Run: 2026-02-17-01KHMQEKK0NCFPSW9Q3G5YX8TF

The door swung open before Rory could even knock a second time, the chain still rattling against the frame. Eva stood there, barefoot in an oversized sweater, her dark curls tangled from sleep, but her eyes were sharp—already assessing, already *knowing*. "You look like hell," she said, stepping aside without waiting for an answer. Rory exhaled, the weight of the past three days pressing down on her shoulders. "Yeah, well. You try hauling takeout through a monsoon while some bloke in a trench coat keeps asking if you’ve seen his ‘lost’ soul." Eva’s lips twitched, but she didn’t laugh. She never did when it came to the supernatural. "Get in before Ptolemy decides you’re a threat." The flat smelled like chamomile tea and old paper, the air thick with the scent of ink and something faintly metallic—probably Eva’s latest experiment gone wrong. Rory stepped inside, her boots leaving damp prints on the worn hardwood. Ptolemy, the tabby, eyed her from his perch on a stack of books before flicking his tail and sauntering off, unimpressed. Eva shut the door, sliding all three deadbolts into place with practiced ease. "You didn’t call." "I didn’t have time." Rory shrugged off her soaked jacket, tossing it over the back of a chair already buried under a pile of scrolls. "And I didn’t think you’d answer if I did." Eva didn’t deny it. She just crossed her arms, leaning against the kitchen counter. "So. What’s the emergency?" Rory hesitated. The truth was a tangle of half-formed thoughts, none of them easy to untangle. She’d come here because Eva was the only person who might understand, who might *help*—but standing in this flat, surrounded by the ghosts of their shared past, she wasn’t sure she could say it out loud. Then the knock came. Three sharp raps, deliberate. Not the hesitant tap of a lost delivery driver, not the impatient pound of a neighbor. Rory’s stomach dropped. Eva’s eyes narrowed. "You expecting someone?" "No." Rory’s fingers twitched toward the knife she kept strapped to her ankle, but she didn’t reach for it. Not yet. The knock came again, louder this time. A voice, smooth and accented, called through the door. *"Aurora. I know you’re in there."* Eva’s eyebrows shot up. "Aurora?" Rory’s breath hitched. *Lucien.* She hadn’t seen him in six months. Not since that night in the alley behind Silas’ bar, when he’d pressed her against the brick wall and told her to run—*run, before it’s too late*—and then vanished into the London fog like he’d never been there at all. Eva was already moving, her hand closing around the doorknob. "You want me to get rid of him?" Rory swallowed. "No. Let him in." The door swung open, and there he was. Lucien Moreau stood on the threshold like a man who owned the night, his platinum hair slicked back, his charcoal suit immaculate despite the rain. His heterochromatic eyes—one amber, one black—locked onto Rory with an intensity that made her skin prickle. He held an ivory-handled cane in one gloved hand, the other tucked casually into his pocket, as if he hadn’t just tracked her down like prey. "Bonsoir, *chérie*," he murmured, his voice like honeyed smoke. "Miss me?" Eva let out a low whistle. "Well. This just got interesting." Rory ignored her. "What do you want, Lucien?" He stepped inside without waiting for an invitation, his gaze sweeping over the flat with the precision of a man who missed nothing. "Straight to business. I see some things never change." His lips curved, but there was no warmth in it. "I need your help." Eva snorted. "Yeah, because that’s not ominous at all." Lucien’s black eye flicked toward her, assessing. "And you are?" "Eva," Rory said quickly, before Eva could answer with something sharper. "She’s—" "A friend," Eva finished, her tone dry. "The kind who keeps a shotgun under her bed and isn’t afraid to use it." Lucien’s smile widened, just a fraction. "How charming." Rory exhaled through her nose. "Lucien. *Focus.*" He turned back to her, all pretense of amusement gone. "There’s a job. A *delicate* job. One that requires your particular… skills." Rory crossed her arms. "I’m not a thief anymore." "No?" His gaze dropped to her wrist, to the crescent-shaped scar peeking out from beneath her sleeve. "Funny. I seem to recall you being quite good at it." She stiffened. That scar was a relic of a life she’d left behind—of a night in Marseille when she’d been young and reckless and stupid enough to think she could outrun the consequences. Lucien had been there. He’d *seen* her bleed. Eva’s voice cut through the tension. "What kind of job?" Lucien’s attention shifted to her, and Rory could practically see the calculations behind his eyes. "The kind that pays well. And the kind that, if left unchecked, could unravel the very fabric of this city’s supernatural underworld." Rory scoffed. "Dramatic." "Accurate," he corrected. "There’s an artifact. A *dangerous* one. And it’s currently in the hands of someone who shouldn’t have it." Eva’s fingers twitched, like she was itching to reach for a pen and start taking notes. "What artifact?" Lucien’s gaze flicked back to Rory. "One that belongs to *me*." Silence. Rory’s pulse kicked up. She knew that look. Knew the way his voice dropped when he was holding back. "You’re not telling us everything." "Would you prefer I lie?" He tilted his head, the picture of innocence. "I thought you’d appreciate the honesty." Eva stepped forward, her bare feet silent on the floor. "Cut the crap, *Frenchman*. What’s the artifact?" Lucien’s lips parted— —and then the lights flickered. Not the usual dimming of an overloaded circuit, but a violent, erratic pulse, like something was *wrong* with the electricity itself. The air hummed, thick and heavy, and the hairs on Rory’s arms stood on end. Eva’s breath hitched. "That’s not normal." Lucien’s grip tightened on his cane. "No. It’s not." The lights died. For a heartbeat, the flat was plunged into darkness, the only sound the ragged edge of Rory’s breathing. Then— A *crack*. Not thunder. Not a gunshot. Something *older*, something that vibrated in the bones. And then the screaming started. Not from inside the flat. From *outside*. Distant, but growing louder, a chorus of voices twisted in terror. Rory’s blood turned to ice. Lucien moved before she could react, his cane flashing as he flicked a hidden switch. The blade slid free with a *shink*, gleaming in the sudden glow of Eva’s emergency lantern. "We’re out of time." Eva was already grabbing her coat, her movements sharp, efficient. "What the hell is happening?" Lucien’s voice was grim. "The artifact. It’s been activated." Rory’s stomach twisted. "Activated?" His heterochromatic eyes met hers, and for the first time, she saw something like fear in them. "It’s a key, *chérie*. And someone just opened the door."