Page 282 of Let Me In

The room is warm. Opulent. Wood-paneled. Persian rugs and crystal glasses and the soft hush of money so old it thinks itself immortal.

Five men. Three seated. One standing near the bar.

Lucian at the head of it all, cigarette in hand. He sees me first and doesn’t blink.

But the others—startled, slow. Too slow.

The first dies before he stands. Knife to the neck—clean, fast, final. His body hits the rug with a soft thud.

Second lunges, gun half-raised.

I’m already there. Disarm. Drive the elbow back into his throat. He drops.

Third pulls a blade—a nice one. Polished steel. Something meant to impress.

I take it from him with two moves. Break his wrist. Let him scream once—then silence him.

The fourth, Lucian’s right hand, makes it furthest. He bolts for the balcony. Mistake. I follow, fast, flat-footed, controlled. Tackle him through the glass door. We hit the deck hard. His head cracks against the railing.

Blood pools fast. I don’t check for breath.

And then...

Silence.

Except for Lucian. Still seated, still smoking, his glass untouched. Like he’s been waiting for this the whole time.

Lucian doesn’t flinch, doesn’t reach for a weapon, doesn’t stand. Just watches me with a calm so absolute it brushes up against defiance.

I shift my weight forward slightly, blood still wet on my gloves. My grip tightens—not from rage, but from the stillness coiled deep in my spine.

He watches me approach like a man watching a tide roll in.

Unstoppable. Familiar. Inevitable.

His cigar burns low between two fingers. Smoke curling like breath between us.

“Well,” he says, glancing around the room, his voice almost amused. “Four men in under thirty seconds. That was… almost art.”

I stop three feet from him.

“Not art,” I finally speak. Low, even. “It's the end.”

That’s it.

I stop three feet from him.

“You came yourself,” he adds, voice calm. “That surprised me.”

I don’t answer.

There’s nothing here worth conversation.

Nothing left to name.

He exhales. Eyes me like he’s taking stock. Like I’m still something he can weigh.

“You could’ve sent a message,” he says. “You didn’t have to burn it down.”

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