Run: 2026-02-17-01KHMPBYEV2N4MZ0DYYDW4C4B3

Rory fitted the final delivery order—a krab rangoon and sesame chicken combo—into her insulated bag and pulled her black puffer coat tighter around her slender shoulders. The Golden Empress buzzed with activity behind her as she pushed her way through the crowd, Yu-Fei yelling directions to his kitchen staff in Mandarin. Rory escaped into the rainy London evening, her breath escaping in quick, condensed puffs. Brick Lane awaited her, bustling despite the drizzle. The scent of turmeric and cumin mixed with the sharp tang of exhaust fumes, reminding Rory both of home and of a life she wasn’t sure she could ever truly escape. She descended the narrow staircases and made her way to Eva’s flat, canvassing streets lined with neon and shadow. Rory edged towards the aging townhouse that Eva called home. She had been meaning to catch up with Eva and return the half-finished tome on ancient languages she'd borrowed, but not now. Certainly not after the whisper she'd heard at Silas' bar earlier that evening. The three deadbolts clunked and rattled before the door swung open, inviting the cold. Rory trudged up the narrow staircase, each step groaning in protest underfoot, until she reached the top. Rory shook her keychain free from her pocket, slipped the thin key into the lock, and turned the knob. The door creaked open, and she immediately felt a rush of warm air and familiarity. But as the hinges gave way, the room she knew so well was altered—if not by its static furnishings, then by the man standing in the middle of it. “Rory,” came the measured, velvet tone of Lucien Moreau. He was impeccably dressed, as always, in a tailored charcoal suit, his ivory-handled cane leaning casually against the cluttered bookshelf. His heterochromatic gaze—one amber, one black—pinned her as effectively as his languid smile. “What are you doing here, Lucien?” she demanded, voice too sharp and too quick to mask the tremor of her pulse. “Bonsoir to you as well,” he replied, a faint smile touching his lips. “Eva isn’t home. But she told me you might be dropping by.” “She did, did she?” Rory scoffed, closing the door behind her and peeling off her rain-dampened coat. She avoided his eyes, instead focusing on hanging her rangy coat on the already crowded hook. “Yes, quite the intellectual gathering here,” he said, gesturing towards the piles of books and scrolls sprawling across the cramped space. “I hope I’m not intruding.” “Is there ever a time you’re not?” Rory shot back. She had not seen him since that last assignment—an escapade through the demon-infested underground tunnels of King’s Cross—left them both with more scars than success. “Touché.” Lucien’s mouth curved in a way that made Rory’s heart pound faster than she would have liked. He stepped nearer, and she caught a whiff of his cologne—dark, woody, with a hint of something exotic. “Yet, it is good to see you in one piece.” She glanced at him through her lashes. “What do you want?” “I thought you’d appreciate a bit of company,” he replied smoothly, the blade of his cane scraping softly against the floorboards as he leaned on it. “We did leave things unfinished, after all.” Rory’s eyes flickered to the crescent-shaped scar on her wrist, a stark reminder of the last reckless endeavor they had taken on together. “That night—” “We are bound to past entanglements, aren’t we?” Lucien interrupted, his voice dropping to a lower, more intimate register. “But we shouldn’t let that define us.” “It’s not that simple, Lucien. We can’t pretend like nothing happened,” she whispered, memories of close calls and whispered secrets closing in around her. “No?” Lucien drew a step closer, his eyes reflecting both depth and distance. “I find it immensely simple, chérie. We acknowledge. We adapt. We move forward.” Rory’s resolve faltered. There was something magnetic about Lucien that she couldn’t deny—a pull that defied reason or safety. She turned towards the small kitchen, seeking a distraction. “Would you like some tea?” Lucien raised an eyebrow. “Not coffee this time? How uncharacteristically domestic of you, Rory.” “It’s been a long day,” she muttered, pulling out two mismatched mugs and filling the kettle. The mundane task steadied her. “Tea it is.” As the kettle whistled, Lucien surveyed the flat, taking in each detail with the astuteness of someone constantly aware of their surroundings. “Ptolemy seems to approve of me,” he noted, nodding toward the tabby cat curled up on a stack of ancient manuscripts. “Ptolemy approves of anyone who might feed him,” Rory replied, pouring the hot water over the tea bags. She handed Lucien a steaming mug, their fingers briefly touching, sending an electric jolt up her arm. “Merci.” He accepted the mug, his fingers grazing hers longer than necessary. They stood there, an arm’s length apart, each sip of tea an excuse to delay the inevitable conversation. Finally, Lucien took a step towards the small, covered balcony. Rory hesitated before following, the breeze chillier but somehow more liberating. They stood overlooking Brick Lane, the bustle below a stark contrast to the quiet tension between them. “I didn’t come here just to reminisce, Rory,” Lucien began, his voice barely above a whisper. “There’s a disturbance—something on the horizon. I need someone I can trust.” She sighed, knowing where this conversation was heading. “Why me? You have plenty of connections, Lucien. Why drag me back into this?” His eyes softened, and for a moment, the facade slipped. “Because you’re the best person I know for this. And… because I trust you.” Rory looked away, the weight of his words pressing down on her. “You’ve got me for now,” she conceded, “but if this goes south, we’re done.” “Understood,” he replied, relief mingling with the slight curve of his lips. They stood there for a moment longer, the unsaid words cascading around them like the rain on the streets below.