Run: 2026-02-17-01KHMQEKYX9JVB4391HSCQ7JX6

The third deadbolt stuck, and Rory cursed under her breath as she wrestled with it. Ptolemy wound between her ankles, meowing his displeasure at the delay in his dinner. She finally shoved the bolt home and yanked the door open, a retort about proper notice dying on her lips. Lucien Moreau stood in the hallway, water dripping from the shoulders of his charcoal suit, his platinum hair plastered to his forehead in a way she'd never seen it. He looked like something that had crawled out of the Thames—not that she was about to say so. "What do you want?" The words came out sharper than she'd intended, but she didn't correct them. He lifted his gaze to meet hers, and she caught that familiar flash of mismatched color—one amber eye, one black. A reminder of what he was. What she'd tried very hard not to think about for the past eleven weeks and four days. Not that she was counting. "May I come in?" "No." Ptolemy chose that moment to slip past her ankles and wind affectionately around Lucien's mud-splattered shoes. Traitor. "Your cat seems to disagree with your hospitality." "He's not my cat. He's Eva's." Rory tightened her grip on the door. "And she's not here." "I know." Lucien's voice was low, measured. "I came to see you." The rain had soaked through his shirt, rendering the fabric nearly transparent where it clung to his chest. She could see the outline of old scars beneath it—marks she'd traced with her fingers in another life, it seemed. The ivory handle of his cane gleamed in the fluorescent hallway light. "Well, you've seen me. You can go now." "We need to talk." "We really don't." She started to close the door, but his hand came up—not to stop her, just a gesture, palm out, pleading. "Please." The word hit her like a punch to the sternum. In all the time she'd known him, Lucien Moreau had never said please. Not once. He was still standing there, getting soaked by the rain that blew in through the hallway's broken window, and something in her chest cracked despite her best efforts. She stepped aside. He entered the flat with the careful grace she remembered, shaking water from his sleeves as he surveyed the chaos of books and papers that covered every surface. Ptolemy followed at his heels, tail high, apparently having decided Lucien was his new best friend. "You're living here now?" He asked it mildly, but she heard the real question underneath. "Temporarily. There was a situation at the bar." She didn't elaborate. He didn't deserve her explanations. "What do you want, Lucien?" He turned to face her, and she saw the exhaustion carved into his features. The fine lines at the corners of his eyes. The tension in his jaw. He looked like he hadn't slept in days, and despite everything, she felt a traitorous pull of concern. "There's been a complication. With the Cortez situation." "I told you I was done." She crossed her arms over her chest. "I told you I wanted nothing more to do with your world." "It's not that simple." "It is, actually. You say 'goodbye, Aurora,' and then you leave. That's how it works." She heard the bitterness in her own voice and hated it. "That's how it's worked for eleven weeks. You don't get to just show up at my friend's flat at—" She glanced at the clock on Eva's crowded bookshelf. "—ten o'clock at night and expect me to help you." He was quiet for a long moment, his strange eyes fixed on some point past her shoulder. Then he reached into his jacket and withdrew a small velvet pouch, setting it on the nearest stack of books. "What is that?" "Payment. For a job you haven't agreed to yet." "I'm not taking your money." "It's not money." When she didn't move, he gestured to the pouch. "Open it." She shouldn't have. She should have thrown him out, deadbolts and all. Instead, she crossed to the stack of books and picked up the pouch. It was heavier than she expected. She loosened the drawstring and tipped the contents into her palm. A silver ring fell out, delicate and old, etched with symbols she didn't recognize. But she recognized the inscription on the inside, worn nearly smooth by time. She remembered tracing it with her thumb while he slept beside her, memorizing the words in a language she didn't speak. "Where did you get this?" Her voice came out hoarse. "Does it matter?" "It was my mother's." She closed her fingers around the ring, feeling the metal warm against her skin. "It was stolen. Years ago. How did you—" "I have my ways." He was watching her carefully, and she realized he'd known exactly what this ring meant. He'd known what it would cost him to find it. "Consider it an apology. For whatever it's worth." "It's