Arthur Keen lived like a man who wanted to disappear.
Early mornings, honest work, quiet nights. He poured concrete by day and repaired motorcycles in his garage by night. No headlines. No close calls. Just the hum of the radio and the smell of oil and steel.
He had once been Private First Class Keen—non-combat logistics, paperwork and crates. Never fired his weapon in the field. Never even left base. Not a hero. Not a killer. Just a soldier who went in, did what was asked, and got out.
But there were people in his life who never let go of those years. People like Lucienne.
He hadn't spoken to her in months.
So when his phone rang at 2:17 a.m., and her name flashed across the screen, his stomach dropped.
He hesitated for three rings. Then answered.
"Hey Lucie."
A pause.
Then her voice—cool and elegant as ever, but edged with something sharper tonight.
"Arthur," she said. "Still awake, or did I wake you?"
"You woke me," he replied, rubbing his temple. "That rare enough for you to feel guilty?"
She laughed lightly. It didn't sound right.
"I need a favor," she said.
Arthur leaned against the kitchen counter. His apartment was quiet, save for the ticking of the old wall clock.
"What kind of favor?" he asked cautiously.
"I'm looking for someone," she said. "An old friend of ours."
The tension crawled up his spine.
"Eli?"
She didn't answer immediately.
"Have you seen him?" she asked finally, her voice softer now. "It's... important."
Arthur closed his eyes.
"No," he said truthfully. "Not in years."
Another pause.
"He didn't call you?"
"No."
"And if he did?"
Arthur frowned. "I'd want to know why you're really looking for him, Lucie. We both know this isn't about catching up."
Silence.
Then
"I miss how sharp you used to be," she said. "But I'm not lying, Arthur. I just need to talk to him. He left things… unfinished."
Arthur didn't answer.
"I'll make this easy," she continued. "If you see him—when you see him—call me. You still have my number."
Then she added, almost as an afterthought.
"It was good to hear your voice."
She hung up before he could say anything else.
Arthur lowered the phone slowly, heart unsettled. There had been warmth in her voice, but not the kind he remembered. This wasn't a friend checking in.
This was something colder.
Controlled.
Measured.
Something had changed in her.
Two Hours Later
A knock at the door.
Three quiet raps.
"Who the hell is it? It's 4 in the morning"
Arthur moved without thinking, the weight of old instincts pushing him forward. He opened the door slowly—and froze.
Eli Ivan Voss stood there, hunched, pale, breathing hard. Blood seeped through the side of his shirt.
"Hey, Art," Eli said, trying for a grin. "Long time."
Arthur stared at him. "She's looking for you."
Eli stumbled inside before Arthur could stop him.
"I figured," he muttered, collapsing onto the couch. "Lucienne always finds me eventually."
Arthur shut the door and locked it.
He turned, arms crossed. "What the hell did you do?"
Eli looked up, eyes hollow but still carrying that familiar spark.
"I did what I always do," he said. "I made a mess."
Arthur narrowed his eyes. "You were friends once."
Eli let out a bitter laugh. "Yeah. So were you and her."
He leaned back, voice quiet. "Funny how she doesn't mention that anymore."
"Alright, you can stay here for now"
"Thank you Art"
"Clean your wounds, and we'll talk more later"
The morning, Arthur made two mugs of coffee.
Eli was passed out on the couch, still breathing, still bleeding—but stable. Arthur had done what he could with gauze and antiseptic. Eli hadn't said much after collapsing. Just muttered fragments. Names Arthur didn't recognize. Regrets he didn't understand.
He set the coffee on the side table, sat in the armchair across from the couch, and watched.
Lucienne.
The name still stirred something in him.
They hadn't been lovers, but they'd been close. Close enough to drink quietly in tucked-away places, to share secrets better left buried. She had always been drawn to control. Even back then, she knew how to wield people with her voice, her eyes, her silence. But Arthur had seen the cracks. The moments of softness beneath the steel.
That was years ago.
Now she ran something—he didn't know what, exactly. But people didn't call Lucienne; they received her calls. She had power. Influence. He'd heard whispers, but never asked for details.
Eli stirred awake just as Arthur sat down again.
"You look like hell," Arthur said.
"You should see the other guy," Eli mumbled, cradling the coffee like it was a life preserver.
Arthur sipped his own. "She said she wants to talk. That's all."
Eli barked a bitter laugh. "Yeah. That's always how it starts."
Arthur studied him. "You're not telling me everything."
Eli met his gaze but didn't answer.
That told Arthur enough.
It was around 11 a.m. when he heard the car.
Black. Quiet. Expensive.
Arthur watched from the kitchen window as it pulled up along the curb. Two men stepped out—broad, suited, no visible weapons—but their posture screamed military background. The back door opened.
And Lucienne stepped out.
She wore a cream-colored coat and dark gloves, her long hair tied back with precise elegance. She moved like someone who expected the world to part before her.
Arthur felt the old memory of her presence stir in his chest. It seemed more like caution.
"Lucienne? What in the?"
He goes over to the door and looks out the peep hole.
