Run: 2026-02-17-01KHMQYCCRZMJM62CGE8XKXZPJ

The chain rattled with a sharp, metallic chime that vibrated in the hollow of Aurora’s chest. She froze, her hand lingering on the deadbolt of Eva’s front door. It was the third one she had engaged, the turn of the key in the dead latch a small, silent victory against the chaotic mess that usually inhabited Brick Lane. "Delivery," she called out, her voice raspy from inhaling exhaust fumes on the walk up from the tube station. There was no answer. Only the silence of the hall, broken by the distant, rhythmic thumping of the curry house downstairs where Yu-Fei’s staff were likely tossing rotisserie chickens onto their grill. Aurora dropped her shoulder against the wood, the familiar ache in her left wrist—a small crescent-shaped scar sitting just beneath the skin reminding her of how fragile human bone could be. She wasn't expecting anyone. Eva was at the university archives, likely buried under layers of dust and parchment she hadn't touched since last decade. The knock came again. Louder. More insistent. "Leave a note," she muttered, twisting the final deadbolt. "I'm not ordering Thai." She cracked the door, the security chain holding the wood shut against the gap. A shadow of a face pressed against the gap, framed by a slicked-back shock of platinum blond hair that was currently matted to the forehead with rain. Lucien Moreau. Rory’s breath hitched. It had been six months since she had seen him, or heard of him. Six months since the mess with Evan, and the sudden, inexplicable silence from the only other person in London who seemed to understand that the world wasn't just about laws and consequences. "Rory," he breathed. The name sounded like a prayer he’d been trying not to say. He should have been in Marseille. He should have been hunting information brokers in Paris or smoothing over disputes in the demon realm of Avaros. He wasn't supposed to be standing on a dirty landing in East London, looking like a man who had been dragged through a river and left to dry in the sun. "Open the door, Carter," he said, and his voice was gravelly, stripped of the polished, four-language smoothness she remembered. Rory hesitated, her thumb hovering over the lock. It was stupid. It was illogical. He was a Half-Demon, a fixer who moved in the shadows of the supernatural underworld. Touching him was like touching a live wire, dangerous and illuminating all at once. She remembered the heat of him, the cold scent of amber and ozone, and the way he had looked at her like she was the only thing that made sense in a universe of chaos. She also remembered how he had left. Vanished without a trace after a single, disastrous night that had ended with her blood on her wrist and his guilt heavy in his eyes. She undid the chain. The door swung open with a groan, and he didn't wait for an invitation. He stepped inside, the cold air of the hallway rushing in to chase the stuffy warmth of the flat. The smell hit her first—petrichor mixed with copper, and underneath it, the distinct, faint aroma of sulfur that clung to him like a second skin. Lucien stood in the center of the cramped living room, soaking wet. His tailored charcoal suit was clinging to his broad shoulders, plastered to his chest where water pooled and began to darken the fabric. He was leaning heavily on his cane, the ivory handle white-knuckled, and his head was tilted back, exposing the long line of his throat. He looked destroyed. "Leave," Rory commanded, but there was no heat in it. Her hands were clenched at her sides, nails digging into her palms. "If you're looking for Eva, she's not here. If you're here to drag me back into that... that life..." "Shut up." The word was soft, barely a whisper, but it shut her up instantly. Lucien lifted his head. His heterochromatic eyes—one burning vivid amber, the other void black—locked onto hers. He looked exhausted. The slicked-back hair was a mess, damp strands falling over his brow. He looked at the cat bowl on the floor, then at the tower of books on the table near the door, seemingly trying to orient himself in the sanctuary of her safe space. Ptolemy, the flat's resident tabby, approached Lucien's legs, sniffing at the dripping fabric of his trousers. Lucien didn't even flinch. He swayed slightly, the cane tapping a nervous rhythm on the hardwood. "You look terrible," Rory said, stepping aside. "And you're tracking mud on the floor." He didn't answer. He moved with a jerky, heavy grace, shuffling past her toward the sofa. He sat heavily, the cane clattering onto the rug. He rested his elbows on his knees, his head in his hands. The silence stretched between them, thick and suffocating, filled only by the muffled noises of the curry house below. "Who do you think I am?" he asked, his voice muffled by his hands. "You think I'd come here for Eva? Or for the curry?" Rory crossed her arms over her chest, defensive. "I don't know what to think, Lucien. I haven't heard from you in six months. You just... disappeared." "Six months," he corrected softly. "I needed six months to make sure I wasn't dead. And even then, the only person who wouldn't be glad to see me is you." Rory felt the