Ficorpio
Chapter 1
London rain never bothered with warnings.
By the time Julian Bennett stepped out of the art studio, the sky was completely black. He checked his phone. 11:03 p.m. The last Tube train had left ten minutes ago.
He stood on the steps outside the studio as cold wind drove rain into his face. He hunched his shoulders against it. His sweatshirt was thin, and pulling up the hood made no difference. The wind cut straight through it.
He hadn’t brought an umbrella.
The weather had been fine when he’d left, merely overcast. Who could have guessed it would suddenly start pouring?
Julian hugged his art-supply case to his chest and bent forward as he ran toward the bus stop across the street. It had a small shelter that offered, at best, a little protection from the rain.
By the time he reached it, half his hair was soaked. Water dripped from his fringe as he raised a hand to wipe his face. Then he leaned against one of the shelter’s posts and crouched down, folding himself into as small a shape as possible.
There was hardly anyone left on the street.
It was already late, and with the rain coming down, even the traffic had thinned to almost nothing. The streetlights cast a dull yellow glow over the shining threads of rain. The entire street seemed empty, with only the rain continuing without pause.
Julian tried to order a car. The app said there were no drivers nearby, and after five minutes, nothing had changed.
He tried requesting a premium ride. No one accepted that, either.
With a sigh, he slipped his phone back into his pocket.
He’d been in London for several years. He’d had plenty of moments like this.
When you were alone in a foreign country, everything was yours to deal with. If you got sick, you bought your own medicine. If you moved, you carried your own boxes. If it rained, you found your own way home.
There was no point complaining. This had been his choice.
He drew his legs closer and hugged the art-supply case tighter. Half of today’s assignment was still inside. If it got soaked, he would be in serious trouble.
Another gust of cold wind swept past, and he shivered.
He was wondering whether he should message one of the classmates he knew better and ask for help, though it felt too late to bother anyone, when a pair of headlights turned the corner.
The car moved slowly, gliding almost silently over the wet asphalt before stopping in front of him.
Julian stared for a moment, then looked up.
The car was black, its lines clean and understated. He recognized the emblem on the front: Rolls-Royce.
Not because he knew much about cars. The symbol was simply famous enough that he’d seen it in movies countless times.
He instinctively shifted aside, assuming the car had stopped only temporarily.
Then the rear window began to lower.
Rain drifted into the car, and Julian saw a face inside.
The man’s features were almost too striking to look real.
He was clearly white, with deep-set bone structure, a high brow, a straight nose, and slightly hollowed eyes. Under the streetlight, his gray-blue eyes looked particularly deep. His thin lips were pressed together, and the clean line of his jaw gave his otherwise expressionless face an effortless air of privilege.
He wore a dark suit with a perfectly knotted tie, his shirt buttoned all the way to the top. His dark-blond hair was neatly combed, not a strand out of place.
He looked exactly like the sort of person from High Society who never had to worry about anything.
Julian looked for two seconds before lowering his gaze. He didn’t quite dare stare.
“Do you need help?”
The man’s voice was low, his English distinctly British. Every word was clear and impeccably polite.
Julian hurriedly shook his head. “No, no. I’m waiting for a car.”
The moment he finished speaking, another gust swept rain through the shelter and blew his hood off. Cold water struck the back of his neck, making him jolt.
The man in the car said nothing. He simply watched him.
Julian could feel that gaze. It wasn’t forceful. The man was merely looking at his soaked hair and fingers gone white from the cold.
“You won’t get a car at this hour. I’m not a thief,” the man said.
Julian looked at him. He opened his mouth, wanting to offer some kind of rebuttal, but his phone really hadn’t matched him with a driver. He couldn’t keep pretending otherwise.
“The rain isn’t going to stop. I’ll take you home.”
His tone remained calm. It didn’t sound like either a request or an order. It was simply the voice of someone saying that helping him would be no trouble.
Julian hesitated.
He had lived in Britain for several years and knew that strangers here didn’t usually strike up conversations, much less invite people into their cars.
But there was something strange about the man in front of him. He seemed too serious, so serious that refusing him felt almost embarrassing. He certainly didn’t look like a thief. Julian was only a student. There was hardly anything he could steal.
And Julian was genuinely close to freezing.
“Then… thank you. I appreciate it.”
He stood, though his legs had gone numb, and steadied himself against the wall. Then he bent toward the open window in a small bow.
The man gave a slight nod and said something to the driver. The rear door opened from inside.
Julian climbed in with his art-supply case and was immediately surrounded by warmth.
It wasn’t the sudden blast of hot air from an air conditioner. The entire cabin was kept at a comfortable temperature, neither cold nor stifling.
