Lucas sat on the edge of his bed.The air was thick with the metallic scent of blood, lingering from the night's chaos. He glanced down at his hands—both pale, one wrapped in a makeshift bandage, with dark stains of blood already seeping through the white fabric.
He began to clean up the remnants of the havoc he had wreaked. His hands, trembling slightly but steady enough, moved with careful precision. They wiped away the blood spatter on the floor, collected the bloodied needle and thread and tidied the room with a grim efficiency. The pale fingers, though stained with crimson, worked tirelessly, their cold touch unaffected by the grime and gore they handled so efficiently.
As he worked, his gaze drifted to the mirror atop the dresser. The reflection staring back at him was almost unrecognizable, and the sight made his stomach churn with disgust. His right eye was grotesquely swollen, a deep purple that darkened to near black at the center, the skin around it puffy and tight. It throbbed with every beat of his heart, a dull, relentless pain that radiated through his skull. A fresh bruise had bloomed on his cheek, the outline of a fist still visible, a stark reminder of the violence that had unfolded just hours before.
Lucas sneered at his reflection, feeling a wave of revulsion at his battered appearance. The tear in his lower lip, where it had split open from the force of a punch, only made his features seem more distorted, the dried blood stark against his pale skin. His lips, usually full and enticing, were now swollen and slightly uneven, making him look grotesque in his own eyes.
He couldn't stand the sight of himself—how terrible he looked, how far he had fallen. His dark hair, clinging to his forehead with sweat, framed his face in a way that only emphasized the harsh bruising and cuts. The single blue eye not swollen shut still held its cold fire, but even that did little to distract from the mess that was his face.
His shirt hung loosely on his frame, torn at the collar, revealing the sharp lines of his collarbones and the pale expanse of his chest. Blood had seeped into the fabric, staining it with dark, angry splotches that contrasted sharply against the white material. His bandaged hand ached with a persistent, nagging pain, but he paid it little mind as he continued to clean, his other hand moving with an eerie grace.
To Lucas, his reflection was a wreck, something he wished he could erase as easily as he was cleaning the room. But to anyone else, there was a strange, wrecked beauty in his appearance, as if the damage only served to highlight his allure. He was beautiful in the way a shattered vase could be—a masterpiece broken, yet still holding the remnants of its former glory.
Lucas leaned closer to the mirror, his breath fogging the glass as he examined the bruises, the cuts, the swelling. He traced a finger lightly over the bruise on his cheek, feeling the tenderness beneath the skin, the way it pulsed with heat. His reflection stared back at him, unwavering, and for a moment, he allowed himself to feel a twisted sense of pride.
But the pride was fleeting, quickly replaced by a wave of self-loathing. He looked disgusting, a mere shell of what he once was. The marks on his face, the blood on his clothes, the bruises forming on his skin—all of it was a reminder of his failures, of how he had let himself be reduced to this state.
He straightened, wiping the sweat from his brow with the back of his pale hand, the skin cool against his fevered flesh. Despite everything, there was a strange satisfaction in the mess he had created and cleaned. The room was almost back to its original state, save for the dark stains that would need more than just a simple wipe to be fully erased.
With one final glance at the mirror, he turned away, his hand brushing lightly against the dresser as he moved. The reflection in the mirror remained, the image of a man who looked terrible in his own eyes, yet to anyone else, still beautiful in his brokenness—a wrecked angel who had clawed his way out of hell and somehow retained a semblance of his former beauty.
Lucas left the room, his steps silent as he moved along the house cleaning the drips of blood he had left behind.
When he was done he returned to his bedroom.
Lucas paused at the doorway, the soft click of the closing door echoing through the quiet room. The bitter taste of self-loathing still lingered in his mouth, but another thought, darker and more deliberate, began to surface in his mind—Ryan.
The boy's name lingered in his thoughts, bringing with it a flood of memories that made Lucas's stomach tighten with anticipation. He hadn't realise he was drugged until he had come out of it and he knew for certain, Ryan was the one who made him feel ashamed tonight.
Lucas now could recall every detail about him: the way he walked, the way he spoke, the infuriating obsession in his eyes, and most of all, the promise Lucas had made.
Lucas crossed the room with purpose, his hands trembling slightly as he opened the closet door. Inside, amidst the neatly arranged belongings and the eerie collection of oddities, was a large, empty glass jar ,he had purchased not to long ago. It was smooth and clear, its wide mouth large enough to fit his entire hand inside. The glass gleamed faintly in the dim light, reflecting the cold, calculating glint in Lucas's eyes.
He took the jar down carefully, holding it in his hands as if it were a precious artifact. The weight of it felt right, solid and cold, like the thoughts running through his mind. Without hesitation, Lucas reached for a black permanent marker that lay on the dresser. The cap clicked off with a soft snap, and he pressed the tip of the marker to the glass, writing in bold, deliberate letters: **Ryan**.
The name stared back at him, dark and final against the transparent glass. Lucas's hand lingered over the jar, the black letters serving as a solemn reminder of the promise he had made to Ryan—the promise that the boy would be part of his collection. A slow, twisted smile curled at the corners of his lips as he thought of what that would mean, of how he would finally bring this chapter to a close.
He could see Ryan's face in his mind, the memory so vivid it felt almost tangible.
He intended to keep his promise.Imagining the boy's fear, the realization dawning in his eyes when he understood that Lucas wasn't someone to be trifled with, that Lucas wasn't just a shadow—he was a hunter.
He placed the jar back in the closet, closing the door with a deliberate slowness. The thrill of anticipation coursed through him, mingling with the remnants of anger and self-disgust. Lucas knew that he would see this through, that he would make sure Ryan's name wasn't just written on a jar, but that it would hold something far more meaningful, far more permanent.
As he stepped away from the closet, Lucas's mind was already working, plotting out how he would find Ryan, how he would take his time, savor the fear, the desperation, the ultimate realization that the promise was being fulfilled. The thought brought a sense of satisfaction, a purpose that pushed away the loathing he felt when he looked in the mirror.
Ryan would be his—forever.And Lucas always kept his promises.