Sunlight didn't get into the room. The curtains had somehow closed by themselves or somebody had come into his room to close them.
Adrian's eyes were open. He didn't move. He stayed flat on his back, staring at the polished gold ceiling he'd fallen asleep watching. His reflection stared back, a dark, blurred smudge against the shimmer. The bed beneath him was too soft; it lacked the familiar hardness of his thin mattress at home. Instead of supporting him, it felt like it was trying to swallow him.
He sat up slowly. His joints felt stiff, a lingering ache from the adrenaline crash of the night before. He looked at the floor. His scuffed shoes sat near the edge of the plush carpet, looking like two stains on a masterpiece. Beside them lay the folded paper bag from the restaurant. It was dry now, the grease marks turned into dark, brittle patches. It was the only thing in the room that belonged to him, a remnant of a life that felt like it had ended the moment he stepped into Lucian's car.
He stood and walked toward the bathroom. It wasn't a bathroom so much as a sanctuary of stone and glass. The in-ground pool-bath dominated the center of the space, the water so still it looked like a sheet of black glass.
Adrian looked around for a shower or something and saw a small, glass touch-panel was embedded in the wall near the entrance, with instructions beside it.
Adrian hesitated, his hand hovering over the interface. At home, the water was a gamble—either lukewarm and smelling of rust or a freezing shock that left him gasping. Here, a single tap on the glass brought the pool to life. A soft, blue glow emanated from beneath the surface, and the temperature readout climbed steadily to a precise 38°C. There was no sound of rushing pipes, no groan of a boiler. The heat simply materialized.
He stripped out of his clothes, his movements mechanical. As he stepped down into the water, the warmth surged up his legs, a physical sensation so intense it made his head swim. It was the sudden, violent transition from a world of lack to a world of excess. His body didn't know how to process it. He sat on the low seat, the water reaching his chest, and leaned his head back against the cool stone. He stayed there until his skin pruned, trying to reconcile the luxury of the heat with the fact that he was effectively a ghost in this house.
He eventually climbed out, the air in the room instantly adjusting to prevent a chill. He walked to the walk-in closet. Yesterday, it had been all empty shelves. Now, it was full. Rows of shirts in muted tones—charcoal, navy, forest green. Trousers that felt like silk against his fingertips. No logos. No tags. Just quality with a price tag Adrian couldn't even calculate.
He chose a plain black shirt and dark trousers. As he pulled the shirt on, the fabric felt wrong. It was too soft. It didn't have the starch of his work uniform or the rough itch of his old sweaters. It felt like a second skin, one that belonged to the house, not to him.
He left his old clothes in a pile in the corner—a heap of denim and cotton that looked like a stain against the polished wood. He kept the paper bag, though. He tucked it into the back of a drawer, a small act of rebellion he knew was useless, but it was his.
A soft chime echoed through the room.
"Mr. Lucian is waiting in the conservatory," a voice said. It came from the air itself, clear and sexless.
The door unlocked itself with a hiss. Adrian stepped out into the hallway. He didn't see any guards, but he felt them eyes. The house was alive with sensors. He noticed the small, recessed lenses of cameras at every junction, and the doors didn't have handles—only glass plates that glowed faintly as he approached.
The conservatory was a glass-walled room at the end of a long, sun-drenched corridor. It was filled with plants that shouldn't have been able to grow in this climate. Ferns as tall as men, exotic flowers. The humidity was higher here, the air smelling of damp earth and life.
'It seemed like the man really loved his technology.' Adrian though dryly.
Lucian was sitting at a small table. He wasn't wearing a suit today. He wore a dark, thin sweater, the sleeves pushed up to reveal smooth, pale forearms that looked like they were carved from marble. He wasn't eating. He was looking at a projection that hovered a few inches above the table—a translucent, rotating map of the city's shipping district, highlighted in various shades of amber and red.
He didn't look up when Adrian entered. With a flick of his fingers, the hologram collapsed.
"Sit," Lucian said.
Adrian sat. A plate was already there, covered by a silver dome. When he lifted it, the scent of eggs, smoked meat, and fresh bread hit him like a physical blow. It was more food than he usually ate in a day.
"Eat," Lucian added.
"I'm not a dog," Adrian said. His voice was steady, but the size of the room was making his chest tight.
Lucian finally looked at him. His gold eyes were flat, catching the morning light in a way that made them look glowing. Then he went back to looking at the papers in front of him. A quiet dismissal.
