Chapter 26 : Her scent

Lumian stood still, scanning his surroundings. His sharp eyes searched for Shirley, but she was nowhere in sight. 

A faint scent suddenly teased his nose—subtle, but unmistakable. It was oddly sweet, like crushed berries mixed with the faintest trace of smoke, earthy and raw. It reminded him of innocence struggling under the weight of something corrupted. His brow furrowed. 

"Her scent," Lumian murmured, realization dawning. He hadn't known he could track someone like this. 

Curiosity piqued, he followed the trail. Her scent lingered faintly on the cold, damp air of Maomoa's narrow streets. It weaved through alleyways and shortcuts, leading him closer and closer. His steps were quiet, calculated. 

Finally, he spotted her. Shirley was standing at the corner of a side street, glancing around nervously. Her behavior struck him as peculiar, paranoid and jittery, almost like a prey animal sensing predators nearby. 

She hesitated before darting down an alley. Lumian followed, keeping a safe distance to avoid detection. She moved quickly, taking winding shortcuts through the labyrinth of crumbling buildings until she arrived at an isolated house. 

Lumian stopped in his tracks and observed. 

The house stuck out like a sore thumb. While the rest of Maomoa consisted of dingy apartment blocks and graffiti-covered concrete walls, this house was more suburban in design, though it had long fallen into disrepair. The paint was peeling, and the wooden porch looked ready to collapse under the weight of a single step. 

"Interesting," Lumian muttered, narrowing his eyes. He watched Shirley stand on the porch, visibly hesitating. Her shoulders rose and fell as she took a deep breath, then knocked three times on the splintered door. 

For a moment, nothing happened. Shirley raised her hand to knock again, but the door swung open violently, revealing a man in a filthy tank top. His greasy hair clung to his scalp, and a nearly empty bottle of beer dangled carelessly from his hand. His bloodshot eyes scanned Shirley, a disgusting grin spreading across his face. 

Shirley's expression darkened. Her lips curled in revulsion, but she said nothing and stepped inside. 

Lumian's gaze shifted as another figure appeared in the doorway. This man looked younger, perhaps in his twenties. He avoided Shirley's gaze entirely, his body language was timid and withdrawn. 

The man in the tank top laughed, his voice slurred. He slapped Shirley hard on the rear as she passed between them, causing her to flinch. 

"Don't be shy," the man said to the younger one, his grin widening. "You paid for this. Enjoy it like a man!" 

The door slammed shut behind them, leaving Lumian alone outside. 

His golden eyes lingered on the house, unblinking. For a moment, he said nothing, his expression betraying nothing but cold indifference. Then he turned on his heel, his coat trailing behind him. 

"So that's how it is," he said to himself with a scoff. "I'll be back when the time is right, helping you now would benefit me in no way." 

The dim lighting of the pub cast shadows across Michael's face as he sat at the counter with a drink in hand. For once, he wasn't miserably drunk, though he wasn't exactly sober either. Perhaps his tolerance for alcohol had grown, or maybe his rage was simply overpowering everything else. 

He wasn't drinking to forget. Not this time. 

Michael tapped his fingers against the glass, his mind swirling with unanswered questions. He was waiting—waiting for his "friend," Lumian. He needed advice, guidance, anything to help him navigate the storm that had engulfed his life. 

But Lumian never showed up. 

The minutes turned to hours, the hours into days, and still, there was no sign of him. 

Angela pushed open the studio doors, the familiar smell of sweat and rubber hitting her instantly. She scanned the room, her heart sinking when she realized he wasn't there. 

She lingered near the equipment, pretending to adjust her routine as she kept an eye on the entrance. Lumian always seemed to appear when she needed him most. But now, when she felt like she was drowning, he was gone. 

Even the receptionist at the front desk found herself occasionally glancing at the door, half-hoping to see the handsome young man with the ensnaring smile and piercing eyes walk in again. 

But Lumian never came. 

Days passed, and Lumian's absence echoed loudly in their lives. But the foundation of chaos he had set in place kept getting built upon by Angela and Michael. The seed sown continued to grow. 

Michael poured his anger into Voltstrike, hunting villains with an almost obsessive zeal. The sparks of electricity that surrounded him seemed to crackle louder with every kill. 

Meanwhile, Angela and Michael's home had turned into a battlefield. Their arguments grew more frequent and more vicious, with neither willing to back down. Angela's once-fragile resolve was hardening, but it came at a cost. The tension between them was unbearable, the air in their home was thick with resentment and unspoken accusations. 

Still, in the quiet moments, they both found their thoughts drifting to the same person. 

Where are you, Lumian?

Far from the chaos, Lumian the source sat alone in his lair. The green hat he had taken lay on the table in front of him, untouched. He leaned back in his chair, his golden eyes glinting with amusement. 

"Absence makes the heart grow fonder," he murmured, a wicked grin spreading across his face. 

He had no intention of appearing before Michael or Angela just yet. Let the seeds he had planted grow a little more. Let the cracks in their world widen. He would return when the time was right, just as he did for Shirley. 

For now, he would watch and wait, savoring the chaos he had set in motion.