Run: 2026-02-17-01KHMQPGSP6SMQFV41MM9E5453

Aurora Carter was halfway through stacking a pile of research papers when a faint rapping at the front door disrupted her concentration. She hesitated, brow tightening, her fingers lingering on a crumpled page of handwritten notes. The knocking came again—firm, insistent, almost impatient. She set down the papers slowly, listening to the resounding echo of the knocks as if they echoed her own mixed feelings. She knew who it could be—an unwelcome surprise after weeks of quiet. Her stomach tightened with a familiar thread of tension. Slowly, she moved towards the door, her boots muffled against the uneven wooden floor. The lock turned with deliberate slowness, each click echoing louder than usual in the cramped flat above Silas’s bar. When she finally pulled the door open, her bright blue eyes widened just a fraction, and her breath caught in her throat. There he was—Lucien Moreau, the Frenchman, standing on her threshold like a ghost from a past she’d tried to forget. Clad in his signature tailored charcoal suit, that impeccable air of calm, like he belonged in some noir film, he leaned on his ivory-handled cane, one brow arched slightly under slicked-back platinum blond hair that gleamed even in the dull London daylight. He had that effortless yet calculated gaze, one eye dark as ink, the other a steady amber—an unsettling, mesmerizing contrast that seemed to flicker with unspoken worlds behind it. His presence, familiar yet distant, made her pulse kick hard against her ribs. “Aurora,” he said softly, a prick of that French accent slipping into her name in a way that made her insides flutter like thrown pebbles in a still pond. “It’s been a long time.” The words hung there, heavy with meaning. Her jaw tightened, and she blinked, fighting the sudden rush of memories—good, bad, and blurred into a confusing mess—each one fighting for space in her mind. “Lucien,” she managed, voice steady but cool, as if she could freeze the warmth threatening to rise. “What are you doing here?” He took a slow step forward, cane clicking softly against the threshold. “I could ask the same of you,” he said, voice smooth as silk but edged with an undercurrent of something darker. “I’m told you’ve been avoiding me.” She crossed her arms, feeling a flicker of defensiveness. “Avoiding? Hardly. I’ve been busy.” He gave her a slight, knowing smile, one that tugged at a corner of his mouth as if he knew a secret she was missing. “Busy is a good excuse. I imagined you’d be angry still. Perhaps hurt?” Her eyes flickered to the scar on her left wrist—the remnant of a childhood accident, or a symbol of all the fights she’d survived—though she kept her expression carefully neutral. “You imagined wrong.” Lucien’s gaze lingered on her face, then flicked past her into the flat behind her. As if reading her hesitation, he nodded slightly and shifted, one hand resting lightly on his cane. “May I come in?” he asked quietly. She hesitated, weighing her options. Every instinct told her to shut the door, to slam it shut on the past. But instead, she stepped back, gesture precise but distant, and let him inside. The air inside was warm, tinged with the scents of curry, old paper, and something faintly metallic—dangerous. The flat was cluttered—rows of books, scattered notes, a few magical trinkets she’d kept from her own learning, all forming a chaotic cocoon of chaos and comfort. Ptolemy the tabby cat, unbothered by the sudden guest, lounged atop a pile of scrolls, eyes half-lidded. Lucien moved further inside, eyes tracing the mess with something akin to a smile. “This is… charming,” he said lightly, but there was an undertone of vulnerability she caught—an apology, maybe, or a regret he was struggling to hide. She shut the door carefully behind him, her stomach twisting. “What do you want, Lucien?” He paused, fingertips brushing his cane thoughtfully. “I need your help. Or—” The words faltered just a second before he pressed on. “I need your understanding.” And suddenly, the weight of it settled heavy between them. The words she'd never heard from him—not like this, not with that raw honesty—made her stomach tighten with something dangerous. That part of her that remembered the nights of dangerous conversations, shared secrets, and promises she’d never meant to forget prickled beneath her skin. “Understanding?” she echoed, voice cautiously measured. “That’s a tall order from someone who just… shows up unannounced and expects everything to be forgiven.” Lucien’s gaze softened, and he took a step closer. “I didn’t come here to rehash old arguments, Rory. I come because I’m in trouble. And I remembered you—how clever you are, how you always see through the chaos. I need that now.” She looked away briefly, eyes darting to the cluttered space, trying to hold onto her guarded distance, but her mind spun with the possibilities—what kind of trouble could drag him back to her? And why now, after all this time? “Trouble with what?” she asked quietly. Her voice was a whisper beneath the hum of the city beyond the thin walls. Lucien’s face was uncharacteristically serious. “Supernatural trouble. The kind that doesn’t stay contained. I can’t handle it alone—nor do I want to.” His gaze held hers—a long, searching look that seemed to pierce through the layers of her defenses. “You’ve always had a way of finding the right solution, Aurora. I remembered that about you. I need your help.” The words tumbled out softly but carried a weight she couldn’t ignore. For a moment, she hesitated, caught between the instinct to shut him out and the unspoken pull they shared—something complicated, fragile, dangerous. Her lips pressed together, the scar on her wrist prickling as if responding to the tension. She looked back at him, eyes bright blue and cautious, knowing that whatever this was—whatever this could become—it was already too late to walk away without risking everything. “Fine,” she finally said, voice low and deliberate. “But don’t think for a second I’m doing this for you. I’ve got my own reasons. And if this gets messy—” He interrupted softly, a flicker of a smile returning, “I wouldn’t have it any other way.”