ADRIEN’S POV

The morning sun does not warm the city, it merely bleeds through the heavy grey overcast, casting everything in a pale, washed-out light.

It’s like stepping into a watercolour painting filled with greys.

I step out of the apartment building’s heavy iron doors, wrapping my worn jacket tighter around my frame. The crisp, autumn air bites at my cheeks, but I welcome it.

It feels clean.

It feels real and entirely removed from the oppressive, sterile scent of the private hospital room or the heavy, expensive cologne that seems to have permanently stained my memory.

I take a deep breath and start walking, letting my feet carry me down the familiar, cracked road of my neighborhood.

For the first time in days, the suffocating weight in my chest eases, just a fraction. I look around, watching the morning routine of a world that knows nothing of secret syndicates or high-society executions.

Mr. Henderson is out in his garden, aggressively sweeping away dead leaves while muttering to himself about the city’s sanitation department.

Across the street, the neon sign of the twenty-four-hour laundromat flickers with a comforting, rhythmic buzz, its windows fogged up from the early morning dew.

A small, genuine smile tugs at the corners of my lips. A wave of nostalgia, sweet and desperately needed, washes over me.

Yes. This is what I need.

I pass the old playground where the chain-link fence is permanently bent inward from a storm three years ago.

I remember sitting on those rusted swings during my first winter here, staring at my empty bank account on a cracked phone screen, wondering if I’d have enough change to buy a single loaf of day-old bread.

This neighborhood had taken me in when I was nothing but a ghost drifting through the cracks of the city’s lower districts.

It is loud, it is run-down, and the landlords are fiercely protective, but it has a heart.

I keep walking until I reach the corner of the block, where the familiar smell of bruised mint and ripening tomatoes fills the air.

The green awning of ’Marcus’s Greenery’ is faded from years of sun exposure, its edges fraying over the crates of wooden boxes spilled out onto the sidewalk.

Marcus himself is standing behind the outdoor display, his large, calloused hands turning over a bunch of root vegetables.

He is a massive man of Mediterranean descent, with a thick, peppered beard and laugh lines etched so deeply into his face they look like permanent fixtures.

"Well, look what the cat dragged in!" Marcus’s booming voice echoes across the pavement the moment his eyes land on me.

He drops a turnip back into the crate and wipes his hands on his stained apron. "Adrien! Where the hell have you been hiding, kid? I thought you got swallowed up by one of those corporate skyscrapers downtown."

"Hey, Marcus," I say, stepping under the shade. The familiarity of his voice acts like a balm to my raw nerves. "Not quite. Just... got caught up in a very demanding project. You know how it is."

"Demanding? You look like you’ve been locked in a vault!" Marcus chuckles, stepping forward to clap a heavy hand onto my shoulder. The physical contact grounds me, a sharp contrast to the terror I felt in Orion’s grip.

"I was starting to think I’d have to go looking for you. The shop’s been too quiet. No one’s here to complain about the price of imported apples anymore."

I let out a soft laugh, leaning against the wooden frame of a potato crate. "I only complained because you were trying to rob me blind, Marcus."

"Rob you? Me?" Marcus throws his hands up in mock offense, his belly rolling with laughter. "I was doing charity work, kid! Don’t think I forgot how you used to stare at the produce section like a starving stray dog. How many times did I have to practically shove an extra cabbage and three oranges into your bag and tell you it was a ’promotional discount’?"

"More times than I can count," I say softly, the humor fading into a profound, aching gratitude.

I look at him, really look at him—the dirt under his fingernails, the honest sweat on his brow. If everything goes wrong next week, if the matriarchs decide my life is a forfeit token in their impending war with Masamune, I will never see this man again.

I will never see this shop again.

"I never properly thanked you for that, you know," I continue, my voice dropping into a quieter, more earnest tone. "For all of it. When I first moved here, I was swimming in poverty. If it weren’t for you slipping that extra food into my bags, I probably wouldn’t have made it through the winter. Thank you for being so good to me, Marcus."

Marcus pauses, his bright smile softening. He examines my face, his thick brows drawing together as he senses the strange, heavy finality in my words.

I don’t realize how it sounds—how much it echoes like a final goodbye— like a terminally ill man checking off his bucket list.

A slow, knowing grin suddenly breaks through Marcus’s confusion, his expression shifting into something deeply amused.

"Ah," Marcus says, tapping the side of his nose with a thick finger. "I get it now. Look at you, getting all soft and sentimental on me. I see what’s going on here."

