Run: 2026-02-17-01KHMR0S70AA5ZN21CCWV78QTB

The three deadbolts on Eva’s front door clicked like a countdown. Rory pulled the last one free, the tumblers groaning in protest. She swung the door inward. Lucien Moreau stood on the landing, framed by the dim glow of the hallway light. His platinum blond hair was slicked back, perfect as ever. He wore a tailored charcoal suit, the fabric impeccable, not a wrinkle out of place. One of his eyes was amber, the other black, and Rory felt the familiar pull, a twist of something she’d tried to bury deep. He leaned on his ivory-handled cane, a silent observer in the city's hum. “Lucien,” she said, her voice flat, betraying none of the chaos his presence had unleashed inside her. Her stomach tightened. It had been months. Months of trying not to think about him, not to wonder, not to replay every loaded glance, every half-whispered word. He offered a small, almost imperceptible smile. “Rory. May I come in?” His voice was a smooth baritone, tinged with that faint French accent that always made her think of dark coffee and forbidden things. She hesitated, her gaze sweeping over him. No, he hadn't changed. Why would he? He was a fixed point, an immutability. She, on the other hand, felt like a constant tremor. “What are you doing here?” “Eva invited me.” He gestured vaguely beyond her, into the cramped flat. “Something about a… magical emergency.” Rory frowned. Eva had mentioned nothing of the sort. “She’s not here.” Lucien’s smile widened a fraction. “I gathered. Her cat let me in.” Ptolemy, the tabby menace, wove around Rory’s ankles then darted out into the hall, rubbing against Lucien’s immaculate trouser leg. The Frenchman bent down, stroking the cat’s head with a practiced ease. Ptolemy purred, a low rumble from deep in his chest. A cat person, of all things. Rory shook her head. She stepped aside, allowing Lucien to enter. The flat, usually a sanctuary of controlled chaos, suddenly felt too small, too intimate. Every surface was covered with books, scrolls, and Eva’s research notes, a testament to her friend’s insatiable quest for esoteric knowledge. Lucien took it all in, his gaze lingering on a particularly dusty grimoire propped open on the coffee table. “Still no change, I see,” he remarked, indicating the organized clutter. “Some things are constant.” His words hung in the air, a silent challenge, a ghost of their shared past. Rory shut the door, the three deadbolts a symbolic barrier against the world outside, but not against the man now standing metres from her. “What did Eva tell you?” "Only that she was tracking a particularly stubborn malevolent spirit. And that you should be expecting me." He looked at her then, his heterochromatic eyes locking onto hers. The amber, warm and inviting. The black, a fathomless depth. “She said you might be… resistant.” Resistant was an understatement. Rory’s heart hammered against her ribs. She crossed her arms, a defensive posture. “She’s mistaken.” “Is she?” He took a step closer, his scent reaching her—a subtle mix of something smoky and expensive. “Or are you merely surprised?” “Both.” The truth slipped out, raw and unbidden. She regretted it immediately. Rory cursed herself. She was supposed to be cool-headed, intelligent. Not a nervous wreck. Lucien's gaze softened, a flicker of something she couldn't quite decipher. “I apologise for the intrusion. I would not have come if Eva had not been so insistent.” “Eva has a habit of being insistent.” Rory walked towards the small kitchen, needing distance, needing something to do with her hands. She opened the fridge, though she wasn’t hungry. “Tea? Coffee?” “Tea would be lovely, thank you. Earl Grey, if you have it.” Of course, Earl Grey. The man was a creature of habit and refined tastes. Rory rummaged through Eva’s overflowing tea cupboard, finding a lone box of Earl Grey. She put the kettle on, the hiss of the water a temporary distraction. “So, truly, what’s going on?” she asked, her back to him. “Why did Eva invite you here? She knows our history.” She didn’t need to elaborate. The words hung heavy in the air, a shared narrative of unresolved tension and unspoken longing. “She believes there is a threat. One that requires… my particular skill set.” He paused. “And yours.” Rory turned, leaning against the counter. “My skill set? I deliver takeaways, Lucien, and fend off the occasional street thug. You deal with London’s supernatural underworld. We’re hardly a match.” “On the contrary,” he said, his voice dropping to a low, intimate tone that made the hairs on her arms stand up. “You have a knack for finding yourself in the thick of things. And you possess a certain… intuition. A resourcefulness. A quickness of mind, even when under duress.” His eyes held hers. “I recall an incident involving a particularly nasty shadow-beast in the sewers beneath the Thames. You handled it with remarkable ingenuity.” Rory felt a flush creep up her neck. She remembered. She remembered more than just the shadow-beast. She remembered the adrenaline, the shared danger, the way his hand had found hers in the darkness, a steady anchor. She remembered the aftermath, the relief, the way his gaze had lingered on her, promising something she hadn't been ready to accept. “That was a long time ago.” “Was it?” He took another step, closing the distance between them. He was so close now she could smell his cologne, feel the warmth radiating from him. Rory braced herself, her heart thumping a frantic rhythm. The kettle whistled, shrill and overbearing. Rory