"Lucian Leclair has successfully been located. He is currently at York New University," an AI voice said smoothly, delivering the message through the built-in speakers of the screen. Its tone was consistent and polished, devoid of the rough edges of human speech—efficient, emotionless, and exact.
Upon hearing this, a man dressed in a black suit with white hair—seemingly in his early 50s, though still well-built with a physique that screamed old money—sat before a wall of large computer screens. In a subtle, nearly inaudible tone, he murmured, "Finally found him," as he gazed at an image of Lucian inside a dimly lit room, the glow of the monitors casting long shadows across his face.
---
At York New University:
"Finally done with classes today. Now to go work for that grumpy old man," Styles muttered, each word seemingly heavier than the last. Lucian, wearing his usual cold expression, stretched as they both stepped out of the lecture hall.
"And lest I forget," Styles added, his tone shifting slightly, "I wanted to ask—everything okay between you and Liora? Judging by how she came to our apartment last night, something seemed off."
"Nothing really happened," Lucian replied, brushing off the concern. "We just broke up. And please, don't ask me why. I'm fine."
"What the hell? You actually broke up with her and didn't tell me?" Styles exclaimed. "Man, I'm gonna miss her cooking. Don't mind me asking, but why did you—"
"I told you not to pry," Lucian interrupted, his tone growing sharp. "Didn't you hear me the first time?"
"Alright, calm down, bro," Styles said, raising his hands in mock surrender. "I won't bring it up again. But hey… can you at least give me her contact? That girl can cook."
Before Lucian could respond, the PA system crackled to life overhead.
"Lucian Leclair, please report to the Dean's office immediately," came the authoritative voice of the Dean.
As the announcement echoed through the hallway, all eyes turned toward Lucian. He walked through the crowded corridor like someone being summoned for judgment, the weight of every stare pressing in on him.
---
Reaching the Dean's office, Lucian knocked on the green wooden door—its creaking hinges long overdue for repair.
"Who is it?" came the firm voice from inside.
"Lucian Leclair from the Finance Department. You called me," he replied.
"You may come in," the Dean said, her tone softening.
As Lucian opened the door, he saw the Dean seated behind her desk, her chin resting on one hand, her face glowing gently in the golden light of the afternoon sun. They shared a good rapport—after all, Lucian had represented the university in numerous competitions during his four years of study, and she knew him well.
"Someone has requested to see you urgently," she said. "They're one of the school's major donors. We would really appreciate it if you could meet with them. And don't worry—travel expenses will be fully covered."
Lucian furrowed his brows. "Ma'am, may I ask who this person is?"
"No," she said flatly, then continued. "I can't give you any information about them. They specifically requested anonymity. But you have nothing to worry about—they mean no harm. Just go. It's important for the school's image."
Lucian sighed. "Alright. If it's for the school, I'll oblige. When am I supposed to go?"
The Dean smiled. "Today. The car is already waiting outside to pick you up. Safe trip."
"Today?!" Lucian exclaimed, startled.
Sensing his reluctance, the Dean added in a more persuasive tone, "You may leave now. Don't keep the car waiting. And no friends—this is a solo visit."
Lucian didn't actually care about the school's image, but as a final-year student, he knew better than to risk complications with his results. Besides, a break from the constant nagging of the old man at the convenience store didn't sound so bad.
As he exited the office, the creaky door groaned behind him. He pulled out his phone and called Styles.
"Hey man, could you cover for me at work today? Something urgent came up."
"Hope everything's okay. The way the Dean called you in, it looked like you were in some serious trouble," Styles replied.
"No trouble. Just got invited somewhere. Nothing to worry about," Lucian said, walking through the now-quiet hallway.
"Alright then. I'll let the old man know," Styles said before hanging up.
Lucian made his way to the driveway, scanning for the ride that was supposed to pick him up.
Then, a sleek black car slid to a stop at the curb, its engine purring like a satisfied cat. The chauffeur stepped out with practiced grace—tall and dignified in a flawless uniform: black cap, white gloves, not a single wrinkle or speck of dust. His movements were fluid and precise, almost ceremonial, as he opened the rear door with a polite nod.
"Mr. Lucian, if I'm not mistaken," he said, voice calm and polished like the chrome trim of the car. "The family is expecting you."
Lucian blinked in surprise. The family? Who on earth had taken notice of him—and why would someone with access to a car like this want to see him? He couldn't imagine. The whole situation felt like something far beyond his world.