Then he opened the door, she smiled.
"Arthur."
"Lucie."
They stood in silence for a beat longer than was polite. Her eyes scanned his face, his porch, the windows behind him.
"May I come in?" she asked, voice smooth as always.
Arthur didn't move. "Depends. You here as a friend?"
"Of course," she said, without hesitation.
But something in her tone wasn't quite right.
Not a lie. But not the truth, either.
Arthur stepped aside.
Lucienne's eyes swept the living room, and when they landed on Eli—half-asleep, half-alive on the couch—her expression didn't change.
No smile. No surprise. Just… calculation.
"Eli," she said calmly.
He flinched. Didn't meet her gaze.
Arthur crossed his arms, standing near the hallway. Not blocking the exit. Not offering one either.
"He showed up bleeding," he said. "Didn't give me details. Just said he needed help."
Lucienne nodded slowly.
"I'm not here to hurt him, Arthur. I just want to talk."
Arthur frowned. "He didn't say you were the one who hurt him."
"Then he's either lying or protecting someone else," she replied.
Her eyes flicked back to Eli, and this time there was something else in her gaze. Something hard to read.
Not anger.
Not grief.
Something more dangerous.
Possession.
Lucienne took a step toward the couch.
Arthur didn't stop her, but his hand tensed at his side.
"Lucie," he said, gently.
She paused. Turned her head slightly, acknowledging the warning without confrontation.
"I told you," she said, looking at Arthur now. "I just want to talk."
He nodded slowly.
But even as he did… something felt wrong.
She wasn't raising her voice. She wasn't making threats. She hadn't brought violence to his doorstep.
But he'd seen Lucienne upset before.
And this—this quiet, perfect calm?
This wasn't how she looked when she was in control.
This was how she looked when she was about to lose it.
Eli didn't stir.
Not once.
Arthur checked on him twice just to be sure—his breathing was slow, even, but he was out cold. Whatever Eli had been running from had finally caught up to his body. The bruises, the exhaustion, the thousand-yard stare—all of it had crashed into a deep, unmoving sleep.
Lucienne stood at the window, watching the quiet street outside. Her cream coat seemed almost too clean for someone who'd tracked blood across the city to get here.
"You always keep things neat," she said. "Even back then. Nothing out of place."
Arthur said nothing. He stayed by the kitchen table, arms crossed, eyes on her but always aware of Eli just a few feet away.
"He's lucky you answered the door," Lucienne continued.
"He didn't give me a choice."
She turned, that soft smile still perched on her lips—measured, polite. But her eyes were older than they used to be. Sharper. Less patient.
"Do you still think I'm here to hurt him?" she asked.
"I think you're here for your own reasons," Arthur said carefully.
Lucienne regarded him for a long moment. Then, without speaking, she reached into her coat and produced a folded piece of paper—delicate, like something written in a hotel lobby.
She placed it gently on the table between them.
"Then let me make one of them clear."
Arthur unfolded the note.
It was a list.
Rika
– Bipolar attachment
– Extreme jealousy
– Unpredictable when ignored
– Believes Eli proposed last spring (he didn't)
Valeria
– Obsessive need for structure
– History of childhood trauma
– Treats relationships like contracts
– Carries an unregistered pistol for "emergencies"
Noemi
– High-functioning paranoia
– Digital surveillance expert
– Tracked Eli across twenty-six GPS pings
– Sleeps in two-hour intervals to avoid "missing texts"
Arthur read it twice. Then a third time.
"What the hell?" he said. In complete utter disbelief.
"Symptoms," Lucienne replied. "They think Eli likes them. They're like a disease"
"You keep files on them?"
"I keep files on everyone," she said simply.
Arthur looked up at her. "And you think you're the best person to keep him safe?"
She didn't flinch.
"I'm the only one who knows what he's gotten himself into."
Her voice was calm, but Arthur could feel the tension behind it. Not frustration—urgency. A need to be believed.
"I didn't come here to threaten you," she continued. "I came here because Eli can't see what's coming. He's still charming, still careless. He thinks he can run from the mess he made."
"And you?" Arthur asked. "You're here to clean it up?"
"I'm here to keep him breathing," she said. "Even if he hates me for it."
"This is a lot to take in Lucie. I mean really? Crazy women who want Eli. "
She stepped toward the door, placing her gloves on one finger at a time.
"I'm not asking you to trust me," she said, looking back. "But when the others come knocking, remember—I warned you first."
She reached for the door, paused.
"My number," she said softly, "hasn't changed since we were students."
Then she walked out.
The door clicked shut behind her.
Arthur stood in the silence that followed, the list still open in his hand. Each name felt heavier than the last. Each line a new splinter in his calm.
And Eli still slept—oblivious to the storm crawling steadily toward them both.
Eli woke up twelve hours later with a groan, a mouth like sandpaper, and a dull ache in his ribs that reminded him he was still alive.
Arthur was already waiting.
The kitchen smelled like reheated stew and black coffee. There was a clean mug on the table, a hot one in Arthur's hand, and a single sheet of paper laid flat between them.
