Run: 2026-02-17-01KHMQEPRTCY8YXJ7WPJHH8R7P

The insistent rapping on her door didn't match the rhythm of the midday rain drumming against the windowpanes. Rory paused, one hand on the spine of a brittle, leather-bound volume, the other hovering over a scattered pile of parchment. Ptolemy, her tabby cat, stretched languidly from his perch on a teetering stack of books, his tail twitching with mild annoyance. Another knock, sharper this time. Not Silas, he used his key. Not Yu-Fei, he usually shouted up from the street. She smoothed down the worn fabric of her delivery uniform, a reflex she hadn't quite shed. The flat was a disaster zone, as always. Books spilled from shelves, ancient maps unfurled across the scarred wooden table, and a half-eaten plate of noodles held court in the center. She mentally cursed, wishing for a moment she’d bothered to tidy up. Eva would have. Eva always had her life together, even here, in this chaotic den above a curry house on Brick Lane. Rory reached for the deadbolts, the metal cold beneath her fingertips. Three of them. Eva had always been meticulous about security, a habit Rory had grudgingly adopted. The top bolt slid back with a soft click, then the middle, then the bottom. She hesitated, her heart thudding an unfamiliar, nervous beat against her ribs. Who would be here, unannounced, at this hour? She pulled the door open. The rain had stopped, leaving the air heavy with the smell of wet pavement and exhaust fumes. Standing on her cramped landing, rain glistening on the shoulders of his impeccably tailored charcoal suit, was Lucien Moreau. Her breath hitched. He looked exactly the same, which was, in many ways, the most disorienting part. His platinum blond hair was still slicked back with an impossibly precise sweep, framing a face that was at once sharp and unnervingly beautiful. His heterochromatic eyes, one amber, the other a startling black, met hers, and for a fraction of a second, the world outside her door ceased to exist. Then, the sheer, unadulterated shock of seeing him here, now, hit her with the force of a physical blow. “Lucien,” she managed, the name a dry whisper. It had been months. Months of carefully constructed silence, of deliberate avoidance, of a hollow ache that had gradually, painstakingly, begun to fade. And now, he was here. He offered a faint, almost imperceptible smile, the kind that never quite reached his eyes. “Aurora. Or should I say, Malphora?” The use of her other, secret name sent a fresh wave of unease through her. She hadn’t used it in earnest since… since she’d last seen him. “What are you doing here?” Her voice was sharper now, a defensive edge creeping in. Lucien’s gaze swept over her, a quick, appraising flicker from the worn fabric of her uniform to the small crescent-shaped scar peeking out from the hem of her sleeve. There was a flicker of something in those mismatched eyes – recognition, perhaps, or something more complex she couldn’t quite decipher. "I believe the customary response is, 'Come in, it's…'," he gestured vaguely at the overflowing bookshelves, "…quite the collection." Rory didn't move. The air between them crackled with unspoken history, with a tension that was both familiar and terrifying. She remembered the way he’d looked at her the last time, the carefully chosen words, the impossible chasm that had opened up between them. Hurt, accusation, misunderstanding – all the things she’d tried to bury deep. “It’s not a collection, it’s my work,” she said, her voice tight. “And you’re not invited.” His smile didn't falter, but it didn't soften either. It was a mask, carefully maintained. “Ah, the prickly defense. I remember that. Though, I admit, I was hoping for a slightly warmer reception.” He gestured with his ivory-handled cane, tapping it lightly against the wooden floor. The faint glint of steel within the polished ivory was a subtle reminder of the man he was, the dangers he moved through. “Eva mentioned you were… settled, here.” “Eva says a lot of things,” Rory retorted, her jaw clenching. Eva. That meddling, well-intentioned friend. She should have known Eva wouldn’t be able to resist trying to fix things, to mend fences that Rory was quite content to leave broken. “What did she tell you, exactly?” Lucien stepped forward, his gaze unwavering. He moved with an unnerving stillness, as if the bustling chaos of Brick Lane simply faded into the background when he focused on her. “Only that you’d found… a certain peace. A life of quiet study. Something you clearly haven’t abandoned, despite indulging in the rather… utilitarian profession of a food courier.” Rory bristled. “It pays the bills. And it’s honest work, unlike some people I know.” The dig was low, unfair, she knew, but she couldn't stop herself. The sight of him, so perfectly assembled, so utterly himself, was a trigger for all the old insecurities, all the old resentments. He inclined his head again, acknowledging the barb with an almost polite weariness. “Honesty is a relative commodity in my world, Aurora. As you know better than most.” The words landed like stones. He was right, of course. She knew what he did, the shadowy connections, the intricate dance he performed in London’s supernatural underbelly. She’d been a part of it, for a time. And it had nearly destroyed her. “I don’t ‘do that world’ anymore, Lucien,” she said flatly. “I’ve made sure of it.” “Have you?” His gaze flickered towards the stacks of books, the arcane symbols scrawled on loose pages. “These seem to suggest otherwise. Or are you simply indulging in… academic curiosity?” She stepped away from the door, a silent invitation for him to enter, even as every fiber of her being protested. She couldn't leave him standing there, a ghost from her past blocking her doorway. The flat felt smaller, darker, with his presence filling the air. Ptolemy, sensing the shift in atmosphere, let out a low growl from his usual spot. Lucien stepped inside, his expensive leather shoes making no sound on the worn floorboards. He moved with an effortless grace, his eyes taking in the organized chaos, a sardonic amusement playing on his lips. “Eva’s place was never this… organized. She always did surround herself with a certain kind of… intellectual clutter.” He paused, his gaze returning to Rory. “But this is all you, isn't it?” Rory closed the door, the sound of the final deadbolt sliding home echoing in the sudden silence. It was a symbolic gesture, she knew. She couldn't lock him out, not really. Not when he’d managed to find her, to breach the walls she’d so carefully erected. She leaned against it, her arms crossed, a barrier. “Why are you here, Lucien? Truly. You don’t just show up on people’s doorsteps out of the blue. Especially not people you’ve… left behind.” The last word was spoken with a quiet bitterness that surprised even herself. He turned from his survey of the room, his eyes locking onto hers with an intensity that made her stomach twist. The carefully constructed nonchalance slipped, revealing something raw, something ancient and dangerous beneath. “Because, Aurora,” he said, his voice dropping to a low, resonant timbre that vibrated in the small space, “there’s a problem. A significant problem. And you are, regrettably, the only one I trust to help me solve it.” Rory swallowed, the dryness returning to her throat. His words hung in the air, heavy with implication and a shared history she'd tried so hard to forget. She knew that look in his eyes. It was the look that promised danger, intrigue, and a tangled web from which escape might prove impossible. And a small, treacherous part of her, the part that had always been drawn to his darkness, his power, was irrevocably, terrifyingly, intrigued.