Run: 2026-02-17-01KHMQEYM6D00J9E9XACBAZP5J

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—always sharp. "You look like hell," she said, stepping aside without waiting for an answer. Rory exhaled, the weight of the last forty-eight hours pressing down on her shoulders. "Thanks. Can I come in?" Eva didn’t answer, just turned and padded back into the flat, leaving the door ajar. Rory stepped inside, the familiar scent of old books and incense wrapping around her like a ghost. The place was exactly as she remembered—cluttered, lived-in, the kind of space that felt like a hug if you knew where to look. Ptolemy, Eva’s tabby, slinked out from behind a stack of books and wound himself around Rory’s ankles, purring. "Tea?" Eva called from the kitchenette, already filling the kettle. "Please." Rory shut the door behind her, the three deadbolts clicking into place one by one. She leaned against the wall, watching Eva move—efficient, precise, the way she always was when she was avoiding something. "You didn’t answer my texts." Eva didn’t turn around. "I was busy." "Busy ignoring me." The kettle hissed as Eva set it on the stove. "What do you want, Rory?" Rory pushed off the wall, stepping into the kitchen. The space was too small, too intimate, the air thick with things unsaid. "I need your help." Eva finally looked at her, arms crossed. "With what?" Rory hesitated. She hadn’t planned on saying it like this—hadn’t planned on saying it at all, really. But the words tumbled out before she could stop them. "Lucien’s in trouble." Eva’s expression didn’t change, but her fingers tightened around her arms. "And?" "And I think it’s my fault." The kettle whistled, sharp and insistent. Eva turned off the burner, the silence between them stretching thin. "You’re not making sense." Rory dragged a hand through her hair, the strands slipping between her fingers. "I ran into him at the Golden Empress. He was… off. Not himself. And then he just *left*, like something was wrong. I tried to follow, but—" She cut herself off, shaking her head. "I don’t know. I just have a bad feeling." Eva poured the boiling water into two chipped mugs, the steam curling between them. "You always have bad feelings when it comes to him." Rory flinched. "That’s not fair." "Isn’t it?" Eva slid a mug across the counter, the tea dark and bitter-smelling. "You’ve been running from him for months, Rory. And now you’re here, asking *me* for help?" Rory wrapped her hands around the mug, the heat seeping into her palms. "I didn’t know who else to go to." Eva’s laugh was sharp. "Bullshit. You could’ve gone to Silas. Or Yu-Fei. Or any of the other people you’ve been leaning on since you got to London." She leaned against the counter, mirroring Rory’s stance. "But you came here. Why?" Rory looked down at the tea, the surface rippling with her unsteady breath. "Because you’re the only one who knows what he is." Eva went still. The flat seemed to hold its breath. Rory lifted her gaze. "You know about the demons. The half-breeds. The *real* London." Eva’s jaw tightened. "And you think that gives you the right to drag me into this?" "I’m not dragging you into anything," Rory said, her voice low. "I’m asking for your help. Like you asked for mine, back in Cardiff." The words hung between them, heavy with memory. Eva’s eyes flickered—just for a second—before she turned away, busying herself with the sugar bowl. "That was different." "No, it wasn’t." Rory set the mug down, the clink of ceramic too loud in the small space. "You needed me then. And I’m asking you now." Eva didn’t answer. She just stood there, her back rigid, her fingers gripping the edge of the counter like it was the only thing keeping her grounded. Rory watched her, the silence between them thick with everything they’d never said. Then, quietly, Eva spoke. "What do you need?" Rory exhaled, relief and something sharper twisting in her chest. "I need to find him. Before whatever’s happening to him gets worse." Eva turned, her dark eyes searching Rory’s face. "And if it’s already too late?" Rory met her gaze, unflinching. "Then I need to know why." Eva studied her for a long moment, then nodded, just once. "Fine. But we do this my way." Rory almost laughed. "When have we ever done it any other