Run: 2026-02-17-01KHMQWCR2VHK9SS6N6NRM758R

The insistent knock rattled the door in its frame, sharp enough to cut through the scent of simmering curry and old paper that always clung to Eva’s flat. Rory scowled at the cheap wood, tempted to ignore it. No one just dropped by. Not in this city, not in their world. She glanced at the three deadbolts, all securely thrown. Peace was a locked door. “Go away,” she muttered, nudging a teetering stack of books with her foot. Ptolemy, curled in a patch of weak afternoon sun on a pile of scrolls, flicked one ear in her direction before dismissing the disturbance entirely. Lucky cat. The knocking came again, louder this time. A precise, impatient rhythm. *Tap-tap-tap. TAP*. With a sigh that scraped its way up from her lungs, Rory untangled herself from an ancient armchair. Probably a misdirected delivery for the restaurant downstairs, again. She slid the deadbolts back, the heavy *thunk-thunk-thunk* punctuating her annoyance. She wrenched the door open just enough to peer out, ready to deliver a sharp rebuke. The words died in her throat. Lucien Moreau stood on the dingy landing, a figure carved from marble and smoke, utterly out of place against the peeling paint and worn linoleum. His tailored charcoal suit was immaculate, the crisp white of his shirt a stark slash in the gloom. One hand rested on the ivory head of his cane, the other was tucked into his pocket. He looked as if he’d just stepped out of a private Mayfair club and taken a wrong turn into reality. A cold shock raced through her, followed by a flush of heat that had nothing to do with anger and everything to do with memory. Six months. Six months since she’d seen that slicked-back platinum hair, the sharp line of his jaw. Six months since she’d looked into those impossible eyes—one the warm, deceptive amber of whisky, the other a fathomless, demonic black. “Aurora,” he said. His voice was just as she remembered: a low baritone that wrapped a faint Marseille accent around the edges of perfect English. It was the voice that had coaxed secrets from her, that had whispered promises in the dark. Rory’s hand tightened on the doorknob until her knuckles were white. “What are you doing here, Lucien?” His lips, thin and precise, curved into something that wasn't quite a smile. It never was. “A simple ‘hello’ is customary.” “We’re past customary.” She started to shut the door. His cane shot out, the rubber tip wedging itself in the gap with a soft squeak. It wasn't an aggressive move, but it was immovable. An elegant, undeniable barrier. “I need to speak with you. It’s important.” “I’m busy.” “You’re cataloging your friend’s research on second-tier djinn possession, and you’re bored.” He tilted his head, the strange light of the hallway catching in his mismatched eyes. “Am I wrong?” Her jaw clenched. Of course he knew. The Frenchman was an information broker; knowing things was his trade, his weapon. It didn’t make the violation of her privacy any less infuriating. “Get your cane out of my door.” “Let me in, and I will.” They stood in a stalemate, the tension a physical thing stretching between them. She could see the faint lines around his eyes that weren't there six months ago. She could smell the faint, clean scent of his cologne, something with bergamot and secrets. It was horrifically familiar. Every instinct, every scar—both the crescent moon on her wrist and the deeper ones he'd left behind—screamed at her to slam the door on his perfectly sculpted face. But the look in his eyes held something more than his usual infuriating confidence. It held a sliver of desperation. Cursing herself, cursing him, cursing the entire world, she pulled the door open. “Five minutes.” He glided past her into the cramped flat. The space, already overburdened with Eva’s academic chaos, seemed to shrink around him. He navigated the obstacle course of books and scrolls with an unnatural grace, his polished shoes never disturbing a single loose page. He was a creature of clean lines and sharp angles in a world of soft, dusty clutter. Rory slammed the door and threw the deadbolts. The sound was violent in the suddenly silent room. She turned, crossing her arms over her chest, a shield against his presence. “Your five minutes started when you stepped over the threshold.” Lucien surveyed the room, his gaze lingering on a diagram of angelic hierarchies pinned to the wall. Ptolemy, roused from his nap, stretched languidly, hopped off his perch, and trotted directly toward the intruder. The cat began to weave between Lucien’s legs, purring like a tiny engine. “Traitor,” Rory breathed. Lucien’s gaze dropped to the tabby, a flicker of genuine surprise in his expression. He reached down, stroking the cat once behind the ears with long, deft fingers. “He has good taste.” “He has a worrying attraction to things that are bad for him. Now talk.” He straightened, his attention settling back on her. The full force of his focus was a tangible pressure. “I have a problem. It’s a problem that requires a very particular skill