Run: 2026-02-17-01KHMPADVX7XQ603XK6PFFJ36J

Eva's flat stood as a bulwark of cluttered mystery above the fragrant fug of a curry house, a bastion against normalcy on Brick Lane. On this evening, the aroma of turmeric and cumin weaved through the cracks around the doorframe, a familiar embrace that Rory inhaled as she fumbled with the three deadbolts securing the front door. The last lock clicked with a reluctant clunk, and she pushed the door open with her shoulder, stepping into the comforting chaos of Eva's realm, where books were piled like ancient sentinels under the soft glow of dimly lit table lamps. She expected the usual greeting — Ptolemy's tentative meow, the warmth inside overwhelming the bitterness of the outside chill, an ever-present disarray of notes and scrolls threatening to topple from every corner — but wasn’t prepared for the additional presence occupying the small living room. Lucien Moreau stood by the window, an ambiguous silhouette against the fading glow of dusk. He turned with a fluid grace that belied the dangerous edge of presence, his heterochromatic gaze catching the weak light — one eye amber like late afternoon sunshine, the other a deep, fathomless black. Rory's heart skipped in her chest, an erratic rhythm out of sync with the static hum of the flat above. Lucien exuded an elegance that was all sharp angles and keen intelligence. His tailored charcoal suit didn't have a single crease, and the ivory handle of his cane glinted at his side, both accessory and instrument masked by opulence and danger. She couldn't tell if it was the amber shade that warmed her or the black that left a taste of peril; their last meeting hadn't been under the best of circumstances, yet here he was again, an unsummoned phantom made flesh. "Rory," he greeted, his voice smooth with an accent that wrapped around her name like a velvet glove. "Lucien." Her voice was steadier than she felt, though inside, questions and emotions roiled and collided like unruly spirits. She nudged the door closed behind her with an absent kick and dropped her keys onto a precarious stack of papers. "It's good to see you," he said, and a smile tugged at the corners of his mouth, softening the sharp edges of his face. "You too," she lied because it was easier than admitting that his presence was both a comfort and a complication she hadn't accounted for tonight. "You seem surprised," Lucien noted, moving from the window to the only cleared patch of floor not conquered by Eva's world of words and ink. "I am," Rory admitted, folding her arms and leaning against the door firmly kissed shut by her actions, as if its solidity could anchor her emotions. "Eva didn't mention you were in town." "I only arrived this morning," he said, and she caught the subtle play of tension across his shoulders, like the shifting of a predator sizing up a new territory. "Our old friend needed updates," he added, his cane tapping the floor softly, punctuating his words. She felt a tightness around the mention of Eva, a tether between worlds past and present. Eva had always been the common thread, the mediator between Rory's storm and Lucien's calm. But this evening, Eva was conspicuously absent, leaving Rory and Lucien to navigate the turbulence of their unsaid translations. "How's business?" she asked, attempting neutrality, attempting — perhaps — to mend the frays of earlier encounters. He tilted his head, a wry smile barely filling the space between his sharp features. "Complicated as ever. London's supernatural underbelly doesn't rest, even for a moment." "Nor do you, apparently," she teased, moderating her tone to something that floated between jest and honesty. Her fingers absently brushed against the crescent scar on her wrist, an old habit that gave her pause. Lucien glanced at her hand, then met her eyes with an intensity that curled something inside her, taut like a wire string. "Life's a tangled web; I merely keep pace." He turned slightly, his gaze shifting away as if to inspect the artifacts of Eva's scholarly chaos. "Your deliveries must have stories of their own." "Stories aren't lacking," she said, playing at flippancy. "Mostly just running from one end of the city to the other. Dodging traffic and questions." His laughter surprised them both, a short bark that softened to an affectionate chuckle. "Still the quick thinker, as ever. I'd expect no less from you, Rory." They seemed to pause then, letting a quiet settle and expand like a third presence in the small flat, beckoning or repelling — Rory couldn’t decide which. Ptolemy wandered through the shadows, his tabby form a silent backdrop as he brushed against Rory's legs, claiming her as a part of his domain with an obliging purr. Lucien’s attention shifted to Ptolemy before drifting back to her, his heterochromatic gaze an invitation. “I’ve missed seeing you,” he said suddenly, his candor a stark ripple against the coziness of Eva’s sanctuary. She blinked, words caught on the edge of her tongue refusing to surface. They had parted on terms stained by deeper currents, and the waters they'd traversed since then were nothing if not muddied by time and circumstances. Yet here he stood, unaffected by the wear of their absence, offering something she couldn’t quite decipher. “Did you?” she asked, the honesty in the statement daring her own bitter uncertainties to speak. His nod was a small concession, yet the significance was monumental against the backdrop of what they’d once shared — potential and disruption wrapped in messy humanity and the otherworldly. “I did.” Rory’s resolve softened marginally, the tension in her arms easing only slightly. “And have you other reasons for showing up here unannounced?” Another step closer and she could see his eyes more clearly, see the betrayal of soft lines at the corners that hadn't been there before. “I wanted to see you,” he said again, the words holding the weight of various truths. “Perhaps talk, if you're willing?” The potential of more spoke in the spaces between them, bridged by memories they'd striven to uphold or shake loose. Silence, or perhaps something akin to quiet understanding, hovered like a promise wrapped in uncertainty. “I suppose it couldn’t hurt,” she said, offering him a wry smile. Lucien inclined his head, gratitude textured within every shift of his expression, gestures threading together history and present. “Tea?” he suggested, inclining his head towards the perpetually full kettle of Eva’s kitchenlike nook, its steam an echo of domesticity. “Why not,” she mused, stepping past him towards the haven of mugs and mismatched teaspoons, each step towards the small kitchen revealing a familiarity in the unfamiliar, in Lucien’s presence and perhaps between them. A quiet kind of exploration began, the brewing tea a backdrop to a conversation both new and belated. Rory heard the subtle creak of wood as Lucien settled at the small corner table, the air between them stretching less precariously, something meaningful growing where only emptiness had existed before. Maybe the old folds of their connection could hold firm, re-tethered with each word, rebuilt upon a foundation that once held ground; only time, despite its slippery nature, would tell.