a single, chilling sentence, ’Master Orion wishes you a pleasant holiday, duckling. See you in a week.’

A holiday.

I let out a breath that trembles on my lips, burying my face in my hands. Orion let me go. He released me from that gilded cage of a mansion, back into the wild, back to my real life.

And he did it right after receiving what practically amounts to a death warrant—confirmation from an elite that the digital breadcrumbs of the Masamune bombing led directly to me.

What the fuck do I even have to do with a bombing?

He knows they think I’m involved. He knows I am a walking target, a spark next to a powder keg. Yet, he tossed me back into the world with a lazy wave of his hand.

It makes no sense.

The suspicion is a physical ache in my skull. Is he watching me right now? Are there cameras hidden in the vents? Is this just another layer of his twisted game, waiting to see if the cornered rat will run straight back to him?

A sharp, rhythmic knocking on my front door jolts me out of my spiraling thoughts. My heart leaps into my throat, hammering a frantic rhythm against my ribs.

"Adrien? Sweetheart, are you in there?"

The warm, raspy voice of Mrs. Gable, my landlady, cuts through the suffocating silence. The relief that washes over me is so violent it leaves me dizzy.

I scramble off the bed, smoothing down my wrinkled shirt, and open the door.

Mrs. Gable stands there, a stout, silver-haired woman in a faded floral apron, holding a massive porcelain bowl. Behind her, peeking out from behind her skirts, is seven-year-old Nora, her dark pigtails bouncing as she stands on her tiptoes.

"Oh, thank goodness, you are home!" Mrs. Gable beams, pushing past me into the small space without waiting for an invitation.

"Arthur said he heard the front door lock click earlier. We’ve been worried sick about you, Aidy boy! Look at you disappearing for weeks without a word!"

"I’m sorry, Mrs. Gable," I say, forcing my voice to drop into a smooth, apologetic tone. I offer her a practiced, reassuring smile, though my hands are hidden safely in my pockets to conceal their shaking.

"My company... they called an emergency protocol. An impromptu work project. I didn’t even have time to pack a bag before the corporate shuttle picked me up."

"Corporate nonsense," Mr. Gable’s gruff, kind voice echoes from the hallway as he walks in, carrying a stack of plates. He looks at me over his thick spectacles, his eyes softening.

"They work you boys to the bone. You look like a ghost, Adrien. Have you even eaten a proper meal since you left?"

"Not really," I admit, and of course, it’s a lie. The thought of Orion’s half-eaten bowl of fried rice flashes through my mind, making my stomach churn.

"Well, that settles it. Lunch is served," Mrs. Gable declares, setting the bowl of steaming beef stew down on my small kitchen table. "And don’t you dare say you’re busy. You’re eating with us, and that’s final."

The domesticity of the afternoon is entirely surreal. I’ve missed this so much.

Sitting at the small table, sandwiched between Mr. Gable’s quiet grunts of satisfaction and Mrs. Gable’s endless gossiping about the neighborhood, I feel like an imposter.

Like I’m a ghost haunting my own life.

Just hours ago, I watched a man’s neck get snapped like kindling. I listened to a monster debate whether or not to wrap his scarred, powerful hands around my throat.

Now, I am passing the salt shaker.

"So, this... this project," Mr. Gable says between bites of potato salad, his sharp eyes examining my face. "It’s completely finished then? You’re back for good?"

I swallow hard, the rich stew suddenly turning to ash in my mouth. I look down at my plate, trying to sound as nonchalant as possible. "Not... entirely, sir. It’s more like a brief holiday. The higher-ups are restructuring for the final phase, that means that I have two days of mandatory leave, and then... I have to go back to headquarters for a final, private debriefing."

’A very thorough, very private chat with the matriarchs,’ Orion’s voice echoes in my head, dark and mocking.

"Two days? That’s barely enough time to get a haircut!" Mrs. Gable tuts, shaking her head. "They’re going to give you an ulcer, Adrien. Look at you, you’ve lost weight. You need to tell those fancy corporate people that you have a life here."

"I’ll try," I whisper, offering a tight, strained smile. "But it’s a... very exclusive contract. Wiping my name from the registry would be easier than breaking it."

The double meaning hangs heavily in my own throat, though the Gables simply laugh it off as corporate exaggeration.

By the time dinner rolls around, the anxiety hasn’t faded, it has merely settled into a dull, throbbing ache behind my eyes.

I might actually have indigestion because of this stress.

The Gables refuse to let me out of their sight, insisting that since I am on ’holiday,’ I shouldn’t be left alone to starve.

Dinner is a spread of roasted chicken and biscuits, and the warmth of the room serves as a stark contrast to the freezing darkness of my thoughts.

After the dishes are cleared away, Mrs. Gable goes downstairs to tend to the building’s boiler, leaving Mr. Gable dozing lightly in the armchair while Nora drags me down onto the faded living room rug.

"We’re building a fortress," Nora announces, dumping a large plastic bin of colorful building blocks onto the carpet with a loud crash. She points a tiny, demanding finger at me. "You’re the guard, Adrien. You have to build the walls high so the monsters can’t get in."

"High walls," I repeat softly, picking up a bright red plastic brick. "Yeah. That sounds like a good idea."

How high do my walls have to be to keep my monster out?

I start snapping the blocks together, my mind drifting far away from the brightly colored plastic. Monsters. Nora has no idea what real monsters look like.

They don’t hide under the bed or growl in the dark. They wear black silk shirts with the top buttons casually undone. They drink expensive liquor, possess precise violence, and call you duckling while deciding how best to ruin your life.

"No, silly! Not like that!" Nora chides, swatting at my hand. "The wall is crooked! The bad guys are just gonna push it over!"

"Right. Sorry, Nora," I say, forcing myself back to the present. I dismantle the crooked section and rebuild it, trying to focus on the simple, sensation of the plastic clicking together.

It’s quite calming.

For a little while, the distraction works. I let myself get swept up in her rules, defending the plastic castle from her imaginary dragons, laughing when she aggressively knocks down a tower I spent ten minutes building.

It’s lighthearted. It’s innocent. It’s the only thread keeping me tethered to my sanity.

But as the clock on the wall ticks closer to midnight, the weight of the coming week begins to press down on me again.

Seven days. Seven days until the engagement party. Seven days until I am dragged before the most powerful, dangerous families in the city to answer for a crime I didn’t commit, with a monster standing right by my side, waiting to watch me burn.

My hands slow down. I stare at the plastic fortress, my chest tightening as the room suddenly feels entirely too small, the air entirely too thin.

How am I going to survive this? What happens when Orion decides the game is over? What happens when—

"Adrien?"

I blink, jolting slightly as I look up.

Nora is sitting cross-legged across from me, her small hands resting on her knees. The playful, energetic expression is entirely gone from her face.

Instead, she is staring at me with that weird, unsettlingly intense honesty that only a child can muster once in a blue moon—the kind of raw perception that cuts right through any mask.

She squints her eyes, tilting her head as she examines my pale, tense face.

"What is it, Nora?" I ask, my voice tight.

"You look funny," she states plainly, her voice carrying a terrifying amount of gravity. "You look like you’re thinking so hard, you’re about to crap your pants."