muscle in her jaw twitch. She walked over to the window and looked out at the rain slicking the brickwork of the buildings opposite. The neon sign from the takeout joint across the street cast a sickly green glow on the floorboards. "You promised you’d keep me safe," she said, her voice trembling. The scar on her wrist throbbed, a phantom memory of the night she’d cut herself trying to scrub blood off her skin, the night he’d held her and whispered promises he couldn't keep. "I was the girl in the flat above the bar, Lucien. I was the delivery girl. I wasn't supposed to be your problem." He looked up then. The amber eye caught the light, reflecting a fierce, desperate glint. "You're never just a delivery girl, Rory," he said. He reached out, his hand trembling, and covered the hand she had balled into a fist at her side. His skin was hot, impossibly hot for a human, but his touch was gentle. "I know you're not. I've never been able to look at you and see anything but *her*." "I hated that name," she whispered, but she didn't pull away. His thumb brushed over the scar on her wrist, rough against the sensitive skin. The sensation sent a jolt of electricity down her arm, uncoiling the tension in her shoulders. She remembered the nights they had spent here, the way the cat would sleep on his boots, the way he would read to her in French while she tried to decipher the tangled spell notes Eva left on the coffee table. He laughed, a dry, humorless sound. "I'm sorry. I’m so sorry, Rory." "I don't want apologies," she said, turning back to face him. "I want to know why you're here." He exhaled, a long shuddering breath that seemed to deflate him. He sat back, but the cane remained gripped tight in his lap. The blade hidden inside the wood was pointed, lethal, but he looked harmless now. "I burned a bridge in the Geldarian sector," he said, his gaze dropping to the floor. "A vampire noble. He didn't like the news I have. My contact in Marseille is dead. I have a price on my head that would make the mob look like schoolchildren playing tag." "So you hide in a cat-infested flat above a Chinese restaurant," Rory said. She hated that her voice sounded so calm, so collected. Inside, she was panicking. This was his world. This was the world of chaos and violence she had run away from when she fled to London. "It's the only place I knew would be safe," he said simply. "Because it's yours." The confession hung in the air, heavy and intimate. Rory looked at him, really looked at him. The arrogance that usually filled his posture was gone, replaced by a raw vulnerability that made her chest ache. He was the "Frenchman" everyone feared, the Half-Demon fixer, and he was sitting on her worn-out sofa, dripping water onto her rug, asking for asylum. "You have three deadbolts, don't you?" she asked, trying to lighten the mood, to bury the terror under sarcasm. He managed a smirk, one side of his mouth tilting up. "I counted them. You’re paranoid, Carter." "I'm a survivor." "So am I," he replied quietly. He shifted his weight, stretching his long legs out in front of him, but winced, clutching his side. "I think I broke a rib or two. The rain is making it worse." Rory stared at him. A thousand thoughts raced through her mind—how could she explain this to Eva when she came home? How long would he stay? Would he drag the bloodshed down to their doorstep? But then Lucien looked at her, his dark eye softening, his amber eye still burning with an intensity that stripped her defenses away, layer by layer. He was offering her a choice, a gift she had learned to treasure. "Please," he said, his voice barely above a whisper. "Just for tonight. Just until the rain stops." Rory closed her eyes for a second, feeling the weight of the world on her shoulders. The scar on her wrist tingled, a silent protest. But then she heard the rain lashing against the window and the smell of sulfur fading into the background, replaced by the familiar scent of old books and Earl Grey tea. She walked over to the coat rack and pulled off her own heavy coat, draping it over his shoulders. It swallowed him whole, dark against the charcoal suit. "Tea?" she asked. Lucien tilted his head back, the exhaustion evident in the set of his jaw. "Yes. Earl Grey. No sugar. Do you still remember how I take it?" Rory looked down at him, the danger of the situation washing away slightly, replaced by the quiet, domestic rhythm of their connection. She had hated him for leaving. She had hated that he represented everything she couldn't have. But looking at him now, broken and shivering on her floor, she realized that the pull between them wasn't a curse—it was the only thing keeping her grounded in a world that was spinning too fast. "I remember," she said. "But you're buying next time." "I will buy you the flat above the restaurant," he murmured, closing his eyes as she moved to the kitchenette. "And the restaurant itself, if you want it." Rory paused, looking over her shoulder. He was already drifting off, the adrenaline leaving his body and crashing into exhaustion. She smiled, a genuine, small curve of her lips. "Maybe later, Lucien. Right now, just make yourself comfortable."