I blink, thrown off by his sudden shift. "What?"

"You’re leaving the neighborhood, aren’t you?" Marcus winks, leaning over the counter with a broad, teasing smile.

"Clearly, our little Adrien has finally found himself a wealthy lover who is taking proper care of him. Look at your face, kid! You’ve actually put on some healthy weight. Your cheeks aren’t hollow anymore, and you don’t look like a walking skeleton. It makes total sense why you’re singing your goodbyes to the local grocer. You’re moving up in the world to be with them, huh?"

I freeze. The words die in my throat, a sudden, icy silence wrapping around my senses.

A lover.

My mind instantly flashes back to the sleek, oppressive dining room of Orion’s private estate.

I remember sitting at that long, mahogany table, staring down at gourmet plates of perfectly prepared food, my stomach tightly coiled in stubborn defiance.

I refused to eat. I chose hunger as my only form of protest, a pathetic attempt to keep some semblance of control over my own body.

And I remember how Orion had handled it.

He hadn’t raised his voice or touched me. He had simply leaned against the doorframe and calmly informed the head maid that if a single scrap of food remained on my plate by midnight, the entire kitchen staff would be dismissed without references by morning.

He forced me to eat three times daily, his terrifyingly silent presence hovering in the background, ensuring his guards stood over me until I swallowed every single bite.

I let out a sharp, dry scoff, followed immediately by a low, breathless chuckle that sounds entirely devoid of humor.

It’s a twisted, sickening irony.

For a man who will undoubtedly end up killing me, a man who views my existence as nothing more than a strategic piece on a bloody chessboard, Orion sure does take immaculate care of me.

He keeps me fed and ensures I am housed in luxury.

It’s exactly like fattening up a lamb before sending it to the slaughterhouse. He just wants his investment to look pristine before he decides to break it.

"Adrien?" Marcus asks, his smile faltering slightly at my silence. "Hey, I was just teasing. You okay?"

"Yeah," I force myself to say, shaking the dark thoughts from my head and pulling my mask back into place. "Yeah, I’m fine, Marcus. Just... thinking about the future. It’s a lot."

"Well, whoever they are, they’re doing a good job keeping you fed," Marcus says, shaking his head with a smile. "Just don’t forget us little people when you’re living in a mansion downtown."

"I won’t," I promise softly. I clear my throat, shifting my weight as I bring up the real reason I extended my walk this morning. The thought of Anna has been a dull, throbbing ache since the cafeteria, a debt I need to pay before the week runs out.

"Hey, Marcus... do you happen to know the location of the cemetery where they buried Anna? My hairstylist from down the street? I... I want to visit, to pay my respects."

Marcus’s expression shifts instantly, a look of solemn understanding crossing his features. "Ah, poor Anna. Terrible thing, what happened. Yeah, she’s over at the St. Jude Parish cemetery, just past the old railway line on the east side. The lower plot, near the willow trees. It’s quiet over there."

"St. Jude’s. Near the willows. Got it," I repeat, committing the directions to memory. I step back out from under the shade, offering him one last, tight smile. "Thanks, Marcus. For everything. Take care of yourself."

"You too, kid! Don’t be a stranger!" Marcus calls out, waving a heavy hand as I turn away.

I turn the corner, stepping briskly down the sidewalk, my mind already moving toward the east side of the district. I need to see her name etched in stone.

I need to ground myself in the reality of what Masamune’s games actually cost.

Back at the market stand, Marcus watches Adrien’s retreating figure disappear into the morning crowd. He reaches for a wooden crate of apples, lifting it onto the counter, his mind casually drifting over the conversation.

’Anna,’ he thinks, shaking his head in pity. ’Such a shame. A gas leak explosion in her own shop, right in the middle of the night. It’s a total tragedy.’

Marcus pauses mid-motion, an apple slipping from his calloused fingers and dropping back into the crate with a soft thud.

His brow furrows, his heart skipping a beat as a sudden realization hits him like a bucket of ice water.

Anna’s shop had exploded almost a week ago, while Adrien was completely missing. The local news had barely covered it, and the police tape had only gone up the following morning.

Marcus himself had only found out through a hushed conversation with the neighborhood watch leader late by almost four days.

He never told Adrien.

Nobody in the building had seen Adrien since he vanished days ago, and the Gables certainly hadn’t known about the fire yet.

Marcus turns his head, staring blankly down the crowded street where the boy had just walked away, a cold, creeping dread settling deep into his gut.

How did Adrien already know she was dead?

What exactly is it Adrien doing for work?