jumped, snatching it from the hob. She poured the boiling water into a mug, her hands trembling slightly. “What exactly is this threat?” she asked, trying to steer the conversation back to safer ground. Lucien accepted the mug, his fingers brushing hers, sending a jolt through her arm. “A cult has emerged, seeking to open a portal to a realm called Avaros. My father’s realm, as it happens.” He took a slow sip of his tea, his eyes never leaving hers. “They are attempting to harness a dangerous energy, one that could destabilise the Veil between worlds.” Rory’s brow furrowed. This was serious. This was bigger than a rogue spirit or a hungry shadow-beast. “Avaros? I thought that was just… legend.” “Many truths begin as legends, Rory. And many legends contain a kernel of truth.” He set his mug down on a coaster, his expression grave. “Eva believes this cult has acquired a powerful relic. One that could make their plan a reality.” “And what does that have to do with me?” “The relic has a human component. It requires a specific kind of resonant energy. Eva believes you might be… attuned to it.” He reached out, his hand hovering over her left wrist. Rory flinched, pulling back slightly. He lowered his hand. His gaze dropped to the small crescent-shaped scar there. “Your… unique circumstances.” Her unique circumstances. The faint scar, a childhood accident she rarely thought about, a marker of something she was still trying to understand. She had always felt a pull towards the strange, the unexplained. A heightened awareness, a sensitivity to things others couldn't see. “So, Eva thinks I’m bait?” Her voice was sharper than she intended. Lucien sighed, a soft, weary sound. “She believes you could be a key. To understanding the relic, perhaps even to disrupting its power.” Rory looked away, walking to the window. Outside, the lights of Brick Lane glittered, a stark contrast to the darkness gathering both inside her, and out. “And you? What do you think?” He was behind her now, his presence a warmth at her back. “I think… I trust Eva’s judgment. And I think you are more capable than you often give yourself credit for.” She turned, meeting his gaze. “You have a funny way of showing it.” A shadow crossed his face, quickly replaced by his usual composure. “I understand why you believe that. My actions, or lack thereof, have left much unsaid between us.” He took a breath. “I was… cautious. For both our sakes.” “Cautious?” She scoffed. “You mean you ran. Just like Evan. Everyone I get close to eventually leaves, Lucien.” The words, raw and unedited, burst from her. She hadn't meant to say them, not like that. Not to him. But the hurt, long buried, demanded release. His eyes, one amber, one black, softened. “I never ran, Rory. I merely… stepped back. To ensure your safety. To ensure I did not complicate your life further.” “My life was already complicated, Lucien. You just… added another layer.” He reached for her hand then, slowly, deliberately. This time, she didn't pull away. His touch was warm, gentle, his thumb tracing the faint scar on her wrist. “I regret the pain I caused you. Truly.” His voice was a quiet murmur now, intimate, meant only for her. “I regret leaving things unsaid.” Her breathing hitched. She could feel the heat of his palm, the slight tremor in his touch. This was what she had longed for, what she had simultaneously dreaded. A conversation, an explanation, a vulnerability she hadn't known he possessed. “What is it you left unsaid, Lucien?” she whispered, her gaze fixed on the intricate lines of his hand. He looked up, his eyes holding a depth of emotion she rarely saw there. “That I care for you, Rory. More than I allowed myself to show. More than I allowed myself to admit.” He squeezed her hand gently. “And that I missed you. Terribly.” The confession hung in the air, thick and potent. Rory felt a knot in her stomach unravel, a slow, agonizing process. She swallowed, her throat tight. “You have a strange way of showing you care, Lucien.” “I am a creature of habit and caution, Rory. But even I am capable of… learning new patterns.” He lifted her hand to his lips, pressing a soft kiss to her knuckles. “Let this be a new pattern, then. Of honesty. Of shared purpose. Of… whatever else may follow.” Rory’s heart pounded, a frantic drumbeat against her ribs. The mission, the cult, the threat to the Veil—it all faded into the background, eclipsed by the sudden, intense recommitment of connection between them. This was complicated. This was dangerous. But as she looked into his eyes, she knew she wouldn't have it any other way. “You’re really going to help with this cult, then?” she asked, pulling her hand away, more to regain some semblance of composure than out of true resistance. “Only if you consent to work with me,” he replied, a hint of challenge in his tone, a spark in his heterochromatic gaze. “We make a formidable team, Rory. Even on complicated terms.” She considered his words, the warmth of his hand still tingling on hers. A formidable team. She couldn’t deny it. Their strengths complemented each other, their minds often working in sync, even when their hearts were at odds. And the threat was real. Eva wouldn’t have brought him in otherwise. “Fine,” she said, a small, weary smile touching her lips. “Complicated terms it is. But you owe me an explanation for everything, Lucien Moreau. Every single thing.” He smiled then, a genuine, unguarded smile that reached his eyes, making them crinkle at the corners. “A small price to pay, Aurora Carter. A very small price indeed.”