set. Quick thinking. The ability to see patterns others miss.” “Go hire a consultant.” “I did,” he said, his voice dropping. “He was found in his Canary Wharf office three days ago. Or what was left of him.” A chill snaked up Rory’s spine, colder than the ever-present London damp. She kept her expression neutral, a trick she’d learned from him. Never let them see it scare you. “That sounds like a ‘you’ problem.” “He was working on a case for me. A stolen artifact. The Aegis of Oakhaven.” Rory couldn’t suppress a slight widening of her eyes. She’d read about the Aegis in one of Eva’s dusty tomes. A shield, myth said, that didn’t just deflect blows but reflected a person’s worst fears back at them. Not something you wanted floating around the supernatural black market. “And you think I can help you find it?” she asked, a bitter laugh threatening to escape. “What do I look like to you, Lucien? Some kind of magical private detective? I deliver noodles for a living.” He took a step closer, and she instinctively took one back, her shoulders bumping against a bookshelf. Loose notes fluttered to the floor. “I think,” he said, his voice low and intense, “that you are the most resourceful person I have ever met. I think you see the world as a series of puzzles, and you don’t stop until you solve them. And I think that after what happened in Marseille, I owe you.” The name of the city hung in the air between them like poison. Marseille. Sun-drenched streets, the smell of salt and blood. A job that had gone sideways so fast it had given them whiplash. A job where he had used her—her wits, her trust—as a bargaining chip and then walked away, leaving her to deal with the fallout alone. The anger she’d been suppressing boiled over. “You owe me? You left me in a warehouse with two angry ghouls and a Fae antiquities dealer who wanted my head on a platter. Your idea of 'owing me' is showing up six months later to drag me into another one of your messes?” “I got you out,” he countered, his own voice hardening. “It was not clean, I admit, but you are standing here, are you not?” “You got yourself out! I got myself out while you were halfway to Calais with the prize. You didn’t even look back.” Her voice cracked on the last words, and she hated the weakness in it. Hated that he could still do this to her. For the first time, a crack appeared in his impeccable facade. Something flickered in his heterochromatic eyes—regret, maybe, or just frustration. “There were factors you are not aware of. It was… a complicated extraction.” “It’s always complicated with you, Luc,” she said, her voice dropping to a raw whisper. She instinctively touched the small, crescent-shaped scar on her wrist, a nervous habit. “Everything is a game. A transaction. Who am I in this one? The asset? The bait?” He was closer now, close enough that she could see the way his black pupil dilated, swallowing the dark iris, while the amber eye seemed to burn brighter. His presence filled her senses, overwhelming the familiar scent of the flat. “You are the only person I can trust,” he said, and the raw sincerity in his tone sent a tremor through her. She wanted to laugh in his face. Trust. He wouldn’t know the meaning of the word. But she looked at him, really looked at him, and saw the deep exhaustion beneath the polish, the fine web of tension around his mouth. Whatever this was, it had him scared. And Lucien Moreau did not get scared. “Why?” she asked, her voice barely audible. “Why me?” “Because the people who have the Aegis are not just thieves, Aurora. They are fanatics. They don’t just want to sell it. They want to use it. On a city. On this city.” He paused, letting the weight of his words settle. “And because you hate me. It makes our arrangement simple. There will be no misplaced loyalties. You will do the job, I will pay you an obscene amount of money, and you can go back to despising me in peace.” It was the most honest thing he had ever said to her. A business proposal, cold and clean. Yet it wasn’t. She could feel the unsaid things buzzing in the air between them, the magnetic pull of their shared history. He offered her a clean transaction, but he had come to her, to Eva’s cluttered flat on Brick Lane, when he could have hired anyone in London’s underworld. He had come because of the very complications he was pretending to ignore. He saw the war on her face. He saw her mind racing, weighing the danger against the insult, the risk against the undeniable, terrifying thrill of the puzzle he’d just laid at her feet. She stared into his mismatched eyes, one of warm earth, one of cold void, and felt like she was standing on a precipice. Working with Lucien was a special kind of hell. It meant lies and half-truths, sleeping with one eye open, and constantly guarding her heart against his casual, devastating charm. But a city full of people trapped in their own worst nightmares… that was a hell of a different order entirely. Her silence stretched, taut and fragile. “So,” Lucien said softly, his gaze unwavering. “Do we have a deal?”