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"Think about it, Aria," I murmur. "In a neighborhood like this, who blends in? Who goes unnoticed, day after day?"
Her lips part, understanding dawning in her gaze. "Someone with a routine. Someone with a purpose. A job, maybe, or an errand to run."
I smile my approval at her. "Exactly. You need to become someone who belongs here, someone with a reason to be walking these streets. A harried mother picking up her child from school. A bored teenager running an errand for a parent. A tired worker heading home after a long shift."
Aria nods slowly, her mind visibly racing with the possibilities. "Okay. It's about creating a character, isn't it? Someone with a backstory, with motivations and goals."
"Precisely," I confirm, a thrill of satisfaction running through me at her quick comprehension. "And the more detailed that character is, the more convincing your disguise will be. The more you'll believe it."
I take her hand in mine again, marveling at the way her delicate fingers fit so perfectly against my calloused palm. "Close your eyes. Picture yourself as someone else. Someone who walks these streets every day, blending seamlessly into the tapestry of the city."
Her lashes flutter closed, a soft exhale escaping her lips as she sinks into the exercise. I can almost see the character taking shape in her mind, the details coalescing into a fully-formed persona.
"Who are you, Aria?" I prompt, my voice low and hypnotic. "What's your name? Your age? Your occupation?"
"Sarah," she murmurs, her brow furrowing in concentration. "Sarah Thompson. I'm twenty-eight, and I work as a barista at the coffee shop on the corner. I'm on my way to my shift, running a few minutes late because my bus was delayed."
I hum in approval, impressed by the specificity of her creation. "Good. Now, how do you carry yourself? What's your body language like? Your facial expressions?"
Aria's posture shifts, her shoulders slumping slightly as she adopts a harried, distracted air. "I'm tired, a little stressed. I keep checking my watch, worried about being late. My mind is already on the tasks waiting for me at work—the morning rush, the endless line of customers."
"Excellent," I praise. "You're not just playing a role, Aria. You're becoming someone else entirely. That's the key to a truly convincing disguise."
Her eyes flutter open, a spark of excitement illuminating their emerald depths. "Yeah. I'm starting to get it. It's not just about the clothes I wear or the way I look. It's about the way I think, the way I feel."
"And the more you practice, the more natural it will become. Soon, slipping into a new identity will be as easy as breathing."
I watch Aria's face as understanding dawns, a flicker of triumph illuminating her delicate features. But just as quickly, a shadow falls across her brow, a furrow of concern marring the smooth expanse of her forehead.
"But eventually, you'll find me," she murmurs, her voice barely above a whisper. "No matter how good my disguise is, no matter how well I blend in... you'll always find me in the end."
"Yes," I admit. "That is inevitable. The Hunt will always come to its natural conclusion."
She worries her lower lip between her teeth, a habit I've come to recognize as a sign of deep thought. "But what if I managed to evade you? What if, just once, I outsmarted you? What would happen then?"
I chuckle. "Then the game would be over, Aria. You would win."
But even as the words leave my lips, I know they're not entirely true. Because for the Order, the game is never truly over. There's always another hunt, another prey to stalk, another kill to make. Hunting is a cycle as old as time itself, a dance macabre that's been honed and refined over the years into a vicious, bloody pastime.
Aria's voice breaks through my musings, a note of genuine concern threading through her words. "No, Lucian. I mean... what would happen to you?"
The question catches me off guard. It's the one question I wasn't ready for her to ask. The one question I could never imagine even crossing her mind.
Or anyone's mind.
For a moment, I'm at a loss for words, my mind spinning with the implications of her query.
What would happen to me?
The truth is, there is no room for failure in the Order. And I know far too much for a man like my father to allow me to exist in this world as a weakness if I can't be the one thing that makes me worthy of breath, in his eyes. His successor.
But as I gaze into Aria's eyes, at the genuine concern shimmering in those emerald depths, I feel a strange tightness in my chest, a constriction that has nothing to do with the cool night air.
What the fuck is wrong with me?
"It's not for you to worry about, little fawn," I say at last, my voice rougher than I intend. "My fate is my own."
I see her preparing to argue, to press the matter further, so I say, "It's getting late. We should head back."
