The villa’s candlelit corridors stretched like silent witnesses as Lucien Shen carried a half-empty tumbler of whiskey down the hallway. His suit jacket hung loosely over his shoulder, tie undone. Each footstep echoed against marble, a metronome of grief. Evelyn Lin watched from the threshold of her chamber—the soft glow of her bedside panel illuminating the worry in her eyes.
“Can’t sleep?” she called softly.
He halted, shoulders slumping. “Dreams of her.” He raised the glass; the amber liquid caught the flame. “Wei‑han’s voice, Matthews slipping into darkness. It haunts me.”
Evelyn stepped forward, offering a gesture of comfort. “I’m sorry.”
He met her gaze, hollow. “I wanted to save you both. I failed one and blamed the other.” He drained the tumbler, setting it on a nearby console. “It’s my fault.”
She closed the distance. “It’s not your fault.”