Run: 2026-02-17-01KHMQMGCA9Y2BTS0QYQCZA3ZK

Aurora’s fingers hovered over the worn brass doorknob, heart locking into a rhythm too slow, deliberate, as if counting the seconds before the past walked in unbidden. Then, the door creaked open. Lucien stood there, framed by the dim yellow light of the hallway. His tailored charcoal suit was impeccable as always, the sharp lines cutting against the cluttered chaos of Eva’s flat behind her. His platinum blond hair was slicked back to perfection, but his eyes told a different tale—one amber, one black, both catching the light and holding a storm. “I thought I told you not to come here,” Rory said, voice tight even as she shut the door behind him, annoyance warring with something hotter and rawer beneath the surface. Lucien smiled, a slow, almost rueful curve to his lips. “You didn’t specify when.” The flat smelled of old paper and spiced tea—Eva’s fingerprints in every corner, her absent presence somehow sharper with him here. Rory crossed her arms, glancing sideways at the stack of books and half-emptied coffee cups sprawled on the chipped wooden table. “You have no right,” she said, the words clipped but not loud. “Three deadbolts on that door for a reason.” He stepped inside without invitation, the faint clink of his cane against the floor. Ivory handle glinted under the flickering ceiling bulb. “I need your help,” he said quietly, voice dropping to something closer to a confession than a demand. Rory laughed—bitter, like the dregs of burnt coffee in the mug she hadn’t finished. “Is that all? A casual drop-in to ask for favors?” “No,” he answered, his gaze sharp and unreadable. “It’s everything. More than I should be asking of you.” She blinked, heartbeat quickening. Her mind ricocheted through the last time they’d touched, the cruel fraying of trust stretched too thin. The way he’d left without looking back, the hollow apology that never left his lips. “You think I want to hear that? After all the—” “After everything?” Lucien’s amber eye softened, just for a moment. “Look at me, Rory. Not with the bitterness you hide behind.” She swallowed, the small crescent scar on her wrist—a scar from years ago—suddenly feeling like a frozen pulse beneath her sleeve. “Why are you here, Luc?” Her voice dipped, vulnerability cracking through the edges. “Why now?” He stepped closer, the scent of his cologne—something sharp, mingled with smoke and something faintly unsettling—drawing her in despite herself. “There’s something dark stirring,” he said low. “Something from my world bleeding into yours. I can’t keep you out of it—not anymore.” Her eyes narrowed, but she didn’t turn away. “You always did have a knack for trouble,” he murmured, a teasing glint flickering through his eyes. Rory crossed the room, brushing past his cane. Her fingers hovered an inch from his arm before retreating—as if touching him would shatter the fragile balance. “I’m tired, Luc. Tired of running. Of expecting pain.” He nodded, as if understanding more than she said. “I’m not here to hurt you.” She searched his face—saw the truth tangled beneath the shadows. A man carrying worlds on his shoulders, desperate and broken in ways she barely dared to imagine. “Sit,” she said finally, gesturing at the cluttered couch. “Tell me everything.” He eased down onto the worn fabric, hands resting lightly on his knees. “It’s about Avaros,” he began, voice tight with restraint. “There’s a prophecy... And you, Rory, you’re tied to it.” She blinked, incredulous. “Me? I’m not part of that world.” Lucien’s heterochromatic gaze held hers. “More than you think. And it’s why I left. To protect you. But I was wrong.” The weight of old wounds pressed into the silence between them. Rory wanted to yell, to demand answers she didn’t have the strength to hear. Instead, she reached out, brushing a stray lock of hair behind her ear. “I don’t know if I can trust you,” she whispered. “Then let me earn it,” he said, voice barely a breath. “Not as the man who left, but as the one who needs you.” For a long moment, they just looked at each other—two damaged souls dancing on the edge of something fragile and fierce. Outside, Brick Lane buzzed with the distant hum of life, curry spices mingling with rain-wet pavement. Inside, the flat held its breath, waiting. Rory finally exhaled, the first crack in her armor letting in the faintest glow of hope. “Alright, Lucien,” she said, voice steadier than she felt. “Start talking.”