Aaragi's POV.
Ihad a dream I was burning from the inside out.
Not fire—something worse. Like my bones had remembered they didn't belong to me anymore, and were trying to crawl out through my skin.
When I woke up, I was sore. Bruised. But not broken.
My body was already healing.
Fast.
Too fast.
Faster than it had any right to.
I sat up slowly. My chest ached where Dramaturgy had caught me with that haymaker, but even that pain felt... muted. Distant.
I'd been thrown through a wall.
And I was still breathing.
Right. Vampire.
I kept forgetting.
Lucien was near the doorway.
Standing like he had something to tell the wall but wasn't ready to say it yet.
He didn't turn when I moved.
But I could tell he noticed.
His shoulders shifted just slightly, like a clock adjusting by a second.
I cleared my throat, voice hoarse.
"I wasn't losing."
He didn't respond.
"I mean it," I said, louder. "I wasn't losing. I was—figuring things out."
Lucien turned.
Met my eyes.
"You were about to get ganged up on by three specialists," he said. Calm. Flat. Not unkind. "That's not 'figuring things out.' That's a countdown."
I narrowed my eyes. "I had it handled."
"Sure," he said. "Eventually."
I wanted to hit him.
Not because he was wrong.
Because he was right.
I stood up slowly, testing the weight of my legs. My muscles cooperated. My bones clicked into place with a supernatural smoothness.
Everything was working.
Too well.
Still not used to that.
"Thanks," I said finally. "For stepping in."
He nodded.
No theatrics.
No pretending it hadn't happened.
Just… acceptance.
And that pissed me off more than it should've.
"You're hiding something," I said.
"Yes."
That again.
"Does it ever bother you?" I asked.
"What?"
"That nobody knows what you are."
Lucien paused at that.
His face didn't change much. But something behind his eyes shifted. Like the question had scratched a surface he'd been hoping no one touched.
"It used to," he said.
"And now?"
"Now I think the not-knowing is safer than the alternative."
I didn't have a comeback for that.
I leaned against the wall, arms crossed, eyes half on him, half on the floor.
"You didn't hesitate back there," I said. "Didn't flinch. Didn't even think. You moved like you were used to it."
"I'm not."
"Bullshit."
He didn't argue.
I thought about the way the fight had unfolded.
The first few minutes had been mine—I'd landed solid hits, ripped through the edge of Dramaturgy's coat, even knocked Episode back a few feet.
But then they adapted.
Worked together.
Cut off my angles.
It wasn't that I was weak.
I just wasn't ready.
Not yet.
And Lucien?
Lucien didn't save me.
He disrupted the whole fight.
Shifted the balance.
Turned a three-on-one into a standoff they didn't want to finish.
I still don't know what he did.
But the world moved around him when he did it.
And I don't know if that terrifies me or just pisses me off.
"Why help me?" I asked. Again.
He gave me the same answer.
"Because you were going to die."
And again, it didn't feel like the full truth.
But it felt like the only one I was getting.
Lucien stepped out of the room, his footsteps light, almost deliberate.
I didn't follow.
I sat back down and stared at my hand.
The skin had torn during the fight—at least three layers deep.
Now it was flawless.
Regenerated.
Perfect.
Too perfect.
And I realized something that stuck in my head like glass:
If he hadn't shown up... I'd still be healing.
But I'd be healing alone.
Or not at all