Adrian swallowed and picked up a fork. He didn't want to give Lucian the satisfaction of seeing him weak, and weakness started with an empty stomach. The food was incredible—the kind of quality that usually only existed in the high-end hotels Adrian delivered to, never for the people who walked through the service entrance. He hated that it tasted good. He hated that his body was responding to the comfort of the chair and the warmth of the food.
"My mother," Adrian said, setting the fork down after a few bites. "Is she really safe?"
Lucian leaned back, crossing one leg over the other. He watched Adrian with a terrifying, still intensity. "She is at work. She arrived four minutes early. She had a conversation with a lady at the bus station about the weather. My men are within sight of her at all times. She is safer today than she has been her entire life."
"Because you're there," Adrian countered. "Which means she's only safe as long as I do what you want."
"That is how the world works, Adrian. It's just that usually, the people holding the leash are invisible to you. I am simply being honest about the arrangement."
Lucian tapped the table, and a small, rectangular device slid out from a hidden compartment. It was a sleek, glass-faced phone. "This is for you. It is restricted. You can receive calls from me, and you can use it to request items from the staff. Any attempt to use it for outside communication will result in a permanent lockdown for you."
Adrian looked at the device. It was beautiful, almost as thin as a credit card, only longer, and completely devoid of buttons.
"I had a life," Adrian said, his voice dropping. "I had a job. I had people who expected to see me."
"You had a struggle," Lucian corrected him. "I have reviewed your records. You were working three jobs, sleeping four hours a night, and skipping meals to ensure your mother's medication was paid for. Do not mistake a habit of suffering for a life worth returning to."
The bluntness of the statement made Adrian's blood run cold. It was the truth, stripped of any pretense. To Lucian, Adrian's existence was a series of inefficiencies that had now been corrected. He didn't even ask how Adrian work.
"You don't get to decide what my life is worth," Adrian said quietly.
Lucian's mouth quirked—a shadow of a smile. "And yet, here we are. You are in my house, eating my food, wearing clothes that cost more than your mother's apartment. The transition from… poverty is difficult. I understand. But you are smart. You will adapt."
Lucian stood up. He walked toward the glass wall, looking out at the dense woods that surrounded the property. The morning light caught the edge of his profile, highlighting the predatory sharpness of his features. He looked like something ancient dressed modernly.
"I have a meeting with the council now," Lucian said.
"The council?" Adrian asked.
"The people who would prefer you were dead," Lucian said simply. He turned back, his gaze sweeping over Adrian. For a fleeting second, the coldness in his eyes shifted to something that resembled curiosity.
He walked toward Adrian, stopping just at the edge of his personal space.
The temperature seemed to drop as Adrian swallowed. Lucian reached out, his fingers hovering just an inch from Adrian's jaw. He didn't touch him, but the proximity was enough to make Adrian's heart hammer against his ribs.
"You have a choice today, Adrian. You can spend it staring at the walls, or you can use the resources I have given you. But do not forget the terms. You stay where I can see you. You keep your mouth shut. And you stay alive."
"Is that a threat or advice?" Adrian asked weakly.
"In this house, they are the same thing," Lucian replied.
He turned and walked toward the door. As he reached the threshold, he pressed his hand against a black glass plate. A retina scanner swept a thin line of red light across his eye, and the door slid open with a whisper.
"The library is on the second floor," Lucian said without looking back.
The door shut, and the lock engaged with a click.
Adrian was alone in the greenery. He looked at the lush ferns and the exotic flowers, then down at the sleek glass phone on the table. He felt the weight of the silk-blend shirt on his back and the lingering warmth of the regulated pool on his skin.
He stood up— losing all appetite— and walked to the glass wall and pressed his forehead against it. It was cold.
Outside, a bird landed on a branch, chirped once, and flew away. Adrian watched it until it was a speck in the distance, a small, free thing in a world that had suddenly become very small.
He wasn't crying. He didn't have the energy for it. He was just calculating. He looked at the cameras, the biometric locks, and the armed men patrolling the perimeter in the distance.
He was in a cage. It was made of gold and glass, and it was kept at a perfect 22°C, but it was a cage nonetheless. And as he picked up the glass phone, Adrian realized that the most dangerous part of Lucian wasn't the gun or the fangs—it was the way he made the cage feel like it was exactly where Adrian belonged.