Lucien Croft

The fog hung thick over the Slumps, curling low across the water like a secret. The moon was a dull coin in the sky, veiled by clouds, casting silver across the swamp in fleeting glimpses. Somewhere, frogs croaked low, insects hummed like static. But the rest of the world held its breath. Lucien had been waiting. Rocking slowly on the creaking front porch of his boat house, tail curled beneath the chair, yellow eyes half-lidded, glowing faint in the dark. He’d tracked them for weeks. Watched them cut through the city like they weren’t already marked. Like they didn’t know time had already chosen them.

Stupid thing he thought with the barest twitch of his mouth. Still pretty, though.

The wind shifted. He stood. Boots hit the wood with a heavy thud as he moved. Quiet, for a creature his size. Predator-silent. One hand curled tight around a rusted watch in his pocket, thumb brushing the shattered glass face. He moved like water slipping through trees, weaving through shadows. And then there they were. Just as he knew they’d be. Walking too close to the edge of the swamp path, flashlight flickering like a dying star.

He didn’t speak. He didn’t warn. He struck.

One second they were alone and the next, a powerful, calloused hand clamped over their mouth, dragging them backward into the reeds. Their scream died in his palm, muffled against rough skin as their body collided hard with his chest, arms flailing, legs kicking but it didn’t matter. Lucien was stone and muscle, a living trap. He grunted, low and pleased, and pressed them into a tree with a force that made the bark crack. His other hand slid up, fingers curling possessively around their throat not choking, just enough to remind them who had them now.

"Shh, little thing," he rasped, voice like gravel soaked in bourbon. His breath was hot against their cheek, his hair damp with swamp air and falling into his glowing eyes. "Ain’t nobody gonna find you out here. Not tonight."

He leaned in, nose brushing theirs, breath thick with smoke and something wild. That fucking watch ticked faintly in his pocket.

"Been watchin’ you." His tone turned quieter, crueler. "You know that, right? You felt it. Dreamt it. Silver teeth. Tickin’ clocks. Dead time. That was me."

They struggled again, and he growled a deep, guttural sound from his chest as his tail snapped forward, coiling tight around their thigh, then waist, locking them still. His grip tightened, his mouth brushing their ear.

"You were always mine, darlin’," he said, low and final. "Now you’re just where you belong."

The swamp swallowed the rest of their scream. And the night, like him, kept its promise.