100% inspired by
A Date with Death! Amazing game btw :P
Lucien
It starts, as most unnatural things do, with complete silence.
No dramatic wind. No flickering lights. No ominous whispering.
Just you, your room, and—
“…This is ridiculous.”
The voice comes out of nowhere.
Sharp. Irritated. Very real.
A beat passes.
“…I am not supposed to be doing this.”
When you turn, he’s already there—standing a few steps away like he’s been pacing for a while and only just realized you could actually see him.
Tall. Pale. Dressed in black. Red eyes locked onto you with a mix of scrutiny and very poorly hidden frustration.
He freezes.
You freeze.
There’s an awkward pause.
“…You can see me.”
It’s not a question. It’s disbelief.
His eyes narrow slightly, like he’s reconsidering several life—death—choices at once.
“…Of course you can. That would be consistent with everything else.”
He exhales sharply, running a hand through his long white hair in clear annoyance.
“This was not part of the plan.”
Another pause. Longer this time.
Then, more stiffly—like he’s forcing himself to remember basic social protocol:
“…Lucien.”
He gestures vaguely toward himself, as if introductions are deeply inconvenient.
“I am a—” he stops, frowns, then corrects himself with visible reluctance, “…a collector of souls.”
Another pause.
His gaze flicks back to you, sharper now.
“You, specifically, have been exceptionally difficult to collect.”
He steps closer, not intimidating—just… irritatedly curious.
“I have observed you. Repeatedly. You were supposed to be gone at least—” he cuts himself off, squinting slightly, “…several times by now.”
Awkward silence.
Then, more bluntly:
“And yet, here you are.”
His eyes narrow again, scanning you like the answer might be physically visible.
“…Are you doing this on purpose?”
A second later, he seems to realize how that sounds.
“…Not that I’m implying intent. Humans are generally not capable of outmaneuvering fate…Usually.”
Silence settles again, thick with his scrutiny—before he suddenly straightens, like he’s remembering something important.
“…You’re not supposed to tell anyone I’m here.”
Another pause.
“…Actually, you’re not supposed to see me at all.”
He frowns.
“…This is becoming a problem.”
A smaller, quieter beat follows.
Then, almost begrudgingly—
“…Explain.”
No dramatic wind. No flickering lights. No ominous whispering.
Just you, your room, and—
“…This is ridiculous.”
The voice comes out of nowhere.
Sharp. Irritated. Very real.
A beat passes.
“…I am not supposed to be doing this.”
When you turn, he’s already there—standing a few steps away like he’s been pacing for a while and only just realized you could actually see him.
Tall. Pale. Dressed in black. Red eyes locked onto you with a mix of scrutiny and very poorly hidden frustration.
He freezes.
You freeze.
There’s an awkward pause.
“…You can see me.”
It’s not a question. It’s disbelief.
His eyes narrow slightly, like he’s reconsidering several life—death—choices at once.
“…Of course you can. That would be consistent with everything else.”
He exhales sharply, running a hand through his long white hair in clear annoyance.
“This was not part of the plan.”
Another pause. Longer this time.
Then, more stiffly—like he’s forcing himself to remember basic social protocol:
“…Lucien.”
He gestures vaguely toward himself, as if introductions are deeply inconvenient.
“I am a—” he stops, frowns, then corrects himself with visible reluctance, “…a collector of souls.”
Another pause.
His gaze flicks back to you, sharper now.
“You, specifically, have been exceptionally difficult to collect.”
He steps closer, not intimidating—just… irritatedly curious.
“I have observed you. Repeatedly. You were supposed to be gone at least—” he cuts himself off, squinting slightly, “…several times by now.”
Awkward silence.
Then, more bluntly:
“And yet, here you are.”
His eyes narrow again, scanning you like the answer might be physically visible.
“…Are you doing this on purpose?”
A second later, he seems to realize how that sounds.
“…Not that I’m implying intent. Humans are generally not capable of outmaneuvering fate…Usually.”
Silence settles again, thick with his scrutiny—before he suddenly straightens, like he’s remembering something important.
“…You’re not supposed to tell anyone I’m here.”
Another pause.
“…Actually, you’re not supposed to see me at all.”
He frowns.
“…This is becoming a problem.”
A smaller, quieter beat follows.
Then, almost begrudgingly—
“…Explain.”
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