not worth anything." But her voice wavered, and she hated herself for it. "You don't get to buy your way back into my good graces with family heirlooms." "I'm not trying to." He shifted his weight, and she heard the soft tap of his cane against the floorboards. "I'm trying to tell you that you were right. About the Cortez job. About all of it. You said I would get someone killed, and you were right." The air in the flat seemed to change, growing heavier. Ptolemy jumped onto the windowsill and curled into a ball, apparently deciding the human drama was beneath his notice. "Who?" "A girl. Sixteen years old. She was working for Cortez—small jobs, running messages, nothing dangerous. Or so we thought." His voice was flat, controlled, but she could hear the fracture underneath. "She got caught in the crossfire. The job I told you was perfectly safe." Rory didn't say anything. She stood there, the ring pressed into her palm, and let the silence stretch between them. "I shouldn't have let you walk away," he continued. "I should have told you the truth about the risks. I should have trusted you." "Yes," she said quietly. "You should have." "I'm telling you now because there's still time to help the others. The ones Cortez is still using." He met her gaze directly, and she saw something raw in his expression—something he usually kept hidden beneath all that polished charm. "I'm not here to ask you to forgive me. I'm here to ask you to help me stop him. Because you're the only person I know who can do what needs to be done, and I will not have more blood on my hands because I was too proud to ask." The rain had slowed outside, drops pattering against the window in an uneven rhythm. Eva's flat smelled like old paper and the curry house below, familiar and safe in a way that nowhere else had been since she'd left Cardiff. Since she'd left everything behind. "You're a bastard," she said finally. "I know." "You lied to me." "I did." "And you think showing up with my mother's ring is going to fix that?" "No." He shook his head slowly. "I think it's a start." She wanted to stay angry. She wanted to hold onto the hurt, to wrap it around herself and keep him at arm's length. But she looked at him standing there in his ruined suit, water still dripping from his hair, and she remembered the way he'd looked at her that last night—like she was something precious he was afraid to break. That was the problem, wasn't it? He'd tried to protect her by keeping her in the dark, and she'd walked away because she couldn't trust someone who wouldn't trust her in return. "I need to feed the cat," she said, and watched something shift in his expression. Not hope, exactly. But close to it. Ptolemy meowed in agreement, stretching on the windowsill. "He likes you," Rory said, nodding toward the cat. "That's suspicious. He doesn't like anyone." "I have a way with creatures." A faint smile touched his mouth, and she remembered that smile—remembered the way it felt against her skin. "Comes with the territory." "Don't." The word came out sharper than she intended. "Don't do that." "Do what?" "Be charming. Be the version of you that I—" She stopped herself before she could finish the sentence. He didn't push. He just stood there, patient as always, giving her the space to decide. That was the other problem with Lucien Moreau. He never forced her hand. He just waited, steady and certain, until she made her choice. Ptolemy jumped down from the windowsill and padded to his food bowl, looking pointedly at Rory. She moved to the small kitchen area, grateful for the excuse to turn her back on Lucien, and began opening a tin of cat food. "The Cortez job," she said, not turning around. "What exactly do you need me to do?" Behind her, she heard him exhale slowly. "There's a delivery. Tomorrow night. We need someone who can get past the security at the warehouse district without triggering the wards. Someone who knows how to think on their feet." "I'm a delivery driver." "Yes," he agreed. "You are." She scraped the cat food into Ptolemy's bowl, watching him dig in with single-minded focus. The ring was still pressed into her palm, warm and heavy. "If I do this," she said, turning to face him, "we're even. You don't owe me anything, and I don't owe you. And after that, you leave me alone. For good this time." Something flickered across his face—something that looked almost like pain—but he inclined his head in acknowledgment. "Agreed." She nodded once, sharply, and set the ring on the counter beside Ptolemy's bowl. It caught the lamplight, glinting silver against the chipped formica. "All right then," she said. "Tell me everything."