Run: 2026-02-17-01KHMQSTYPQ2QPBX7CCGZBJVEV

The sudden rap on the door echoed through the cramped confines of Eva’s flat just as Rory was settling into her evening routine: a half-eaten bowl of noodles balancing precariously on her knee, her laptop humming softly on the cluttered table. She paused, eyebrows furrowing, as if the sound had shattered some fragile peace she hadn’t realized she was holding onto. The knock came again, louder this time, impatient, persistent. Rory’s heart skipped a beat, her fingers tightening briefly around the chopsticks. Curious—or perhaps cautious—she leaned forward, glancing at the door with a mixture of wariness and mild irritation. “Who the hell…?” She hesitated, then slowly got to her feet, slipping her phone into her pocket before padding across the uneven floorboards. The door, a battered wooden thing she’d never bothered to replace, loomed in front of her. She reached out, hand hovering over the lock—then paused, her mind kicking into gear. She hesitated, the memory of past betrayals flickering somewhere behind her eyes, but before she could second-guess herself, she unlocked the deadbolt. With a flick of her wrist, she swung the door open. There, standing in the narrow doorway, was Lucien.Moreau. The Frenchman's signature impeccability was in full display, a tailored charcoal suit fitting his lean frame perfectly, his slicked-back platinum blond hair catching the dull light from the hallway. His heterochromatic eyes—one amber, one black—locked onto hers with that familiar blend of calm calculation and something far more complicated. In his gloved hand, he clutched the ivory-handled cane. For a moment, neither spoke. Rory’s breath hitched, her eyes narrowing just slightly before settling into a guarded expression. Her heart quickened, pounding somewhere behind her ribs, fighting the instinct to close the door again. Lucien tilted his head, a subtle smile creasing the corner of his mouth—a smile that never quite reached his eyes. “Rory,” he said softly, as if her name was both a greeting and a warning, “it’s been a while.” The air between them was thick with unspoken words, unresolved tension pulsing like quiet static. Rory’s fingers curled instinctively into fists, but she forced herself to stay still. She’d known—that voice, that calm, deliberate tone—meant he had a purpose, a reason for this surprise visit. Still, her mind raced with memories she’d long tried to suppress: the push and pull, the hurt beneath the surface, the confusing flicker of attraction she dared not indulge. “What do you want?” Her voice was steady, but the edge was unmistakable. She lifted her chin slightly, unsure whether she felt more like defending herself or just resisting the flood of old feelings. Lucien’s gaze lingered, then he took a slow step forward, the cane tapping softly against the threshold. “I need your help. Or perhaps,” he paused, a hint of a smirk tugging at his lips, “I need you to understand something.” Rory’s expression hardened. “Help? From you? After everything?” He tilted his head again, eyes flicking toward her scar—a small crescent-shaped mark on her left wrist that she’d never been able to fully conceal. He saw it, of course. Everyone did. Her past was a wound she’d learned to hide, but with Lucien, it was impossible to forget that he had seen her at her most vulnerable. “I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t believe it was necessary,” Lucien said softly. “Your skills are unmatched, Rory. And I am well aware of what this city hides beneath its surface. I need your insight. Your intelligence.” She hesitated, the warmth of her instinct to denounce him battling against the faint, lingering sense that perhaps he hadn’t come just to stir trouble or remind her of old wounds. Maybe he’d come because, despite everything, some part of her still remembered the man beneath the polished veneer—the part that had once, fleetingly, believed in something more. “I don’t have time,” she said finally, voice low, trying to keep her trembling emotions at bay. “Whatever’s brought you here, it’s too late for apologies, Lucien. Just go.” He chuckled softly, a strange, almost musical sound that resonated in the space between them. “So cold,” he said. “I thought you might be. But I remembered something you once said—about knowing when to walk away.” She didn’t step back, but her shoulders stiffened. “Maybe I did. Maybe I don’t anymore.” He studied her for a moment longer, then slowly, with an air of undeniable ease, he shifted, and with a graceful movement, pointed the cane at her. “There’s something you should see.” His tone held a quiet seriousness that cut through her defenses. “Something that changes everything.” Her pulse hammered louder, a tense mixture of suspicion and curiosity surging within her. She hesitated, then slowly reached out, her hand hovering above the doorframe as if testing whether she was willing to give him just a moment more. Beneath her steel exterior, her mind tangled with questions she couldn’t yet voice. The doorway seemed to shrink—or expand— depending on her choice. Her gaze flickered over Lucien’s face, noting the faint shadows dancing in the corners of his eyes, beneath that impeccably calm exterior. Reluctantly, she stepped aside. “Alright. Come in. But if you’re playing some game—” “I’d never,” Lucien replied smoothly, slipping into her flat with effortless grace, cane clicking softly against the floor. As he moved past her, she felt the faintest brush of his presence—an unspoken electric charge that never quite left them. Rory closed the door behind him a little more firmly than necessary, her shoulders trembling briefly before she steadied herself. She didn’t trust him, not entirely. But that wasn’t what mattered now. What mattered was the flicker of something she’d thought buried—an ember of awareness, of longing, ignited anew by his return. And somewhere deep inside, she wondered whether that flicker was enough to burn everything down or to finally, perhaps, set her free.