Childhood
I don't remember lullabies.
I remember glass. Cold floors. Silence.
My name is Lucien Vale, and I was born into a house where love was a script, not a feeling. My father was a senator. My mother—a perfectly painted doll with poison behind her lips. Together, they raised me not as a child… but as a reflection. A thing to be polished. Shaped. Used.
At six, I was trained to bow and speak with precision.
At eight, I was punished for crying.
At nine, I stopped trying to be anything human at all.
My father taught me fear with fists.
My mother taught me manipulation with smiles.
Both told me who I was supposed to be.
But I was not listening.
I was watching.
They thought I was empty inside—so quiet, so obedient. But I was storing every word, every lie, and every betrayal.
And while they pushed me into Elijah's shadow—my perfect older brother, the Vale heir—I learned the shape of power.
Elijah called me "the spare."
I called him my first experiment.
Teenage Years
Thirteen.
That's the year everything changed.
There was a girl. Just another chess piece in my brother's game. But she became mine.
I don't mean love.
I mean leverage.
One whispered rumor. One well-placed piece of evidence.
One scream in the dark.
And suddenly, Elijah—the golden boy, the heir, the favorite—was in cuffs.
Murderer, they called him.
I watched from the hallway as he was dragged away, eyes wide in betrayal, while my parents frantically buried the scandal. No one ever questioned it. No one thought to look at me.
Why would they?
I was just the quiet one.
But in that moment, I learned something no classroom ever taught:
If you control the story… you don't need to lift a blade.
People call it manipulation.
I call it design.
From then on, I stopped pretending I was part of a family. I became a ghost. No one noticed me slipping away—first from their affection, then from their control.
At fifteen, I hacked into a national political server—just to see if I could.
At sixteen, I created a crisis on Wall Street so subtle no one knew it was orchestrated.
I didn't want attention.
I wanted understanding.
I wanted to see how far I could bend the world before it snapped.
Present
Now?
Now I wear a smile that's been perfected for years.
I move through shadows, silk-tongued and invisible. No one knows my face. Not unless I want them to.
I entered this game not for revenge. Not even for fun.
I entered to study them.
You see, I already understand people better than they understand themselves. And when you know where to press… they crumble like sandcastles in a rising tide.
The paranoia.
The votes.
The screaming.
It's just noise.
I am the calm. The quiet you should fear.
The lovers thought their bond could save them.
The survivor thought she could dance with death.
The others? They're still playing by the rules.
But rules?
Rules are just illusions waiting to be broken.
They still don't know who I am.
And by the time they do, it'll already be too late.
The curtain hasn't fallen yet, but the audience is already dead.
The door slammed open. The thief stumbled in, panting, a wild look in his eyes as blood ran from his split lip. His coat was torn, his steps uneven, like someone who barely made it out of a fire.
"I—I failed…" he muttered, voice hoarse, eyes wide. "I failed to grab the Penance's card—he's a monster, I swear—I didn't know—he—"
His hands were shaking. One eye was already swelling shut from the blow he'd taken. Bruises bloomed like ink across his cheekbones, and dried blood crusted his temple.
The mafia sat in the corner, legs crossed, and calm as still water. He tilted his head slightly. "You failed."
The thief looked down, ashamed, but then quickly reached into his coat, pulling out something clenched tightly in his bruised fist.
"But—But I got something else. Not the Penance… but something else!"
He held it up with trembling fingers.
The card caught the dim light of the room.
Prestidigitator.
The room went quiet.
The mafia stood, slow and elegant, approaching with careful steps like a predator who never wastes movement. He plucked the card from the thief's hand and stared at it for a long, silent beat.
"A mentalist card…" he said softly, brushing his thumb over the etched surface. "Rare."
The thief, still hunched, dared to look up at him, eyes flickering with fear—and something desperate. "So… I did good? Right? I mean… it's useful, yeah? Right?"
The mafia looked at him, smiling slightly. "Yes."
And before the thief could blink, a flash of silver danced in the low light—a knife, impossibly fast, slicing across his cheek.
The thief screamed, dropping to his knees, clutching the side of his face as blood poured between his fingers. A fresh, clean gash carved him from temple to jaw—shallow, but deep enough to mark him forever.
"Then wear that success," the mafia whispered. "Let the world know how valuable you are."
The thief trembled, choking down a sob.
The mafia returned to the card, as if the wail of pain meant nothing.
"A mentalist card… one that can manipulate the cards' entirety for a single night," he murmured, more to himself now. "A complete override of fate… Curious. That means I don't need to waste the civilian cards for the next round."
He held it up to the flickering light like a trophy.
"Fate can be rewritten. Just once," he said, a devilish smirk twisting his lips. "And one time… is all I ever need."
Behind him, the thief rocked back and forth, holding his bleeding face, eyes glassy and distant—traumatized, broken, silenced.
But the mafia? He was already planning.