Run: 2026-02-17-01KHMQHQZ7S7BRVT0YW2CF17AR

The deadbolts groaned in sequence, a metallic sigh of resignation. Aurora Carter leaned her forehead against the cool wood of the door, her breath misting the frosted glass. She’d been expecting Eva, a rare, spontaneous visit that always threw her meticulously scheduled life into delightful chaos. But the silhouette framed against the dim hallway light wasn't Eva’s slight, vibrant presence. This was a broader build, a stillness that hummed with a different kind of energy. Her mind raced, cataloging possibilities. A neighbor? No, they usually shouted through the door. The landlord? Unlikely, Silas tended to leave notes. The air thickened, charged with an unfamiliar tension. She stepped back, a cautious curiosity overriding her initial surprise. As she pushed the door open wider, revealing the cramped, book-laden hallway of Eva's flat, the figure moved with an unnerving grace. "Lucien," she breathed, the name a ghost on her lips. It had been years, though the sharp, clean scent of sandalwood and something else, something faintly metallic and dangerous, triggered an immediate, unwelcome flood of memories. He stood there, impeccably dressed as always in a charcoal suit that seemed to absorb the meagre light, his platinum blond hair slicked back from a face that time had etched with something harder, something that hadn’t been there before. His heterochromatic eyes, one the warm amber of aged whiskey, the other the depthless black of a moonless night, swept over her, taking in the worn jeans, the faded t-shirt, the smudge of flour on her cheek from her afternoon shift at Golden Empress. A faint, almost imperceptible smile touched his lips, a private amusement that sent a tremor down her spine. "Aurora," he replied, his voice a low, cultured rumble that vibrated in her chest. It was the same voice that had once whispered promises in the dark, the same voice that had uttered sharp, final words that had fractured her world. "You look well." The compliment, delivered with such casual precision, felt like a finely honed blade. "You're not supposed to be here," she said, stepping further into the flat, implicitly inviting him in. It was a gesture born of instinct, of old habits that clung to her like lint. Her heart hammered a frantic rhythm against her ribs. He stepped over the threshold, and for a moment, they were in the cramped space together, the air thrumming with unspoken history. He smelled of London rain and expensive cologne, an intoxicating, disorienting blend. He didn’t miss the flour. "Still wrestling with dough, are we? Last I heard, you were aspiring to argue torts, not deliver tepid noodles." Her jaw tightened. "A girl's gotta eat, Luc." The nickname, so familiar, so fraught, slipped out before she could stop it. He inclined his head, a flicker of something unreadable in his dark eye. “Indeed. And you always did have a practical streak.” He surveyed the organised chaos of Eva’s flat, his gaze lingering on the teetering stacks of ancient tomes, the scattered parchments covered in arcane script. "Eva has… expanded her collection." Aurora followed his gaze, a soft smile finally softening her features. "She’s always been like this. Drowning in paper." She gestured vaguely towards the overflowing bookshelves. "Most of it arcane, naturally. She's chasing something. Always is." "And you? What are you chasing, *Malphora*?" The alias, whispered in moments of intimacy, was a raw nerve. She flinched internally, but her expression remained carefully neutral. "Just trying to keep my head above water." She walked past him, towards the small kitchenette, needing the mundane action to anchor herself. "Tea? I think Eva has some Lapsang Souchong somewhere." "That would be… acceptable," he conceded, his gaze following her movements. He leaned against the doorframe, his ivory-handled cane resting against his thigh. It gleamed faintly, a dark, polished thing. Aurora remembered the stories, the hushed whispers of what it concealed. She busied herself with the ritual of making tea, the clinking of the mug against the kettle a small, comforting sound in the charged silence. She could feel his eyes on her, a physical weight. It was like being under a microscope, every move scrutinized. She resisted the urge to glance at him, to gauge his expression, to read the inscrutable mask he wore so expertly. “Why are you here, Luc?” she finally asked, her voice taut as she poured the steaming water. He pushed off the doorframe and walked further into the flat, his movements fluid and silent, like a predator. He stopped before a cluttered desk, picking up a heavy, leather-bound volume, his long, elegant fingers tracing the embossed title. "Circumstances," he said, his voice distant. "Unforeseen. And perhaps, a measure of curiosity." "Curiosity," she scoffed, carrying two mugs of tea towards the battered sofa. She handed him one, her fingers brushing his. The contact sent a jolt through her, sharp and electric. He didn't pull away, his gaze locking with hers, a silent acknowledgement of the lingering spark. "That was never your strong suit, if I recall correctly. You liked to *know*, not to *wonder*." He took a sip of the tea, his expression thoughtful. "Perhaps I'm evolving. Like you, Aurora. From pre-law to pastry delivery. A fascinating trajectory." The dig landed, but she refused to give him the satisfaction of seeing it. She sank onto the sofa, the springs groaning in protest. "It's what I do. It pays the bills." She gestured around the small living room, cluttered with Eva's research ephemera. "More than I can say for your… clandestine undertakings. Though I imagine they’re quite lucrative." "They provide… certain advantages," he said, his tone carefully neutral. He set the teacup down, the clink unnervingly loud in the small room. He turned to face her fully, the amber and black of his eyes seeming to intensify. “But they are not without their… complications. Which, as it happens, is why I am here.” Aurora’s breath hitched. Complications. She knew about Lucien’s complications. They were the reason she’d fled London years ago, the reason she’d built a life deliberately devoid of anything that resembled the darkness that clung to him. “I don’t want to be a complication, Luc.” Her voice was low, a plea disguised as a statement. He took a step closer, and she instinctively tensed. He stopped, a careful distance between them. “You are never a complication, Aurora. You are… an anomaly.” He reached out, his fingers hovering just centimeters from her cheek. She could feel the faint warmth radiating from his skin. “And anomalies, as you know, can be quite disruptive to established patterns.” Her heart pounded a frantic rhythm. The scent of sandalwood was stronger now, mingled with the faint, unsettling aroma of ozone. This was it. He was about to tell her why he’d come, why he’d sought her out after all this time. The hurt, the resentment, the lingering flame of attraction – it all swirled within her, a tempest waiting to break. She met his gaze, her bright blue eyes steady, though her hands were trembling. “Disruptive how?” she managed, her voice barely a whisper. He lowered his hand, the moment of potential contact broken. A shadow crossed his features, obscuring the flicker of… something… she might have seen there. “Let’s just say,” he said, his voice regaining its smooth, detached cadence, “that some patterns have become… dangerously predictable.” He looked around the room again, his gaze sharp. “And unpredictability is often the only solution.” Aurora swallowed, her throat suddenly dry. She knew that look. That calculated assessment. He was looking for something, someone, or some way to utilize the currents of the supernatural world, and he’d landed on her doorstep. The thought was both terrifying and, she admitted with a shame she couldn’t quite suppress, a little thrilling. Against her better judgment, against everything she'd told herself since she last saw him, a part of her leaned into the danger. "And what exactly do you expect me to do about it, Luc?" she asked, her voice regaining some of its old steel. A slow smile spread across his lips, a dangerous, captivating curve. "I expect," he said, his eyes, one amber, one black, holding her captive, "that you might, just might, remember how to be disruptive."