The car smelled good, too.
Not of heavy cologne, but of a subtle, expensive wood scent, like cedar with the faintest trace of leather. It made him feel safe.
Only after sitting down did Julian realize how thoroughly soaked he was. Afraid of dirtying the seats, he perched on the very edge, keeping his body rigid and avoiding the leather as much as possible.
Chapter 2
He held the art-supply case in his arms as well, making sure it touched nothing.
The car was quiet except for the muted patter of rain against the roof.
“Address.”
The low voice came from beside him.
Julian gave the name of his apartment building and the street. His voice was soft, with a slight nasal quality.
The man spoke to the driver for a few seconds. He spoke quickly, and Julian caught only a few words.
The car pulled smoothly into motion, so quietly that Julian could barely hear the engine.
He stole a glance at the man beside him.
The stranger sat on the opposite side, relaxed against the back seat, his long legs loosely crossed. His broad shoulders gave the suit an elegant shape. Compared with Julian, curled up at the other end of the seat, he looked as though he belonged to an entirely different world.
Julian silently looked away. The whole night felt absurd.
In the middle of the night, in the rain, he had been picked up by a stranger driving a Rolls-Royce. If he told his roommate about it, they would assume he had made the whole thing up.
“Are you Chinese?” the man asked.
Julian turned and found that the stranger had shifted his attention to him at some point.
In the dim light inside the car, it was difficult to read the expression in his gray-blue eyes, but Julian could clearly feel himself being watched.
“Yes. I’m an international student from China,” Julian answered honestly.
“What school?”
“London College of Art.”
“What do you study?”
“Fine art. Painting.”
After saying it, Julian felt a little self-conscious. Mentioning painting to someone like this made him feel as though he were showing off a minor skill in front of an expert.
The man looked like someone who had received the finest education money could buy. For all Julian knew, the walls of his family home were covered in masterpieces.
“Do you enjoy it?”
“Yes. Very much.” Julian nodded, and his voice carried more conviction than before.
The man gave a slight nod and asked no more questions.
After several seconds of silence, Julian felt that he ought to say something. The man had gone out of his way to take him home, after all.
“Thank you for tonight. If you hadn’t come along, I might have been waiting out there for hours.”
“You don’t need to thank me.” The man’s tone was mild. “It’s not safe to be out alone this late.”
Warmth spread through Julian’s chest.
In a foreign country, hardly anyone ever said things like that to him.
His family was too far away. Even on the phone, he avoided saying too much because he was afraid they would worry.
He hadn’t heard the words not safe in a very long time.
Silence settled over the car again.
Julian stole several more glances at the man beside him.
He noticed that the stranger had beautiful hands: prominent knuckles, long fingers, and a silver ring engraved with an intricate pattern on his index finger.
The hand rested casually on his knee, quiet and elegant.
Julian couldn’t stop himself from looking a little longer.
Then he was caught.
“What are you looking at?”
The man turned toward him, a faint trace of amusement in his gray-blue eyes.
Julian’s face went hot. He hurriedly looked away. “N-nothing.”
A soft laugh came from beside him. It wasn’t mocking, only mildly entertained.
Julian’s ears grew even hotter. He lowered his head until he wished he could crawl inside his art-supply case.
About twenty minutes later, the car stopped outside Julian’s apartment building.
It was an old residential block, the mortar between the bricks on its exterior dark with age. Behind the black luxury car, it looked especially run-down.
Julian opened the door. Cold wind and rain rushed at him again, making him flinch.
“Thank you for bringing me home.” He stepped out with his art-supply case and turned back toward the man in the car.
The stranger gave a slight nod. His voice remained low. “Get inside quickly. Don’t catch a chill.”
Julian murmured an agreement and turned to run toward the entrance.
After two steps, the same voice called after him.
“Wait.”
Julian looked back.
The window was still open. Rain drifted into the car and struck the man’s dark suit.
He seemed not to care. Instead, he reached beside him and held out a black long-handled umbrella.
“Take it. Don’t walk through the rain.”
Julian stared, then hurriedly waved his hands. “No, no. I’m already here. I only have to run a few—”
“Take it.”
It was only two words. His tone was as calm as ever, yet somehow it left no room for refusal.
Julian jogged back and reached out with his stiff, frozen hand.
His fingertips brushed the man’s. They were warm, completely different from Julian’s icy skin. The umbrella handle still held a little heat, whether from the car’s warmth or the man’s body was impossible to say.
Julian’s heart suddenly beat faster. He had no idea why.
“Thank you.” He gripped the handle and spoke with complete sincerity.
