Chapter 7: The First Encounter

I returned to the villa alone.

No backup. No badge. Just instinct. And the knowledge that he wanted me here.

The air felt heavier than before, like the house had been holding its breath for days, waiting. It was dusk. The sky outside had turned the color of dried blood, and the sea roared louder against the cliffs.

I didn't knock.

Didn't call out.

I walked through the entrance, gun hidden beneath my coat, my fingers itching.

The hallway was the same—decaying elegance. Shadows clung to the walls like mold. And in the distance, down below… a flicker of light.

The basement.

The door creaked open slowly, revealing a staircase that descended into darkness.

I took the steps one by one, my boots echoing too loudly.

Then—

A voice.

Soft. Unhurried.

"You finally came."

The basement wasn't like the rest of the house.

It was clean. Carefully curated. Lit by candles placed in ornate holders along the walls. The smell of flowers was overwhelming—heady, almost narcotic.

And there he was.

Sitting cross-legged on the floor before a massive mirror, his back to me.

Arranging petals in precise circles.

He didn't turn around.

"Lucian," I said.

"Names are strange things, don't you think?" he replied. "They're not who we are. Just… labels for convenience."

He picked up a marigold and placed it delicately in the center of the spiral he was creating.

"Why me?" I asked, voice low.

Finally, he looked up. I saw his reflection first.

Sharp cheekbones. Pale eyes that didn't blink enough. A calm smile that didn't belong to someone sane.

But it wasn't madness in his expression.

It was clarity.

"I didn't choose you," he said. "You chose me."

He stood slowly, brushing his hands off like a painter stepping back from a canvas.

"I've been watching you for a long time, Aesira." He said my name like a prayer, like a song. "At first, it was fascination. The clean precision of your work. The way you posed them. Not for revenge. Not for justice. But for meaning. You were always an artist."

"You don't know me," I said through clenched teeth.

He took a step forward. "Don't I?"

There was no fear in him.

And I hated that a part of me… understood why.

"I followed your early work," he said, circling me now, hands behind his back like a curator at a gallery. "The Orchid Strangler. The Chapel Case. You left no trail. No scent. But the flowers, Aesira… they told a story. One only someone like me could read."

I stiffened. "Those cases were never made public."

He smiled. "I have sources. And time. And obsession."

He stopped in front of me, close enough that I could see the delicate smudge of charcoal on his thumb.

"You left art behind, and no one appreciated it but me."

I wanted to shoot him.

End it.

But something in me froze. Not from fear.

From recognition.

He was what I used to be.

Or what I could still become.

"You're sick," I whispered.

He tilted his head. "So are you. But we hide our sickness in different skins. Mine is bare. Yours is stitched in uniform."

"I'm nothing like you."

"You're exactly like me."

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a flower I hadn't seen in years.

A blue hyacinth.

One I'd used on a man who begged me for forgiveness with his final breath.

He handed it to me.

"I kept it," he said softly. "From your first."

I stared at it, stunned.

How?

When?

"Who are you really?" I asked.

He smiled.

"I'm the answer to the question you've been too afraid to ask yourself."

I left the villa an hour later, the hyacinth clutched in my fist.

Lucian hadn't tried to stop me.

He didn't need to.

He'd already begun pulling me into his world.

And a part of me—God help me—was curious to see where the path led.