way?" Eva didn’t smile. She just reached for her coat, slung over the back of a chair, and tossed Rory a set of keys. "Lock up. And don’t touch my notes." Rory caught the keys, the metal warm from Eva’s grip. "Where are we going?" Eva paused at the door, her hand on the deadbolts. "Somewhere you’re not going to like." --- The alley behind the old theater smelled like damp stone and something older, something that made the hairs on Rory’s arms stand on end. Eva moved ahead of her, her boots silent on the cobblestones, her posture tense. Rory followed, her fingers brushing the small crescent scar on her left wrist—a habit when she was nervous. "You’re sure this is the place?" Rory kept her voice low, though the alley was empty. Eva didn’t look back. "Positive." Rory swallowed. "And you’re sure *he*’s here?" Eva stopped in front of a rusted door, its surface etched with symbols Rory didn’t recognize. "No. But this is where the trail leads." Rory exhaled, her breath fogging in the cold air. "Great." Eva turned the handle, the door groaning as it swung open. The darkness beyond was absolute, swallowing the dim light from the alley. Rory hesitated, her pulse quickening. Eva glanced at her, one eyebrow raised. "You coming?" Rory stepped forward, her shoulder brushing Eva’s as she passed. The contact was brief, but it sent a jolt through her—familiar, electric. She ignored it, focusing on the darkness ahead. The door shut behind them with a final *click*. --- The air inside was thick, stale, like the inside of an old book left too long in the sun. Rory’s eyes adjusted slowly, picking out the shapes of crates, broken furniture, the skeletal remains of a chandelier hanging crooked from the ceiling. The theater had been gutted, its grandeur reduced to rotting wood and peeling wallpaper. Eva moved ahead, her steps sure, like she’d been here before. Rory followed, her boots scuffing against the floorboards. "You’ve been here." Eva didn’t answer. Rory stopped, her gaze snagging on something half-buried under a pile of debris—a cane. Ivory-handled. Familiar. Her stomach dropped. "Eva." Eva turned, following Rory’s line of sight. Her expression darkened. "Shit." Rory crouched, brushing aside the debris. The cane was cold under her fingers, the blade still sheathed. She stood, gripping it like a lifeline. "He was here." Eva didn’t answer. She was already moving, her steps quicker now, her eyes scanning the shadows. Rory followed, her grip tightening on the cane. Then she saw it. A figure slumped against the far wall, his platinum blond hair dull in the dim light, his tailored suit torn at the shoulder. Lucien. Rory’s breath caught. "Lucien." He didn’t move. Eva was already there, crouching beside him, her fingers pressing against his neck. "He’s alive. Barely." Rory dropped to her knees beside them, her heart hammering. Lucien’s skin was too pale, his heterochromatic eyes—one amber, one black—half-lidded and unfocused. His breath came in shallow gasps, his lips parted like he was trying to speak. "Lucien," Rory said, her voice breaking. "Can you hear me?" His gaze flickered to hers, just for a second, before his eyelids fluttered shut. Eva cursed under her breath. "We need to get him out of here. Now." Rory didn’t argue. She slid an arm under Lucien’s shoulders, her muscles straining as she helped Eva lift him. He was heavier than he looked, his body limp between them. Eva grunted, adjusting her grip. "You take his legs." Rory nodded, shifting her hold. Together, they carried him toward the door, the weight of him pressing down on them like a physical force. Lucien’s head lolled against Rory’s shoulder, his breath warm against her neck. "Rory," he murmured, his voice barely a whisper. She swallowed hard. "I’ve got you." Eva kicked the door open, the night air rushing in. They stumbled out into the alley, the cold a sharp contrast to the stifling heat of the theater. Rory’s arms ached, her breath coming in ragged gasps, but she didn’t stop. Eva led the way, her steps quick and sure, her grip on Lucien unyielding. Rory followed, her focus narrowed to the man between them, to the way his fingers twitched against her arm, to the faint, uneven rhythm of his breath. They didn’t speak. There was nothing to say. Not yet.