Run: 2026-02-17-01KHMQH67QWT7N1N4XWYVW2998

The insistent rap on her door jolted Aurora from a deep dive into a fourteenth-century grimoire detailing the precise incantations for warding off infernal pests. It was late, well past the hour she’d normally expect visitors, especially at Eva’s cramped flat above the fragrant curry house. Ptolemy, Eva’s perpetually unimpressed tabby, didn't even stir from his sprawl on a pile of dusty maps. Three deadbolts secured the door, a testament to Eva’s paranoia, or perhaps her prudence, in this part of East London. Aurora wrestled them open, the metallic clicks echoing in the small space, and pulled the door inward. Lucie Moreau filled the frame. He hadn’t changed, not really. His platinum blond hair was as slicked-back as ever, catching the dim glow from the streetlamps below and the flickering neon sign of the curry house. He wore one of his endless charcoal suits, impossibly sharp, and leaned on his ivory-handled cane as if it were an extension of his very being. But it was his eyes that snagged Aurora’s attention, the unsettling heterochromia – one a warm, molten amber, the other a stark, almost fathomless black. They scanned her, then the overflowing bookshelves, the scrolls spilling from open satchels, the general glorious chaos that was Eva’s domain. Aurora’s stomach gave a nervous lurch. “Lucien.” The name felt foreign on her tongue, a ghost from a life she’d carefully packed away. A flicker of something unreadable – surprise? amusement? – crossed his face, softening the sharp angles of his jaw. “Aurora,” he replied, his voice a low timbre, tinged with the faint, melodic lilt of his French origins. “Or should I say, Malphora?” The alias, unused for years, was a punch to the gut. It belonged to a version of herself she desperately tried to forget, a reckless, desperate girl who had courted danger with a terrifying naivete. “That’s not my name,” she said, her voice firmer than she felt. She clutched the worn edges of the grimoire. God, out of all the things she could have been caught reading, it had to be that one. Lucien’s lips curved into a slow, knowing smile. “Isn’t it? I recall a certain… intensity about you when you were claiming it.” He gestured with his cane. “Eva isn’t home, I presume?” The question hung in the air, heavy with unspoken implications. Eva was away at a conference, a fact Aurora had deliberately not shared with anyone. She’d left London for a few weeks, seeking solace and quiet in her childhood home, only to be drawn back by a desperate plea from her flatmate, Silas. Now, here she was, forced to play gatekeeper for a man who represented everything she’d run from. “No,” Aurora said, her jaw tightening. “She’s not. What are you doing here, Lucien?” He pushed himself away from the doorframe, stepping inside. He moved with a liquid grace that belied the slight lean on his cane, his presence immediately making the already-cramped flat feel even smaller. The air, thick with the scent of old paper and stale tea, now carried a subtle, almost imperceptible aroma of something darker, something like expensive cologne mixed with brimstone. “I’m looking for something,” he said, his amber eye meeting hers. The black eye seemed to absorb the dim light, holding secrets. “Something Eva might have. And it seems,” he glanced around again, his gaze lingering on a precarious stack of well-worn leather-bound books, “you are here to keep an eye on it for her.” “I’m not keeping an eye on anything,” Aurora retorted, stepping back, bumping into a teetering tower of manuscripts. She steadied it with a trembling hand. Her crescent scar pulsed on her left wrist, a phantom itch. “I’m just… here. Passing through.” Lucien’s smile widened, though it didn't reach his eyes. “Passing through London, Aurora? From where? Cardiff?” He traced the rim of a dusty tome with a gloved fingertip. “You’ve always been rather adept at disappearing. And reappearing. Though usually, your reappearances are heralded by a rather unpleasant amount of chaos.” The jab landed, sharp and precise. He knew about Evan. He knew about her reasons for leaving, the shame and fear that had driven her to Eva’s doorstep all those years ago. He knew more than she’d ever wanted him to know. “And you’ve always been adept at knowing things you shouldn’t,” she countered, attempting to regain some semblance of control. “What exactly are you looking for, Lucien? And why would Eva have it?” He finally turned his full attention to her, leaning forward slightly. The shadows played across his angular face, making his features seem both more handsome and more dangerous. “A particular artifact. Small, unassuming, but of considerable interest to… certain parties. Parties who might be willing to pay handsomely for its return. Or, perhaps,” his gaze dropped to her mouth, then travelled back up to her eyes, “recompense for other services rendered.” Aurora swallowed, her throat suddenly dry. The air between them crackled, not with infernal energy, but with something far more potent, far more familiar. It was the charged silence that had always existed between them, a silent acknowledgement of the undeniable pull, the shared danger, the regret. She remembered the night she’d fled London, the frantic call from Eva, the way she’d packed her meagre belongings in a blur of panic. He’d found her then, too. In a grimy Tube station, amidst the rush of departing commuters, he’d simply appeared, leaning against a pillar, his amber eye glinting in the harsh fluorescent light. He’d offered her a way out, a solution, a deal. She’d refused, of course, or perhaps she’d simply been too terrified to accept. She’d fled to Silas’s building, seeking anonymity, and found herself living above a bar, delivering food for a restaurant that served more than just noodles. “I don’t know anything about an artifact,” she said, gripping the grimoire tighter. She needed a weapon, or at least an excuse to leave. “And I’m not looking for recompense for anything.” Lucien took another step closer, his shadow engulfing her. He smelled of rain on stone and something else, something wild and ancient. “Are you quite sure, Aurora? Because the last time I saw you, you were quite eager for a certain kind of recompense. For a certain kind of pain.” Her breath hitched. He was so good at peeling back the layers, at finding the raw, exposed nerves. She forced herself to meet his gaze, to project a confidence she didn't feel. “That was a long time ago, Lucien. People change.” “Do they?” He reached into his breast pocket and withdrew a slim, silver case. He opened it, revealing a single cigarette. He didn’t light it, just held it between his thumb and forefinger, his heterochromatic eyes fixed on her. “Or do they simply become better at pretending not to be who they truly are?” She wouldn’t let him break her. Not again. “Who I truly am,” she said, her voice steady, “is someone who doesn’t owe you anything. And certainly doesn’t have any interest in what you’re looking for.” She began to close the door, her movement deliberate and final. Lucien didn’t move. He simply watched her, his expression unreadable. As the heavy oak began to swing inward, obscuring his face, he spoke, his voice a low murmur that somehow carried to her ears. “Perhaps not. But I suspect you might be interested in what I’m willing to pay. Especially if it involves getting you out of that rather… *domesticated* existence.” The door clicked shut, leaving Aurora standing in the sudden, suffocating silence. Ptolemy, disturbed by the brief intrusion, stretched and yawned, oblivious to the tempest that had just brushed past. Aurora leaned her forehead against the cool wood, her heart hammering a frantic rhythm against her ribs. Outside, the city hummed, indifferent to the encounter. He knew she wasn’t a delivery girl anymore, not entirely. He knew she was still entangled in the shadows, just on a different corner of this sprawling, magic-infused metropolis. And he knew, with a chilling certainty, that he would find her again.