Rain poured down over the city, turning the streets into gleaming mirrors where neon lights reflected in a myriad of colors. Élina pulled her coat tighter around her, shivering under the assault of icy droplets. It had been a long day, and she longed for only one thing—to return to her small studio, a modest accommodation provided by the scholarship that allowed her to study at Saint-Laurent University, the most prestigious in the country.
Her dream was finally taking shape, but every day reminded her just how much of an outsider she was in this world.
The immaculate hallways, the luxury cars lined up at the entrance, the designer clothes her classmates wore… Everything screamed that she didn't belong here. Yet she held on. For her mother, for all those nights of relentless studying in the library, for the weight of excellence she carried on her shoulders.
She sighed, trying to focus on her steps. Fatigue weighed on her as she took a shortcut through an alley, preferring to avoid the crowded main boulevard. But as she walked forward, a figure suddenly emerged in front of her.
A man—tall, slender, drenched from head to toe—seemed to be struggling with something invisible.
Intrigued, she slowed down. His black hair clung to his forehead, and his soaked suit gave him an almost desperate look. He lifted his head and met her gaze.
A jolt of electricity shot through Élina.
His eyes… an intense blue, strikingly vivid against the dark night. A gaze both lost and furious.
— Are you… are you okay? she asked hesitantly.
The man blinked, as if only just noticing her. Then he let out a soft, bitter laugh that echoed in the alley.
— Of course, miss. I'm perfectly fine.
Élina wasn't fooled. His sharp tone and shattered expression told a completely different story.
— Are you sure?
The man stared at her for a moment before shaking his head.
— I should go. You should, too. It's never safe to linger here at night.
He took a step to leave but suddenly staggered. Without thinking, Élina reached out to catch him. Her arm brushed against his chest, and despite the biting cold, she felt the warmth of his body.
— You're hurt! she exclaimed, noticing a dark stain spreading along his side.
The man winced before straightening up.
— It's nothing. I… I have to go.
But Élina couldn't just leave him like this.
— Come with me. You need medical attention.
The man studied her, as if torn between accepting her offer or vanishing into the night.
And then, to his own surprise, he nodded.
That was how it all began.
Élina tightened her grip on the stranger's arm, feeling beneath her fingers the tension of a body accustomed to restraint. He was tall—too tall compared to her—and despite his apparent wound, he carried an intimidating presence.
— Come, she murmured, fearing he might change his mind at any moment.
She led him out of the alley, keeping an eye on his unsteady steps. The man seemed to be battling pain, but he didn't say a word. He simply walked beside her, as if accepting her help was already an admission of weakness.
The walk to her studio lasted only a few minutes, yet the tension in the air made it feel much longer. When they finally reached the modest building where she lived, Élina opened the door and motioned for him to enter.
The man hesitated.
— Are you sure? he asked in a low voice.
She crossed her arms, irritated by his distant tone.
— You're bleeding. And you're going to collapse if you keep pushing yourself. So yes, I'm sure.
He raised an eyebrow but eventually stepped inside.
The small studio was far from the ostentatious luxury he was probably used to. A single bed against the wall, a bookshelf filled with second-hand books, a kitchenette with aging appliances… Yet, this was her refuge, and for the first time, she was sharing it with a stranger.
— Sit down, she ordered, pointing to the bed.
The man obeyed with a weariness that contrasted with his proud demeanor. Meanwhile, Élina rummaged through a drawer, pulling out a first-aid kit.
— Take off your jacket, she instructed as she knelt before him.
He stared at her, the shadow of a smile touching his lips.
— Do you always give orders like that?
— Only when someone is about to pass out in front of me, she shot back.
The smile faded, replaced by a more solemn expression. Slowly, he unbuttoned his soaked jacket and let it slide off his shoulders. The dark fabric revealed a white shirt stained with blood on his left side. Élina winced at the sight of the wound.
— This is more than just a scratch, she murmured.
— I've had worse.
— That doesn't mean it doesn't hurt.
He didn't respond.
Élina took a deep breath and grabbed a cotton pad soaked in antiseptic.
— This is going to sting.
He nodded, and she pressed the cotton against the wound. Immediately, his body tensed, but he didn't make a sound. No grunt, no flinch.
— You're used to pain, she murmured, more to herself than to him.
Silence settled between them. Then, to her surprise, he answered in a low voice:
— I didn't have a choice.
Élina looked up. For a fleeting moment, she thought she saw something beyond his mask of indifference—a deeper, older pain. But the moment passed, and he averted his gaze.
— Thank you, he added after a while.
She raised an eyebrow.
— For what?
— Not asking questions.
She shook her head as she packed away the supplies.
— Just because I don't ask doesn't mean I don't want answers.
The man let out a small, almost imperceptible smile.
— You're more perceptive than I expected.
— And you're more mysterious than I can tolerate, she retorted without missing a beat.
A quiet chuckle escaped him.
He observed her for a few moments before sighing.
— Lysandre.
— What?
— My name. You took me in, so it's only fair that you know it.
She nodded, repeating the name in her mind. Lysandre. It suited him—elegant, timeless, and laced with a mystery she had yet to unravel.
— Élina, she replied simply.
— Nice name.
She shrugged.
— My mother chose it.
Silence settled between them again.
Lysandre leaned back against the wall, briefly closing his eyes. Now that he was treated, exhaustion seemed to be catching up with him.
— You can sleep here tonight, she offered.
He opened one eye, surprised.
— That's not a good idea.
— Why?
He looked at her for a long moment before murmuring:
— Because I might bring you trouble.
A shiver ran through Élina—not of fear, but of excitement at the mystery this man represented.
— I'm willing to take that risk, she declared.
Lysandre studied her for a moment longer before offering a tired smile.
— Then, good night, Élina.
And without another word, he closed his eyes.
She watched him for a moment before turning off the light.
She had no idea what she was getting herself into. But deep down, she knew—this night was going to change her life.