The rain had started sometime during the night, that soft, whispering sort of drizzle that turned rooftops into drums and windows into mirrors. When Lucien stirred beneath his patchwork quilt that morning, it was to the delicate rhythm of raindrops tapping at the glass, as if the sky itself had grown impatient for someone to wake up and listen.
His room was still dim, streaked with long shadows and faint grey light that filtered through the half-open sill. The scent of petrichor crept in—the smell of wet leaves, thirsty soil, and something older, something almost magical. The room was small, but warm, and filled with quiet things: stacks of books with dog-eared corners, a sketchpad with half-finished drawings of stars and bones and tangled forests, and a cactus on the windowsill that leaned ever so slightly towards the outside world, as though it, too, longed for escape.
Lucien Layne was not the sort of boy people noticed in a crowd. He didn't shout. He didn't boast. He had a voice like velvet and footsteps like paper. He liked the sound of pens scratching on paper, and the way the world hushed inside a library. While other children had learned to speak louder to be heard, Lucien had learned to listen, and in doing so, he heard more than most.
He heard the fatigue in his mother's voice when she kissed his cheek goodbye and told him not to be late. He heard the tremble in the breath of the old man who ran the newspaper stand, even though he smiled and said he was just fine. And sometimes—though he never spoke of it—he heard the moments between people's words, where thoughts lingered like unspoken ghosts.
That morning, Lucien packed his worn satchel with a clipboard, two pens (one blue, one black), a wrapped sandwich, and a weathered copy of Gray's Anatomy. He slipped on his coat, slightly too large at the sleeves, and walked out into the cold.
The city had a way of swallowing sound, especially when it rained. The hiss of tires against wet streets, the distant calls of street vendors half-drowned in drizzle, the occasional cough or snort of a passing bus—all of it blurred together like colours in a painting left out too long. Lucien liked the quiet that came with it. It made him feel as if the world was pausing for a moment, just to breathe.
He passed alleyways where puddles reflected broken neon signs, and shopfronts where mannequins stared through fogged-up windows. In one cracked doorway, a boy barely younger than him huddled beneath a moth-eaten blanket. Lucien stopped, reached into his bag, and handed over the sandwich without a word. The boy blinked, nodded once, and vanished back into the shadows.
Lucien kept walking.
He had just turned into the narrow lane between a shuttered tea shop and a convenience store when he heard it.
A scream.
It wasn't loud—it didn't need to be. It was the kind of sound that cut through the rain like a shard of glass. Short, sharp, and full of something ancient. Fear.
Lucien froze.
He listened.
Another sound. A strangled gasp. Then a noise that turned his stomach—a crack, wet and final, like a tree limb snapping under the weight of too many winters.
He moved, slowly, step by step, the way one does when unsure whether the dark ahead holds danger or discovery.
There, between two dented bins and a stack of damp crates, lay a man. He wasn't moving. A dark stain crept out beneath him, slow as ink across paper.
Another figure stood above him. Tall. Hooded. In one hand, he held something heavy—Lucien couldn't quite see what it was, but it glistened red at the edges.
Then, the figure turned.
Their eyes met.
It was a strange kind of moment. The rain seemed to pause mid-air. The air was thick, taut as a wire pulled too tight. Lucien couldn't move—not from fear, exactly, but from something older. Something deeper. Like the universe had reached down and placed a single finger on his shoulder, whispering: Watch. You must watch.
The killer flinched—not in guilt, but in surprise. As if he hadn't expected to be seen.
And then he acted.
It happened too fast. A blur of motion. A rush of air. Something struck Lucien—sharp, cold, and sudden. Pain bloomed behind his ribs like a flare. He hit the ground hard, the pavement biting into his cheek.
His satchel spilled open. Pens rolled into the gutter. The rain soaked his collar.
He could hear blood. Not just feel it—but hear it, pounding in his ears, rushing over his thoughts like a river.
Above him, footsteps fled.
Lucien's vision darkened at the edges. But his mind clung to one thought, not a scream, not a plea for help, but a question as old as time and twice as heavy.
How can people be so cruel?
And then, like the closing of a heavy book, the world folded into black.