Run: 2026-02-17-01KHMMCPD6VEXTCDXXYDY5EBG5

The door swung open before Rory could knock a second time, the scent of turmeric and cardamom curling out from the curry house below. Eva stood there, her dark curls piled messily atop her head, a smudge of ink on her cheek. Her eyes widened. "Rory? What the—" She cut herself off, stepping back as if the sight of her oldest friend required recalibration. "I wasn’t expecting you." Rory held up the brown paper bag from Golden Empress, the grease already seeping through the bottom. "Peace offering. Yu-Fei said you called in sick." Eva’s gaze flicked to the bag, then back to Rory’s face. A beat of silence. Then she sighed, stepping aside. "Fine. But only because I’m starving and too lazy to cook." The flat was exactly as Rory remembered—cluttered, warm, alive. Ptolemy, Eva’s tabby, uncoiled from the armchair and stretched, tail flicking in judgment before he deigned to wind himself around Rory’s ankles. The walls were still papered with notes, newspaper clippings, and what looked like a new map of London’s underground tunnels, pins stabbed into it like accusations. Eva snatched the bag and plopped onto the sofa, kicking her bare feet up onto the coffee table. "So. What’s the real reason you’re here?" Rory hesitated, then sank into the armchair. The springs groaned under her. "I needed to see you." "Bullshit." Eva tore into the bag, pulling out a container of dumplings. "You’ve been avoiding me for weeks. Now you show up with takeout like nothing happened?" Rory’s fingers tightened around the edge of the armrest. "It’s not that simple." "Sure it is." Eva’s voice was sharp, but her hands were gentle as she pried open the lid. "You either talk to me, or you don’t. You either trust me, or you don’t." The words hung between them, heavier than the steam rising from the dumplings. Rory exhaled, rubbing her thumb over the crescent scar on her wrist. "I saw Lucien." Eva’s fork paused halfway to her mouth. "Lucien Moreau?" "Yeah." "Where?" "Outside Silas’ bar. He was waiting for me." Eva set the fork down. "And?" "And he had information. About Evan." The name sat between them like a live wire. Eva’s expression darkened. "What kind of information?" Rory swallowed. "He knows where Evan’s been staying. Who he’s been working with." Eva’s fingers curled into fists. "You didn’t go to him, did you?" "No! Of course not. But Lucien—" Rory stopped, shaking her head. "He offered to help." Eva’s laugh was bitter. "Lucien doesn’t do anything for free. You know that." "I know." Rory’s voice was quiet. "But I’m running out of options." Eva studied her for a long moment, then sighed, reaching for the dumplings again. "You should’ve told me." "I know." Another silence. Ptolemy leapt onto the sofa, kneading Eva’s thigh before settling into a loaf. Eva absently stroked his fur, her gaze distant. "You still have feelings for him." Rory’s head snapped up. "What?" "Lucien." Eva’s eyes were too knowing. "You do." "That’s not—" Rory stopped, because it was. It had always been. Even when she’d tried to bury it, even when she’d told herself she was done, the pull of him was still there, a current beneath her skin. "It’s complicated." Eva snorted. "Everything with you is complicated." Rory opened her mouth to argue, but the words died on her lips as the doorbell buzzed. Eva frowned, pushing herself up. "Who the hell is that?" Rory followed her to the door, pulse quickening as Eva peered through the peephole. Then she went very still. "Rory," Eva said slowly. "You might want to step back." The door swung open before Rory could ask why. Lucien Moreau stood in the hallway, impeccable in a charcoal suit, his platinum hair catching the dim light. His heterochromatic eyes—one amber, one black—locked onto hers, and for a heartbeat, the world narrowed to the space between them. "Bonjour, *chérie*," he said, voice smooth as aged whiskey. "Miss me?"