Eli squinted at it.
"…That my arrest record?"
"No," Arthur said quietly. "Lucienne dropped it off."
Eli winced harder than when he was stitched up. "Of course she did."
Arthur took a sip of coffee. "She said she wants to protect you."
Eli snorted. "Lucienne wants to own me. If I wanted to feel safe and suffocated at the same time, I'd marry her."
Arthur ignored the deflection and tapped the paper.
"Let's talk about your greatest hits."
Eli squinted again. His smile faltered.
"Oh. That list."
"Rika," Arthur said, reading aloud. "Bipolar attachment. Extreme jealousy. Believes you proposed last spring."
Eli rubbed his face with both hands. "Okay, to be fair, I didn't technically propose."
Arthur raised a brow.
"We were at this rooftop party. I was drunk. She was drunk. There was music. I might've said something about 'forever' and a ring, but I was joking. Mostly."
"Did you give her a ring?"
"It was a twist tie. Off a bag of bread."
Arthur blinked. "Jesus."
"She cried," Eli muttered. "Like, really cried. Happy tears. Then she started a group chat with her mom and four aunts."
"And you didn't run then?"
"I tried!" Eli groaned. "But she showed up outside my apartment three days later with a bat and a scrapbook."
Arthur rubbed his temple. "You attract emotional demolition projects."
"I don't attract them," Eli said defensively. "They just… find me."
"Then you have to be the worst hide and seek player I know"
Arthur slid his finger down the list. "Next. Valeria. Childhood trauma. Obsessive need for order. Owns an illegal gun."
Eli looked genuinely sad for a moment.
"She wasn't supposed to fall for me. She worked as a doctor for one of Lucienne's hospitals businesses. I was there... snooping."
"Snooping?"
"Shut up. Anyway, we got to talking. She was cold at first—like, stone statue cold. But I made her laugh once. Just once. And I guess it opened a floodgate."
Arthur waited.
"She started cataloging my life," Eli said. "Meal prep. Schedules. Calorie logs. Weekly 'relationship performance reviews.' One time I didn't respond to a text for two hours and she filed a missing persons report."
Arthur stared.
"I didn't even know she knew my address."
"Did you tell her the truth? That you weren't serious?"
Eli hesitated. "I was going to."
Arthur narrowed his eyes. "When?"
"…Eventually."
"Eventually I'm going to punch you for how stupid you are"
Arthur sighed and pointed to the last name. "Noemi. Surveillance specialist. Paranoid. Has been tracking your last twenty-six GPS locations."
Eli visibly cringed. "Okay, that one's not my fault."
Arthur waited.
"She was in a coding class I sat in on. I didn't even flirt with her—she just liked that I complimented her backpack."
"And?"
"And then she started texting me every morning. I thought it was sweet at first. But then she started finishing my sentences. Not in conversation—like, in texts. She'd send me things I was about to say. Like she was reading my mind."
"Or your data."
"Yeah," Eli said grimly. "Turned out she cloned my phone. Twice."
Arthur let the silence stretch for a moment.
"You know what I think?" he said finally.
"I don't know—do I want to?"
"You collect broken glass and act surprised when you start bleeding."
Eli slumped into his chair. "I know, but not on purpose!"
"They're all going to come looking for you."
Eli looked up slowly. "I know that too."
Arthur leaned forward.
"Lucienne said she wants to protect you. But I don't think that word means the same thing to her that it does to us."
Eli met his eyes, all sarcasm gone.
"She's not the worst one, Art. Not by a long shot."
Arthur folded the list again. "That's the part that worries me."
The silence after the conversation was heavy. Arthur washed the mugs slowly, keeping his back to Eli. He didn't say what was on his mind, because Eli already knew.
Eli sat at the edge of the kitchen chair, fingers twitching restlessly, leg bouncing in anxious rhythm. For all his charm and cockiness, he looked like a man held together with duct tape and borrowed time.
Then—three knocks at the door.
Not loud.
Not urgent.
But deliberate.
Measured.
Wrong.
Arthur didn't flinch.
He dried his hands with a dishtowel and turned.
"Go," he said, calm and quiet. "Bathroom. No noise."
Eli looked like he was about to argue, but something in Arthur's expression stopped him.
He disappeared into the hallway.
Arthur waited a second longer. Then opened the door.
She stood there in the afternoon light, leaning on a pastel-pink aluminum bat like it was a walking stick.
Short, slight, and dressed like someone playing at innocence—a fluffy oversized sweater with a stitched heart near the sleeve, combat boots painted with stars, hair dyed a soft rose-gold and tied into pigtails that bobbed when she tilted her head.
Her eyes didn't match the rest of her.
They were too wide, too bright. Watching everything.
Danger.
"Hi!" she chirped. "You must be Arthur. Wow. You're exactly how Eli described you."
Arthur didn't smile. "You are?"
She smiled wider. "Rika. But he always called me 'Cherry Bomb.' Cute, right?"
Arthur confused, remembers the files Lucienne had shown him.
"Oh"