The man inclined his head. The window rose slowly, cutting off his cool, striking face.
Julian stood in the rain beneath the umbrella and watched the black Rolls-Royce glide away. Its taillights gradually blurred into a single red point in the mist.
He remained there for a long while. Only when the cold wind finally brought him back to himself did he turn and go upstairs.
The old building had poor soundproofing, and Julian was careful not to disturb the neighbors, even though they often disturbed him.
Chapter 3
He closed the door as quietly as possible, set his art-supply case in the corner, and opened the black umbrella in the bathroom to dry. He would return it to the man when he had the chance.
The room was cold.
London nights grew chilly in early autumn, but this cold felt wrong. It was damp and penetrating, as though a draft were seeping outward from inside the walls.
Julian touched the radiator beside him.
It was cold. Not even a trace of heat.
With a sigh, he crouched and examined the valve. He turned it twice, but nothing happened.
He tried twisting it all the way open and waited several minutes. The radiator remained cold.
It was broken.
It had been giving off less heat for days. Julian had told the landlord, who had promised to send someone to repair it, but nothing had happened. Now the radiator had gone completely cold.
Julian stood and rubbed his arms.
His sweatshirt was still damp. He had been so focused on getting inside that he had forgotten to change. Now that the cold air touched him again, he shivered.
He hurried to the wardrobe, pulled out a dry set of loungewear, and changed. Then he found a pair of thick socks and put them on.
But the cold in the room couldn’t be solved by adding one more layer. It seeped into him. If he stayed there long enough, it would settle into his bones.
Julian glanced at his phone. 12:30 a.m.
Should he message the landlord? The man would already be asleep at this hour, and even if Julian sent a message, he probably wouldn’t reply.
Besides, even if someone came to fix the radiator tomorrow, Julian still had to survive the night.
After thinking for a moment, he wrapped the thin duvet from his bed around his shoulders. Then he searched the storage cabinet in the sitting room and found a blanket he’d bought when he first arrived in London.
It was very thin, but it was better than nothing.
It was still cold.
Julian tucked his chin deeper beneath the duvet and stared at the small window across the room.
The curtains had not been drawn all the way. Beyond them, rain was still falling, the fine strands shining beneath the streetlamp. A draft slipped through the gap in the window and stirred the curtains gently.
He would have turned on a space heater, but the apartment did not have one. Many of London’s older buildings had no air-conditioning, and in winter, everyone depended on the central heating. With the radiators broken, the entire room felt like an icebox.
Julian picked up his phone and scrolled through his contacts. He thought about calling someone, just to talk, but it was well past midnight. Everyone would be asleep. He did not want to bother anyone.
He typed, It’s so cold, then stared at the words for a moment before deleting them.
Never mind. He could get through one night.
It was hardly the first time. When he had first arrived in London, he had lived in student housing where the heating worked perfectly—but the rent had been absurd.
After moving out, he had found somewhere cheaper. The problem was that old buildings came with endless problems. One day there would be a leak; the next, the power would cut out. And whenever he called someone to fix anything, it took forever for them to show up.
Julian pulled the covers tighter around himself, curling into a smaller shape so as little of him as possible touched the air.
He closed his eyes and tried to sleep, but it was too cold. His feet had gone numb, his hands were icy, and even buried beneath the duvet, he could not stop shivering.
He had no idea how much time passed before his phone suddenly vibrated.
Julian opened his eyes and reached for it.
The message came from an unsaved number.
Have you gone to sleep? Is the heating fixed?
Julian froze.
He stared at the message for several seconds. His first thought was, Who is this?
Then he remembered.
The man who had driven him home that evening.
The Englishman in the Rolls-Royce.
Julian had never told him his name or given him his number. So how had he found it?
And he had never told him that the heating was broken. Had he?
After thinking about it, Julian vaguely remembered mentioning it during their idle conversation in the car. The man had asked what his place was like, and Julian had said it was fine—except that the heating barely worked. He had complained that he had told the landlord several times, but no one had come to repair it.
It had been an offhand comment, something Julian himself had nearly forgotten. Yet the man had remembered.
And somehow, he had found Julian’s phone number.
Julian’s feelings were complicated. Part of him found it strangely comforting that someone had remembered such a small detail about him. Another part was unsettled by how easily that person had been able to track down his number.
Then again, the man drove a Rolls-Royce. He was obviously wealthy and influential. Finding the phone number of an international student probably was not difficult for someone like him.
Besides, the message was only asking whether the heating had been repaired. He was checking on Julian.
Julian looked at the screen, and an indescribable warmth spread through his chest.
He was alone in a foreign country, after midnight, and someone had remembered to wonder whether he was cold.