Run: 2026-02-17-01KHMQGARPGC1AF629BBGY64AS

The door swung open with a sharp *click* of the deadbolts, and there he stood—platinum hair slicked back, charcoal suit immaculate despite the damp London evening, one amber eye catching the dim hallway light while the other remained a void. Lucien Moreau leaned against the doorframe, cane tapping idly against the scuffed linoleum, as if he hadn’t just materialized out of thin air after six months of silence. Rory’s fingers tightened around the edge of the door. The scent of rain and something darker—smoke and spice, like burnt cinnamon—drifted in with him. She should have slammed the door. Should have told him to piss off. But the words stuck in her throat, tangled up in the memory of his voice, low and rough, whispering her name in the dark. “Laila,” he said, and the sound of it—her old alias, the one she’d shed like a second skin—sent a jolt through her. She exhaled through her nose, sharp and controlled. “It’s Rory. And you’re not welcome here.” Lucien’s mouth quirked, just slightly, like he was amused by the lie. “You always were terrible at pretending.” Behind her, Ptolemy the tabby let out a low, suspicious *mrrow* from his perch on the armchair, tail flicking. The flat was a mess—books stacked in precarious towers, half-empty mugs of cold tea, the faint hum of the radiator struggling against the autumn chill. She hadn’t expected company. Certainly not *him*. “What do you want, Lucien?” She crossed her arms, the crescent scar on her wrist catching the light as she shifted. A reminder. A warning. He pushed off the doorframe, stepping inside before she could protest, the ivory handle of his cane glinting as he moved. The blade hidden inside was a secret between them, one of many. “Can’t a man visit an old friend?” “Friends don’t disappear for half a year.” She didn’t step back, even as he invaded her space, the heat of him too familiar, too dangerous. “Friends don’t leave without a word.” Lucien’s heterochromatic gaze flicked over her face, lingering on the tight set of her jaw, the way her fingers dug into her own arms. “You knew where to find me.” “And you knew I wouldn’t.” The words came out sharper than she intended, raw at the edges. She turned away, stalking toward the kitchenette, the clatter of her boots against the floorboards too loud in the sudden silence. “Tea?” “Please.” She filled the kettle with more force than necessary, the water sloshing against the sides. The flat was too small for this. Too small for the way her pulse jumped when he was near, for the way her skin remembered the press of his hands, the weight of his body against hers. She set two chipped mugs on the counter, the clink of ceramic the only sound between them. Lucien leaned against the counter, watching her. “You’ve been busy.” “Delivery shifts at the Golden Empress don’t exactly leave time for social calls.” She didn’t look at him, focusing instead on the steam curling from the kettle’s spout. “But I’m sure you already knew that.” “Yu-Fei sends her regards.” Rory’s hands stilled. “You’ve been talking to *her*?” “She’s a useful contact.” His voice was smooth, unreadable. “Unlike some people.” She whirled on him, the kettle forgotten. “Oh, *fuck* you, Lucien. You don’t get to waltz in here after six months and act like I’m the one who owes you explanations.” His expression didn’t change, but something flickered in his black eye, a shadow passing over the void. “You’re right.” The admission startled her into silence. The kettle whistled, shrill and insistent, and she turned back to it, pouring the water with hands that weren’t quite steady. The scent of Earl Grey filled the air, too domestic, too normal for the storm brewing between them. Lucien reached for the mug she slid toward him, their fingers brushing. A spark. A memory. His touch had always been like that—electric, dangerous. She pulled her hand back like she’d been burned. “Why are you here?” she asked again, quieter this time. He took a slow sip of tea, watching her over the rim of the mug. “I need your help.” Rory let out a humorless laugh. “Of course you do.” “It’s not like that.” “Then what’s it like, Lucien?” She set her own mug down with a sharp *clink*. “Because last I checked, you made it *very* clear you didn’t need me. Or anyone.” His jaw tightened. “Things have changed.” “People don’t change.” “No?” His voice dropped, rougher now. “Then why did you?” The question hit like a punch to the gut. She turned away, gripping the edge of the counter until her knuckles ached. “You don’t get to ask me that.” “Why not?” He set his mug down, the sound too loud in the sudden stillness. “You left. You *ran*. And you didn’t look back.” “I had my reasons.” “And I didn’t get to hear them.” She whirled on him, her voice rising. “Because you *wouldn’t listen*! You were too busy playing the untouchable fixer, too busy pretending you didn’t give a damn about anything but your precious deals and your *secrets*!” Lucien’s eyes flashed, amber and black, and for a second, she saw the demon in him—the one he kept leashed, the one that made her blood run hot and her pulse stutter. “And you were too busy lying to yourself.” The words hung between them, heavy and suffocating. Rory’s chest heaved, her breath coming too fast. She wanted to scream. She wanted to hit him. She wanted to kiss him, to erase the last six months with the press of her mouth against his, to pretend none of it had ever happened. But she didn’t. Instead, she exhaled, slow and controlled, and met his gaze. “What do you need, Lucien?” He studied her for a long moment, as if weighing his words. Then, quietly: “There’s a job. A dangerous one. And I can’t do it without you.” Rory’s laugh was bitter. “You’ve managed just fine without me so far.” “This is different.” He stepped closer, close enough that she could see the flecks of gold in his amber eye, close enough that she could feel the heat of him, the pull of him. “It’s *you*, Laila. It’s always been you.” The words wrapped around her, familiar and foreign all at once. She should have pushed him away. Should have told him to leave, to never come back. But she didn’t. Because some wounds didn’t heal. Some fires didn’t burn out. And some lies—no matter how carefully crafted—couldn’t stand against the truth.